Total pages in book: 133
Estimated words: 128156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 128156 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 641(@200wpm)___ 513(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“Absolutely not.” I laugh along with him, stepping up and eyeing the little white ball.
“Fair enough.” His hands slide in his pockets. “Let’s see it.”
I line up my shot, trying to focus despite the eyes on me.
“Aim just past the tree line, and swing smooth.” Prescott offers his tip when I hesitate a moment.
Nodding, I give it my best, and while the ball doesn’t soar, it does travel in the right direction.
“Not bad.” Prescott nods, stepping back as I lower the club.
I look up at him, expecting to meet his gaze, maybe share a quiet smile, but he’s already turned away.
A flicker of guilt sneaks in, and I wonder just for a second if I hurt his feelings by shutting down his offer to help so quickly, so obviously. But if I let him help me the way I’m pretty sure he intended to, it would have put us in an intimate position, be it intentional or not, and that’s just not something I would have been comfortable with.
The night he and I went out, it wasn’t a date to me, and while I think he felt the same, I don’t want there to be any confusion. I am not available, and I’d like to make sure that is clear, just in case. Still, I don’t want things to be awkward, and I don’t want to appear rude.
I exhale, glancing toward my grandfather only to find him watching me. Not the shot I just took. Not Prescott. Me. His gaze lingers a moment before he looks back at the course, like whatever he’s thinking comes as no surprise to him.
“Shall we?” Prescott calls, and I look over to find him moving toward the next hole, a friendly smile on his face.
It settles something in me, and I nod, waiting for my grandfather to start walking, falling in step beside him.
“You know,” he begins after a few minutes of comfortable silence. “The game’s not really about power. Not the way people think. It’s about patience. Precision. Knowing when to lean in and when to hold back.” He looks at me then, his gaze subtle but steady. “About restraint when you want to swing harder than you should.”
Curious, I glance his way, noting the reflective tone in which he’s speaking, like this is a thought he’s had for a while and he’s only now figuring out how to voice it out loud. “Most people aren’t patient enough for that,” I say.
His gaze flicks to me, considering. “No, they are not.”
We walk a few steps in silence before he speaks again. “Most think it’s about the big moments,” he says. “The drive, the winning shot.” He pauses, eyes on the horizon. “But it’s the quiet parts in between that win the game. The moves we make when no one’s watching, but we still choose the right thing.”
He could be talking about anything. About the game, about me, or maybe even my mother.
“Sounds like you’re not just talking about golf,” I allow myself to mention, my voice soft.
A ghost of a smile flickers across his mouth. “Am I not?”
Before I can respond, a white golf cart pulls up, a young caddy hopping out with a smile as I instantly move to the back of his little ride. “Good afternoon, everyone,” he says casually and starts pulling things from the chests on the back.
Prescott and my grandfather are both handed drinks, the caddy clearly well versed in their country club cocktail of choice. I don’t realize Prescott asked for a second of his orange-colored drink for me until he turns, holding it in my direction.
“I think you’ll like this one,” he offers.
“Oh.” Crap. I didn’t plan to drink, but I don’t want to be double rude, so I accept with a tight smile.
Prescott and the caddy chat for a moment as payment or a tip or however it works is covered, and I glance toward the large fountain about fifty yards away.
“Pretty, isn’t it?” My grandfather steps up.
“Gorgeous,” I agree.
“The whole bottom is made of these shimmery white rocks and there’s a bunch of flowers on the back side,” he says. “I can’t tell you how many weddings I’ve witnessed out here.”
My head yanks his way, the liquid in my cup sloshing over the side slightly. I expect him to be giving me a pointed look, but I’m met with his profile, small tension lines visible along his temples as he stares out at the fountain, lost in thought.
The group ahead of us is just finishing up their turn, slowly making their way to the next hole, so Prescott orders another round, but when he glances my way, seeing mine is still full, he raises a brow.
“Not a fan of day drinking?” he asks, but there’s a playfulness in his gaze. He’s not mocking me; he’s mocking, well, himself and this place.