Page 30 of Second Swing
Chuck:Here she is rolling around in her bed like a ball lost in the rough.
Lou:Oh, give her a break. Every player gets stuck in the rough a time or two.
Chuck:Well, this is her second swing. Let’s hope she makes it to the green.
The girls have been gone for hours now, and I’ve rolled over in my bed for the millionth time thinking about the team name Clinton suggested. I wouldn’t even be thinking of him if it wasn’t for the email he sent. Picking my phone up from the nightstand, I pull up the message. “He works quick,” I mutter out loud for no one to hear.
Waffles cuddles in deeper at my feet as I scan the sponsors listed, noting several large names. I make sure to review the section I wasn’t able to give much attention to earlier.
From: Clinton Morrison
Let’s try to get together on the course soon, putt around a couple of balls and make sure we’re on the same page for everything. We’ve gotto keep our team strong, right?
Talk soon,
Clint
Our team name pops into my mind, and I think about the context and what those words mean to me.
The Mulligans.
In golf, a mulligan is a second chance. A do-over with no penalties attached. Players don’t assume a mulligan is in play; it’s decided at the start of the game before a single shot is taken.
Is this our mulligan?
I roll my shoulders and point my toes, making an attempt to get this restless feeling out of my body. Normally, I would just go for a run, but the time on my phone shows it’s well after midnight, and running in the middle of the night is not my idea of a fun time. I may love suspenseful romance and thrillermance, but I’m not about to set myself up to get snatched in the middle of the night. It’s only hot when it happens with a fictional man.
Throwing my legs over the side of the bed, I beeline for my dresser. Pulling on a pair of leggings and an oversized T-shirt, I slip on my comfy sneakers and make my way to the one place I know will make me feel better.
Seeing the neon sign of Midnight Miso already lifts my spirits. I don’t know if I’ll find clarity at the bottom of the noodle bowl, but I’m down to try. They stay open until almost five in the morning, so I don’t anticipate a large crowd. I sit down in the back corner; it’s where I sit every time I get the chance to make it in.
With the lights low and the scent of their delicious broth in the air,this place feels like a warm blanket. There are only a few booths against the wall in the back. On the other side, customers sit up front at the bar top and watch the cooks work their magic.
The hostess quietly approaches my table and sets down my order. The hot bowl of noodles submerged in pork and miso broth makes my mouth water. Chopsticks ready, I grip a piece of sliced pork belly, moaning into the delicious bite as I close my eyes to enjoy it fully. The black garlic oil is everything my body needs right now, and in a way, this feels nostalgic.
“Extra scallions,” a deep voice all but whispers, and my body involuntarily shivers, knowing who's standing in front of me without needing to see him with my own eyes.
Unable to tell myself no at this hour, I give in. “Actually yeah, I would love them.” Clint’s hazel eyes are gentle and questioning as he holds his receipt and a bowl of scallions. His curls look soft, as if he has no product in his hair at all, like he just rolled out of bed. I want to run my fingers through them, and I hold my spoon a little tighter, stopping the urge. He has on gray sweatpants with a deep blue pullover, and a white T-shirt peeks out from his unzipped collar. “Would you like to join me?”
Of all the questions, this one feels scary, vulnerable. I can’t believe he’s standing in front of me right now, as if I willed him here myself.
Clint slides into the seat in front of me, placing the bowl of scallions on the table. Before I’m able to reach for the topping’s spoon, he scoops a hefty amount out and empties it into my awaiting broth. I gaze at him through my lashes and take another spoonful, now with the correct amount of scallions in my bowl. “What are you doing out so late?” I ask.
“I could ask you the same thing.” He smiles up at the waitress as she sets a bowl down and gestures to his spicy bowl of noodles. “Old habits.” His bowl is identical to mine but is loaded up with marinated shitake mushrooms with an unnatural amount of spice on top.
“It's a wonder you have taste buds at all with as many times as you’ve eaten here.” His selection was always incredibly spicy, and I truly don’t understand how he can taste anything. “I couldn’t sleep,” I say, answering the question he didn't really ask.
“I was up looking through contracts and answering emails all night. Felt like I needed something fatty and delicious. So I put on my tennis shoes and came here. I’ve missed this place.”I’ve missed you.It’s what I want to believe he’s actually saying. We eat in comfortable silence for a while, slurping noodles and biting into gyoza Clint ordered when the hostess asked us if we needed anything else. That is, until I can’t hold back this feeling inside anymore. Especially after talking with the girls.
“Clint, I just want to say that I’m—” I’m unable to finish my sentence as the beautiful woman I’ve seen Clinton with twice now waltzes in and makes her way right back to us. Her eyes are slanted toward me, and I don't know if it's a good thing or not. The gray fox across from me realizes I’m distracted and turns his head to see what’s caught my attention.I’m living in my own personal fucking nightmare.
This impromptu meetup continues to worsen as Clinton stands and embraces the woman; they seem like they’ve known each other forever, and I could never compete with that. The fact that he's been flirting with me causes my face to heat. That annoyingly charming fucker has been flirting like no tomorrow, and he has this gorgeous woman at home with him?
Oh. My. God.
I look like a homewrecker,and now the fucking nickname makes even more sense. I thought I was a heartbreaker because of the airport, butno. Homewrecker is more fitting. Mortification floods my system. That rat bastard! Here she is coming to find him, and he’s sitting with me. A someone who literally hasI’d tap thatwritten largely across their chest. I mean, it's a golf reference, but it doesn't matter now. I can only imagine what she must think. Some old girlfriend sharing a meal at our old stomping grounds. Wait, no. What the hell was he thinking?
“Paloma? Are you okay? You’ve got this faraway look on your face. Don’t run from me, not tonight,” he says, but I am still trying to think of a way out of this situation before making eye contact with him. “I want to introduce you to someone incredibly important to me.”
