Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
“Nope, you’re exactly where you need to be.” He pauses. “And don’t you look adorable. Ready to show off your skills?”
Skills? Hardly. “I’m more likely to show off my ability to make a fool of myself.”
But that’s not what happens.
Turns out, I’m shockingly good at hitting targets on a turf golf course, especially after I’ve consumed an entire Twisted Lemonade.
I wiggle my ass during my turn, glancing over my shoulder to see if he’s actually watching my ass, disappointed when he smiles, eyes nowhere near my bum.
Darn.
I may not be trying to reel him in, but it never hurts to be consensually ogled.
Squeezing one eye shut, I survey the landscape down in front of me, then check the monitor to make sure I’m aiming at the spot giving me the highest number of points. Because this is a game, and so far I’m kind of kicking his ass.
Dex may be bigger and stronger and more arrogant, but that’s where it ends when it comes to skill level.
He’s biting the green weenie, and he’s making no secret that he’s getting frustrated.
When it’s his turn—after I score yet another whopping thousand points—he struts to the little square piece of grass designated for swinging, stretching and making a show. I lean on the table where we have our drinks and snacks, trying my best not to laugh out loud.
He’s taking this way more seriously, and perhaps that’s his problem?
“You’re trying too hard,” I tell him with authority, as the lead scorer. “Do you want me to show you how to swing the putter?”
He gawks at me. “This is a 9 iron.”
Potato, po-tah-to.
“Whatever.” I can’t flip my hair because I’m wearing a ball cap, but I would if I could, just to be a brat. “You’re holding the club all wrong.”
I don’t believe half of what I’m saying, inwardly giggling at my own audacity.
“You’re an expert on golf now?”
“Trust me.” I grin, taking the club from his giant hands. “First, you need to loosen up a bit. You’re as stiff as a board. Go like this.”
I shake my body like I have the wiggles, feeling slightly ridiculous, arms and legs jiggling. It pays off when he tips his head back and laughs, copying my movements.
“I feel so stupid.” He laughs again.
“Don’t. It’ll make you a better player.”
Then.
I position myself behind him, wrapping my arms around his waist, but because he’s so much taller than I am, guiding his hands is a fail in the most hilarious way. Our heights are so mismatched, I can’t see what I’m directing him to do.
The proximity sends a shiver down my spine.
“Like this,” I speak to his back.
“This?” he asks, amusement in his voice. “Are you sure?”
“Exactly like that,” I murmur, even though I can’t actually see around his body to know what he’s doing with his hands. “Now, relax your shoulders.”
The tension in his muscles eases slightly, my arms still around him. I feel for his hands, making a show of adjusting his grip, fingers brushing his.
His hands are warm. Large. And electric.
The touch is electric, sending tiny jolts of excitement coursing through my sleepy veins, and instead of adjusting his grip, I want to wrap my arms around him in a hug and squeeze, relishing the weight and feel of him.
He’s like a burly mountain man, and ugh, it feels so good.
“Now swing,” I tell him, giving his neck a little push with my fingers so he bends his head. “But keep your head down.”
He swings, and the club slices through the air with surprising grace.
The ball? Soars up and over.
Over some more, to the right . . .
Too far to the right.
Like, way way too far.
“Yikes,” I mutter as it hits the mesh barrier that stops balls from flying into the land next to Glam Golf USA. “You may have put too much man power into that.”
“Maybe it was the coaching.”
“Nah.” I shake my head. “You’re too strong. You should relax a bit.”
Dex laughs. “Listen to you, giving me instructions.”
“Somebody has to. I feel like you’ve been running amok for too long.”
I realize two things:
The words are probably true.
He knows it and is suddenly aware of it.
Dex steps away, moving toward the outdoor furniture arranged in our pod, then sits on one of the couches. He pats the spot beside him, still holding the club in his other hand.
“Let’s chill for a second.”
I nod, joining him on the sofa, sinking in next to him cross-legged.
I look at him, so casual and cool—meanwhile, my traitorous heart is racing far faster than it freaking should be, considering how casual this “date” is supposed to be. We’re here because he is going to wine me and dine me for the simple fact that he fucked up my kitchen sink.
“Everything work out with Dan?”
Dan is the guy who actually knew what he was doing, the one who came and put everything to rights with a few twists of the wrench. Took him under ten minutes. Also, Dan was cute, single, and flirty.