Page 47 of Sweet Spot
“Thank you for being so nice to her. She likes you.”
“I like her too.”
He steps away to pick up a water cup in the path and toss it into a nearby trash can. “You ready to get back?”
I nod. “Yeah, I should probably get started home.”
We turn around and head the way we came, walking up the ninth hole. I step closer again and this time he doesn’t try to put distance between us. The sleeve of his shirt and the warmth of his arm tickles me. “Why does your grandmother keep setting you up so she can, in her words, fix your issues?”
He groans. “Can we pretend she didn’t tell you anything that would make our whole client-coach relationship inappropriate and awkward?”
“Definitely not. I mean . . . I yelled at you and then threw tequila on you. It’s only fair I have dirt on you too.”
His lips twitch at the corners.
“So? What happened?”
He makes a strangled sound and I think his pace speeds up as if he’s trying to speed walk away from this conversation.
“Come on, tell me. It can’t be that bad.”
“I was married and things didn’t work out.”
I motion with a hand for him to keep going, which surprisingly, he does.
“Since the divorce, Gram has been on my case to get back out there. I keep telling her I’m fine, but she keeps pushing and setting me up on blind dates. I know she means well, but the woman refuses to accept that my life doesn’t lend itself very well to relationships. I’m on the road a lot, and even when I’m not, I’m working or thinking about work. Anyway, now that you know entirely too much about me, what about you?”
“It’s really just me and my dad. My parents are divorced, and my mom lives in Maryland with her new husband. Since my dad is as likely to set me up on dates as he is to cheer for the Cubs, I have far fewer dates than you.”
“They aren’t breaking down the door, making him clean his guns, or whatever the cliché dad jokes is?”
“Is that what you’re going to do someday? Answer the door on your daughter’s dates with a shotgun, blaring eighties rock, wearing jorts?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t own jorts, and you’re avoiding the question.”
“I’ve dated, nothing serious since high school . . . if you can count that as serious.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “There isn’t a lot of time. Plus, guys aren’t as into the whole standing on the sidelines and cheering on their significant other as chicks are.”
“You’re young, beautiful, and talented. I’m sure that’s intimidating for some guys. Trust me, plenty of guys would love to be there to cheer you on.”
My stomach flips, and I ask, “You really think so?”
His dark eyes meet mine, and those full lips pull into a wide smile. “I know so.”
17
Keira
The university golfcourse at Stanford is beautiful. Bright green colors set against the mountain landscape. In some ways, it isn’t so different from home, but in all the ways it matters in relation to golf, it’s completely different.
The elevation is different, for one, and then there’s the turf. One bad bounce on our hard, dry ground in Arizona, and I’d be swinging at dust. The grass here is lush and more forgiving. Every shot from the fairway is like hitting off a tee.
“You looked good,” Abby says as we’re finishing our practice round. “All those extra hours of practice are showing. How’d it feel?”
“I don’t know.”
