Page 43 of Sweet Spot
“Sounds likes she could use some competition then.” Hank nods toward where I walk to the front tees.
Lincoln smiles but doesn’t move. His clubs are in the back of the cart, so I know he doesn’t have that as an excuse not to take the guys up on their offer. “I’m just here for some last-minute instruction.”
“I think I’d feel bettersupportedif a pro came up here and showed me how it was done.”
Bob and Hank whistle and chuckle.
“I like her,” Hank says.
I stare at Lincoln with a smug, challenging set to my jaw, but I don’t really expect him to grab a club from his bag. He carries it under his arm and walks toward me as he puts on his glove.
The tiny victory I feel at goading him into showing me his swing disappears when he leans over to place a tee on the ground and then again to place a ball on top. It’s hard not to check out his ass. Some women love football pants, some love baseball pants, but a man in dress pants swinging a golf club—that’s my weakness.
With his eye on the fairway, he swings the club lightly just in front of him. “See that tree on the left side just before the sand trap?”
“Yeah.”
“Closest ball wins.”
“Wins what?”
A cocky smirk twists his lips. “When I win, we’re going to finish nine and then head back to the driving range so you can do two-hundred more solid swings.”
“What about if I win?”
“If you win, then you’re done for the day. You can drive back to Valley in time to hang out with your friends or whatever it is you do when you aren’t practicing.”
As if there’s time for anything else. Also, I don’t want to go back. I want to stay here and play until it’s too dark to see the ball.
And I want him to keep smiling at me like he is right now.
“All right. You’re on, but if I win, you have to buy me dinner first.”
A rough huff of a laugh rolls out of him. “I have dinner plans.”
“Not if I win you don’t.”
“Ladies first.” He raises both brows in a friendly challenge.
I step back. “Oh no, age before beauty.”
Hank and Bob stand off to the side. It sounds like they’re placing bets, but I focus only on the man next to me as he steps up to the ball.
His chest rises and falls with a long breath. He shifts his weight around until he’s comfortable, and then he stills. I hold my breath as he pulls back and hits the prettiest shot I’ve ever seen in person.
My mouth is wide open when the ball drops near the tree and he turns to face me.
“That was . . . beautiful.” I’m too impressed to be embarrassed by the awe in my voice.
He seems a little taken aback by my compliment, and there’s an awkward beat of silence as he grabs his tee and pockets it. “You’re up.”
More so than any time he’s watched me, I feel his gaze like a weighted blanket—though, not at all as comforting as people claim. I do my best to ignore everything but the club in my hands and the tree I’m aiming for, take a deep breath, and swing.
For the first time, I feel it. That elusive sensation that only comes from hitting the ball pure and exactly where I intended.
“Wooooweee,” one of the guys—Hank, I think—calls as my ball sails through the air.
Chills run up my right arm, and Lincoln steps up beside me, driver held loosely in his right hand. “Nice shot.” He rests the clubface on the top of his shoe. “It’s gonna be close.”
