Page 69 of Second Swing
And then we’ll go back to your place.
Dove
I'll be ready in thirty mins.
It doesnt matter what she’s wearing—if she’s naked or clothed—she is the most fucking beautful woman I have ever laid my eyes on. Paloma’s black, baggy cargo pants still fit her hips snuggly, I lick my lips at the thought of unzipping them and peeling them away from her hips and ass. Fuck, I love her ass. As she makes her way down the steps, she zips up her cream-colored puffer jacket and tucks her gloved hands into her coat.
I exit the car and round it to open the passenger door wide. Paloma reaches her hand up toward my growing beard and caresses my chin, slightly tugging on the hair there.
She hums pleasantly and says, “I think I like a full beard on you, Golf Daddy.”
Every fucking time she calls me that, she has a vicious little smirk playing across her face. Blood rushes low. I don’t bother adjusting myself, and instead, I pull her into me. “It’s chilly out here, Dove. And I really want to see this tree, but you’re making me think you’d rather go back inside.”
Her eyebrows rise, and her gaze darkens slightly at my words. Tapping her ass, I nod my head to the open door and only close it once she’sbuckled herself in. Once I’m back inside, I turn on the heated seats. Gripping the back of her seat, I look into the rear window out of habit as I reverse out of her driveway. The car has a camera, but the habit isn't something I’ve been able to knock.
Once my focus is back on the road, I rest my palm on her warm thigh and squeeze. “Let’s get to the center of town.”
The town center is alight with string lights, wreaths, and poinsettia plants. Each storefront has their doors wrapped up like a gift box.
Paloma’s hand is warm in mine. Needing her closer, I press a soft kiss to the top of her hand.
“I haven’t been to the tree lighting in—” She pauses in thought before she continues, “Honestly, I don't even know the last time.”
Paloma holds my hand a bit tighter as we make our way to the front of the unlit tree. “Maybe it can be our tradition.”
She angles her face up at me with a soft smile. “Just ours.”
“I love you, Dove.” My voice is almost a whisper as we stand in front of the towering tree, still dark while they wait for the right time.
“I love you too, Clint.” Paloma throws her arms around my neck, and the busy chattering crowd blurs to the background as our eyes lock. She runs her fingers through the low curls on the side of my head as she stretches herself onto her toes. Bending down, I press my lips to her soft and warm awaiting ones. Kissing her feels like home, like traditions, like forever.
The crowd erupts into cheers, and we finally break the kiss, her leaning into my chest, as I wrap my arms around her. Lights twinkle, glowing against her face. Paloma’s laughter bubbles up. “We missed the lighting.”
“I think we’re perfectly timed.” She’s beaming, and it’s the only lighting I give a damn about.
34
Chuck:Time to chip away at all the old baggage. They’re lugging regrets like extra clubs.
Lou:Maybe one solid chip shot will finally clear some space for new memories.
Chuck:Or at least for a cleaner swing in the future.
Lou:Here’s hoping the old stuff finally gets tossed.
Creating a tradition is something I never considered, and I’m beginning to think I’m checking off a bucket list I didn't realize I made. Getting a chance to create new things with someone I love—it's intoxicating.
After the tree was lit, with well over 1,000 multicolored lights, we grabbed a couple freshly fried donuts covered in sweet powdered sugar along with two decadent hot chocolates.
“I know it’s the beginning of the month, but I have a gift for you. Do you want to come with me to pick it up?” Clint asks me. I nod my head in reply, wondering what he could have possibly gotten.
Popping the last powdered donut into his mouth, Clinton’s callused hand is warm as he tangles his fingers with mine. He tugs my hand as we walk into a shop that has all types of crystal ornaments hanging about. Clinton walks right up to the register and speaks to the oldman behind the counter. The associate’s face morphs into a thoughtful expression before reaching into the lower cabinet and pulling out a small box.
I walk up behind Clint, looping my arm into his, as the old man opens the box and pulls out a crystal ornament in the shape of a golf ball.
My lips tilt up happily at our shared love of golf and him wanting to memorialize it in a small memento. I lean in closer and notice the front is flat with gold-painted words etched into it. It simply saysOur Mulligan,and my chest grows tight.
“I wanted us to have something to remember our first Christmas together, our—” he says, but I cut him off.
