Page 62 of Café Diablo

“Oh no, you’re definitely playing.” He points at me. “Buy the ticket? Take the ride! Isn’t that your life’s philosophy after ‘drink more alcohol?’”

I frown at him for using my words against me, then I toss myself into the golf cart and brighten.

“Well, you didn’t tell me this is going to bedrunkgolf, Edwin. You really should have led with that. In which case—” I clap my hands like he’s my personal driver and I’m beckoning him. “Chop! Chop! Take me to the bar, where we can get this normal—that is one-hundred-percent not normal—date up and running.”

“You’re incorrigible,” he says, taking the driver’s seat next to me.

I gasp, making a show of it. “Is that lawyer speak for butt-stuff, Edwin?”

“I can’t take you anywhere, can I?”

“Well, you opened the butt-stuff can of worms, and we are about to play eighteen rounds of sink the ball into the hole … if you know what I’m saying?”

He shakes his head. “It turns out, I do know one or two ways to get you to shut that mouth,” he says.

“Butt-stuff?” I offer, and he rolls his eyes before leaning over and kissing me instead. The brim of his hat knocks against my forehead, but I don’t really care because the second his lips brush over mine, I melt.

After turning me into Olivia-slush, he pulls back and gives me a sexy-as-hell look that—he’s right—renders me absolutely speechless. Damn, if by golf he meant make out on this cart all day, then this may become my new favorite game.

“I know the answer is probably ‘no,’” he says, unleashing those gorgeous puppy-dog eyes on me. “But do you think you couldtryto act like a lady for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes?”

I nip his lip and he pulls back, as if to say, onlyladiesget hot smothering kisses. I raise an eyebrow at him and the game is on.

“Fifteen minutes of being a lady, huh? Do I get a prize for my efforts?”

“You get to wear a cute golf skirt that shows off your legs.”

“You’re not going to win me over with golf-club couture.” I lean back in my sundress, shifting my knees so I’m effectively showing off most of my thighs. “And I already have a dress that shows off my best assets.”

“So, that’s a NO on the acting like a lady request, then?” Edwin quips, dropping his hand to my sun-kissed thigh and stroking the soft skin.

“You know, I’ve seen you be less than a gentleman yourself, sir!” I toss back, giving him a sexy eye as I reference his complete ungentlemanly domination in the truck cab. A prick of something unsettled fleets through his gaze, like I brought up something I shouldn’t, and I quickly pivot. “Let’s just say, being a lady is overrated,” I state, bringing the focus back to me and ignoring his hand on my knee. “Onward, fine escort,” I command, as Edwin starts driving us toward the clubhouse. “And may the odds be ever in your favor.”

“It’s not a fight to the death.”

“Ha! That’s what you think, Mr. Voss.” I clamp my hand down on his and indecently slip his fingers under my skirt. To my pleasure, the back of his neck burns bright pink. “I know how competitive you can be, Edwin. But the good news for me is I also know a few of your weaknesses.”

He leans over and kisses me on the cheek, growling as he pulls his hand away from my nether regions. “Later.” He pinches me on the thigh.

“Right,” I nod. “Somewhere between the first and the eighteenth hole, in the sand trap, covered in dirt. Can’t wait!”

He shakes his head, attempting to school his features with his classic poker face, but despite his efforts, amused delight feathers his cheeks. It makes me fall for him even harder, which I know is a recipe for disaster. Don’t fall for the hot lawyer, Olivia.

Have fun, yes.

Fall, no.

Seriously, can you see yourself in a long-term commitment with a man who thinks golf is Friday night date material and spends his weekends memorizing tax law? In fact, the second he introduces you to his other lawyer friends, he’s probably going to start you on his ten-step turn-Olivia-into-a-Stepford-wife plan. Enjoy the yummy naked parts and the banter, don’t let your heart get involved!

But the fact that I’m actually looking forward to an entire day ofgolfwith Edwin is a great big red flag of bail-ship-you-are-in-huge-trouble-woman!

Huge fucking trouble.

27

Ned

Teaching Olivia how to golf is like asking a rhinoceros to dance the Macarena—it’s absolutely futile. The entire day is a clumsy flailing of golf clubs with the woman yelling ‘fore’ every time anyone hit a ball—not just me, but anyone. And for a painter, Olivia’s hand-eye coordination is absolute shit. I think she hit one ball all day and it went directly into a sand trap.

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