Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
I once questioned her about it. "After your dad, I just want your happiness, regardless of whom you choose." She understood my preference for older men. Sophisticated. Experienced. Mature. That's why my faceless man always possessed those qualities. That's why Nico fits so perfectly.
Mom was killed in gang violence, though the perpetrators remained unidentified. If Nico is wealthy, a boss, surely, he wouldn't participate in street gunfights. Is that my twisted justification for this?
"Ready to face humiliating defeat?" he teases, winking playfully, drawing me back to the present.
"Ha, dream on," I mutter. "Nico..."
"Hmm?"
"Just one night," I emphasize. "I don't want to dampen the mood. But you understand my reasoning. I know you'd prefer I pretend otherwise—"
"It's not that."
"Well, whatever it is, we don’t need to talk about it. It's simply mini golf."
He rests his hand on my thigh. I bite my lip as sensations surge through my leg, teasing mercilessly. I press my thighs together. My body responds instinctively, desire urging me to guide his hand higher.
"Simply mini golf," he echoes huskily.
I should tell him to move his hand. But there are lots of things I should be doing, all of which I seem determined to ignore.
He turns into the golf center's driveway. A sign above the entrance declares, Restaurant closed until further notice. I'm secretly relieved. I'm already questioning whether even golf is a good idea.
He smiles down at me, gesturing me through the imposing double doors.
"Is there a leaderboard, or do you have a plaque on the wall or something?" I inquire.
Before he can respond, a man calls from behind the desk. "Nico! The prodigy returns!"
Nico laughs and approaches him. The man exudes a kindly uncle aura—older, sporting a braided brown beard and warm smile. I feel somewhat awkward beside Nico as they embrace. How will he introduce me? Surely not as his date?
He gestures toward me with sophisticated ease. "This is Sienna Vale, a local artist. My mother commissioned her to capture her life. She's remarkably talented... though hopefully not at putt-putt."
"Two admissions, then? Certainly. But don't even consider offering payment."
Nico smiles. "It's no trouble—"
"Not after you solved that situation with those pesky troublemakers!"
"Charley," Nico interjects tensely. "Perhaps we could talk about this later."
I consider literally plugging my ears. The only way I can enjoy myself—if I even deserve enjoyment—is by forgetting this mob connection. Yet here's unmistakable evidence. What sort of "help" did Nico Moretti provide?
Charley glances at me, comprehension dawning. "Of course."
"Don't worry," I assure him. "I worked at the Cattle and Vine. I've heard rumors."
Charley hesitates before shaking his head. "I don't understand your meaning."
"Two, please," Nico says stiffly.
"Certainly, certainly."
He hurries to the counter. I thrust my hands into my pockets and examine the wall of pictures. I'm attempting nonchalance, but memories of our near kiss, that tantalizing brush of lips, resonate through me. It's desire versus rationality. Integrity versus artistry. Far more complex than my typically straightforward existence.
Hard to be alone? Yes. But uncomplicated.
I suppress it all. The boy in the picture beneath the prominent "Record" sign is unmistakably Nico. Now I understand what Gianna meant. His smile mirrors the one I sketched.
"Look at him," Nico says, chuckling. “He doesn’t know how lucky he is."
"That's my reaction whenever I look at pictures from before, Mom..."
He raises his hand, then lowers it. Tension crackles between us. His gaze suggests he wants to paint me with his tongue. He wants to caress me. He desires me. No one has ever looked at me this way before, and I've never wanted them to.
He turns away, seemingly frustrated by his lust overshadowing sympathy. But I think it's the opposite. Pretending we're merely primal creatures simplifies everything.
"I love this song," I murmur into the silence.
Leon Bridges plays through the speaker system.
"Yeah?"
"Mom was old school. She had a record player with his complete collection. Well... everything released before she—"
I can’t complete the thought.
"Perhaps we could listen together sometime."
"I had to sell both the player and records," I confess. "After Mom's passing, I needed to focus on surviving. I'm not proud of that."
He leans in closer. "You don’t need to feel guilty about it, either."
I retreat before surrendering to his enticing embrace. "Shall we get started?"
He frowns. "Certainly."
We carry our clubs through the door onto the open-air course. The first hole features a gentle slope leading to a cup nestled within a depression. He hands me a paper and a pencil. "You should keep the score. Just resist your artistic impulses. When you lose, I don't want you claiming distraction by creative inspiration."
His compliment brightens my mood. Our hands touch as I accept the pencil, reminding me of his earlier statement. We should kiss to dissolve this tension.
"I'll try not to."
He positions his ball.
"Whoa, Mr. Millionaire, step back."
He chuckles. "Have I missed something?"
"Why did you automatically assume you’re going first?"
"Ah."
"Precisely... ah. I believe you should forfeit going first for thinking you could butt in like that. Or should I say, putt in…" I quip with a grin.