Page 34 of Whiskey Throttle
Her gaze darts to my already naughty expression. Making it clear exactly why we are here. She doesn’t smile, smirk, or scoff. Just let her dark eyes bore into my body long enough to rearrange things in my chest like she has been doing before walking across the two-story foyer, drinking in the museum-quality artwork.
“Why did I expect floor-to-ceiling paintings of all the Harrington men, back to the Morgans?” she muses to herself with a light chuckle. I’m not telling her that the grand foyer in the family estate has that.
“We try to keep it lighter here.”
I follow in the wake of her perfume. My hands roll into fists to prevent myself from touching her. She glances over her shoulder, an eyebrow raised.
“Picasso and Van Gogh are lighter?”
Of all the things I could say about the loaned canvases, the Sotheby’s bids, the fact that my mom once bought a Rothko just to outbid a rival on a Tuesday, I switch gears.
“Wanna play croquet?”
She turns, mouth gaping for a split second before catching herself. She blinks. Once. Twice. Her scrutiny lands on me like I’ve offered to eat caviar off her body, which I’d gladly do.
“Croquet?”
I grin at her, then start walking toward the side lawn, not giving her a chance to kill the idea with reasonableness and common sense. This weekend is meant to be fun of all kinds, and we'll see where things go between us. Getting her outside her comfort zone is the only way it’s going to work.
“Yeah. You know, rich people’s lawn games. Ridiculous, unnecessarily competitive, excellent cardio if you’re as bad as I am.”
She follows, slowly, stilettos stabbing the tile floor and echoing through the empty house with every step.
“You brought me to the Hamptons to beat me with a mallet?”
“Not unless you ask nicely.”
Her snort is entirely unintentional and completely satisfying. Yeah, Babs needs a lot more fun in her life. Something I intend to provide in more ways than one. The set is already out, wickets stabbed in a loose zigzag pattern over the lawn like the staff was half-drunk when they placed it. But the sun is bright and warm, and the ocean breeze cuts through the hedges.
She looks obscenely gorgeous standing on my family’s lawn. Her black dress is all wrong for croquet. She knows it. I know it. Yet she kicks off her stilettos and steps into the field like a queen ready to conquer.
“I assume you’ll need a quick lesson?” I ask, tossing her a mallet with just enough force to test her reflexes.
She catches it one-handed, effortlessly.
The same energy I saw as she played tennis with her lady friends. Sure, I was spying on her. I had to know what I was up against when I challenged her to a game. Not that I’d let her win, I’m still a competitive guy. I just needed to know how badly I completely destroyed her before humbling myself to ask her on a date.
“Please,” she huffs, her hand rising to her throat to toy with her necklace. How my palm itches to replace the pearls at her neck. “I’ve hosted more charity lawn tournaments than you’ve had birthdays.”
“Ouch. Unnecessary, but hot.”
She grins, shoving her sunglasses back on without missing a beat. I’m realizing she loves the challenge, more of a competitor than I took her for. It’s also easier to get a rise out of her. Adding to the list of things that I like about her. Heck, there’s not a list of things I don’t like.
Usually, with other women, that list is a mile long by now. She takes the first hit, sharp and precise. Gesturing condescendingly to me to take my turn. Yeah, we’re going to have a hell of a weekend if this keeps up.
We start to play, if you can call it that. She’s elegant and restrained. I’m cocky and unintentionally terrible. Her aim is surgical. Mine is tragic.
I talk shit.
She talks better.
The competitive tension crackles in the sea air. Under it, connection and chemistry hum with each wicket she clears. I miss the ball entirely and pretend it was a strategy.
“You’re creating shadows on the court, and it’s distracting me.”
She makes it a point to look at me, look at the sunny spot in front of my mallet, and scoffs.
“For being a trust fund baby, I thought you’d be much better at lawn sports. Isn’t that what you do all day when not in school?”
