by Kat Bastion
“To bed,” she called out, her back toward me. The words barely hit my ears before she vanished through the trees at the edge of the park, into the darkness.
I stared at the empty space she’d just occupied.
Her direction? Angling toward where I’d found her—the alley, with cardboard lean-tos and overflowing dumpsters.
My gut clenched at the thought of her returning there to sleep for the night.
To bed. Her exact words echoed in my head. Not to sleep.
I prayed that to bed for Shay meant somewhere safe, her beautiful body and bright soul nestled down in clean sheets and on soft pillows.
Then...I wished I hadn’t imagined her so vividly in bed.
Shay…
“Golf.”
Three days later, and I still couldn’t get over it.
Ben and...golf. The two had failed to mesh well in my brain.
Because even after that office break-in last week, when I’d spied on the minimalist perfection of his desk and giant photographs of him at faraway places—including an exotic green perched on a cliff with its ocean backdrop—I still struggled to picture the Ben I knew actually on a golf green.
From the couple of hours I’d spent with him Friday night? Nope.
The man had been too rugged, rough around the edges. Dark-brown hair had tumbled in wild pieces over his forehead. A firm jawline had rebelled with its dense scruff of beard. Black brows had slashed over penetrating charcoal eyes. Faded blue jeans? The broken-in kind, threadbare from years of abuse but still holding strong. His black T-shirt? An unusual short V-neck that’d hinted at a smattering of chest hair; its thin material had stretched over sizeable biceps and hiked-up long sleeves had revealed a thick tribal tattoo that encircled his right forearm.
And his behavior at the club? Those barely restrained emotions?
Had been far from civilized. Primal, even.
Not remotely close to...golf.
But he’d reined it all in, Businessman Ben. He’d sought to right his wrong: had chased me down, groveled even (as far as a man like him could.)
And when he’d scoffed at my not having a phone? Had dismissed the issue in a heartbeat with his Yeah, that’s not gonna work for me attitude? He’d seemed so sure of himself; his expression had broadcasted problem solved.
The expression that I’d fired back had said too bad, not my problem, and you sure about that? all with my easy smile.
His confidence had faltered.
Good. Because that man bulldozing over me? Never gonna happen again.
But then...golf.
Three days later, we strolled side by side down a walkway along a curving row of stalls. Each numbered area housed a gleaming metal machine, a polished wood bench, and had been carpeted in bright-green fake turf. Five stories high the structure went, creating a coliseum of golf-obsessed insanity. Nearly every slot held a golfer who swung away onto a field littered with balls, each oblivious with how ridiculous they all looked, how comical the whole scene was.
“Yep.” Ben swung up the single club he carried to rest on his shoulder, mimicking me. “Golf.”
I stared at him, trying to make sense of what he wore now: lime-green collared shirt with tiny indentations in the fabric, lime-green-and-black plaid shorts, black-and-white wing tip golf shoes.
Plus…the hat. “Does it have to be so white?”
“What?” He glanced down at me, expression innocent, clueless.
“Your hat. It’s hurting my eyes.” I held up a hand to block the glare.
“Wear sunglasses.” He took off his tortoiseshell pair, then held them out to me.
I narrowed my eyes, refusing to take them.
“Or don’t look.” His mouth twitched into a slight smirk.
Smug bastard; he had to know how good he looked. Black suited him better, no doubt. But the white set off the subtle tan he had, softened his dark features. The visual contrast mimicked the man. Like from the outside in, he’d become a mysterious contradiction.
Which made some crazy part of me want to solve him.
I sighed at what the man did to me by just existing, grabbed his damn sunglasses, and slid them on. Better than him seeing my eyes. The way he searched them when we squared off, like I’d become the mystery he wanted to solve, unnerved me.
And the one thing I hated more than anything else? Feeling out of control.
“What?” He’d caught me staring again.
“Sorry. The sunglasses aren’t helping.” I handed them back. “Your clothes don’t fit who you are.”
With raised brows, he glanced down at the lime catastrophe he wore as he clipped the sunglasses onto the collar of his shirt. “Who am I?”
I stared at his tribal tattoo. The dark cuff that’d peeked out from under his long-sleeved tee a few days ago now spread over a chiseled forearm, wove around insane biceps, then disappeared under a pastel layer of deception. “Wolfish.”
He glanced back up at me, tilting his head a bit. “And what am I dressed like? A sheep?”
“More like Bo Peep.”
His stare held mine. That whole reading-me thing lasered between us again, only I scorched back at him a reading you too.
Then his smoldering gaze upped the contest: I’m picturing you in a sunny wildflower meadow, wearing low-cut pastel ruffles.
But I lost the battle with a sharp inhale, eyes widening, as my body reacted to all the heat he blazed my way. I wondered if he read me true: All I see is hungry wolf.
He had the decency to fight a smile before he continued walking. He also hadn’t taken any jabs at the clothes I wore, the same ones I’d had on the other night, basic tee, old jeans, battered Converse. While staring at his back as he passed the next stall then another, I took two deep breaths to slow my racing heart, then jogged after him to catch up.
“Number twenty-nine. This is us.” He planted the black duffel bag he’d been carrying onto a bench, then zipped it open. “You right-handed or left?”
Back to business. As if we hadn’t just caused a near meltdown seconds ago.
“Right.”
He fished around inside the bag, then pulled out a white leather glove, still in its packaging, in my size: Women’s Small.
“Just happened to have a glove for me layin’ around?”
“Borrowed.” With a loud crackle, he broke open the hard plastic, then held the pristine glove out.
“Ah.” I didn’t take it. Instead, I stared at him, mystery hunting. “Lots of country-club friends?”
“Yeah…” He dropped the lonely glove onto my side of the bench, hesitation in his tone unmistakable. “You could say that.”
I didn’t pry. No point shining a light on his secrets. I had plenty of my own I wanted left in the dark.
“So, if I’ve gotta be out here, with you wearing that” —I gestured my hand up and down at his bright-white-and-green get-up— “let’s do this and get it over with.” I dropped my backpack onto the bench.
Then I pulled the seven-iron loaner the check-in desk had given me off my shoulder, pointed the end straight toward an enormous green field speckled with white balls, then drew back and swung forward at chest height, pretending the thing was a baseball bat.
On my second bat swing, at the end of my arc, he stepped in front of me, grabbed the clubhead with his large hand, and stared hard at me. “Serious, Shay. I need you serious. You goof around and someone’s gonna get hurt.”
“Says the guy standing in my crosshairs.”
His jaw clenched. “You here to learn or talk shit?”
“Learn,” I grumbled. “Gee. You had your coffee today?” The man needed to chill. “And why exactly am I learning to golf?” I planted the club and leaned on it. “Thought I was tending bar.”
“You’re serving drinks to golfers. Helps if you know their world.”
You mean your world.
He pulled his club off the bench. “Now focus. This is a typical grip on the shaft.”
Grip. Shaft. My
thoughts instantly guttered, and I swallowed hard.
Focus. His directive held great wisdom. Get out of your head.
“This V between your thumb and index finger aims down the shaft.” His gloved right hand hugged the black leather grip. “Your other hand wraps around it, not too tight, but nice and snug.”
Seriously? Do you hear how it all sounds? The amusement echoed in my head, but I said nothing. No chance in hell would I open that Pandora’s Box with him out loud. Subject off-limits.
Strictly professional. More Ben wisdom-words echoed in my head.
“Now, put your glove on and you try.” He nodded to my club.
“The grip or the swing?”
“Both.”
I put my club down and swiped up the glove.
“Goes on your left hand.”
Opposite of his. “I know. I’ve got eyes.” Apparently, the glove protected the non-dominant hand. I slid my fingers into the soft leather glove. The fit was snug across the back of my hand, but the material stretched with ease as I fastened the Velcro to cinch it up.
His brow furrowed when he realized what I’d admitted. “You know I’m left-handed?”
I shrugged, brushing my observation off. “I know a lot of things about you, Ben Bishop.”
“Yeah?” The corners of his lips twitched, and he crossed his arms. “Like what?”
Do not notice the sexy cuts of his biceps. Focus on that ridiculous lime-green shirt.
“You think you have everything together in life. But you don’t. In fact...” I took a hard look at him, thought about every little thing I’d noticed, his neat-freak office, the way he’d fired me with such reckless fury, then how quickly he’d hunted me down to apologize. Guilt ran deep in him. All that perfection? A ruse—overcompensation for something very imperfect in his life. “Your life is fucked up, same as mine.” Our similarities resonated with me deeply: the same plight of frustration, fiercer determination because of it. I tilted my head, longshotting a sudden suspicion as I watched his hands start to fist. I began to smile. The mystery of Ben, unraveling. “Maybe even more fucked up than mine. If I had to guess, I’ve hit real close to home. Literally. Because all the worst mind-fuckery begins there.”
He sucked in a sharp breath at my last words, as if in surprise that I’d read him so well. His expression darkened, brows lowering in protection, even as his eyes softened then searched mine, trying to do more of his reading-me thing.
“Stop.” I narrowed my eyes, blocking the unwanted return analysis as I pointed my seven iron at him. “I’m not yours to be dissected. If you’re making me be out here with all these pansies swinging away at tiny little balls, then let’s get this thing over with.”
“I’m not making you do anything.” Challenge edged his tone.
I stared at him a long beat, then sighed. “Fine. But for the record, if anyone asks, I came to see you in that outfit. Whacking the hell out of tiny balls? Pure bonus.”
He said nothing. Just stared at me.
Good. You knock me off-balance? I send you reeling.
“Okay.” Focus. I tried to place my hands on the club like he had. Left gloved hand, V between finger and thumb pointing down. Right hand covering the first. “How’s this?”
“Good. Only move your other hand like” —the heat of his body suddenly wrapped around me from behind— “this.”
I flinched at the unexpected contact, the heat of his chest curving against my back. But I took a deep breath, forcing myself to banish knee-jerk panic, as his broad shoulders bracketed mine. Logic told me he believed directing by touch was the best way to teach.
Maybe. Couldn’t he direct me verbally? From five feet away?
But another thought crowded in as his muscular biceps, forearms, and hands all made gentle contact, his incredible warmth seeping into my skin as he showed me where he wanted my hand. Maybe he’d wanted to touch me, even though it hadn’t been necessary. Seconds ticked by, neither of us saying a word.
He kept our close contact.
I adjusted my grip.
And while he cocooned me, innocent or not, the heat from our connection spread: a slow advance, lower—deeper.
“Perfect.” His word whispered over the shell of my ear.
A shiver rippled down my spine as I wondered if he spoke the truth. Each from very different imperfect worlds, we’d been battered. Did the two of us together make us whole?
Are we perfect? Are you the one I’ve been waiting all this time for?
Ben…
Don’t move.
Shay? Me?
Both.
I closed my eyes. Some bone-headed instinct had me wrap myself around her. And I didn’t want to let go.
The prickly woman got under my skin.
What shocked the hell out of me? I liked her there.
I tightened my hands over hers, pressed my chest to her back, and tried to act like my moves were all about golf. Not sure who I’d fooled. Not me. And by the way she had tensed for that split second? Not her either.
I tried to figure out the next move, but my head fogged as her subtle fragrance hit me. Something floral, maybe.
Then all of a sudden, she shook me off. “Give me room. The grip and the swing,” she reminded, back on task.
Decision made. By her.
One of us sure as hell needed to keep us on track. Strictly professional.
Her gaze traveled down the sweeping inside curve of the driving range, to the other golfers swinging away. “Not even gonna show me how it’s done?”
“Nope.” I took a couple of steps back and folded my arms over my chest, watching carefully. “No point in teaching something that comes naturally. Some are born with it. Let’s see what you’ve got.”
“Okay.” She lined up sideways, then wiggled her ass.
A sexy little ass, hugged by soft-looking denim.
Eye on the ball. Watch her swing.
After a glance out toward the horizon, gaze dropped again down over the ball, then a single deep breath, she arced the club back, then swung forward—with spectacular timing and a flawless follow through.
I narrowed my eyes. “You golfed before?”
She remained frozen in position for a long moment, club still high on her opposite shoulder, body twisted, facing out toward wide blue sky where her ball had soared before disappearing. Then, with a short laugh, she untwisted to look at me. She planted her club on the turf and leaned on it. “Why would you think that?”
“That was a great swing.”
She shrugged. “Guess I’m a natural.”
Didn’t answer my question. And her closed expression? The shrug? Reminded me of how she’d acted back behind my bar that first night. Warning bells went off in my head. She had deception written all over her.
But I ignored the warnings. Who gives a shit? It’s golf.
“Perfect cadence.” Like a seasoned pro.
“Cadence?”
“Sure.” I grabbed the seven iron I’d brought, like hers, to demonstrate. “An ideal swing carries a cadence with it, great timing delivers the maximum amount of power from your shoulder torque, through the swing, and into the clubhead on impact.”
“Uh-huh.” The blank look on her face almost made me laugh.
“Watch.” When I stepped closer, she gave me a wide berth—wider than necessary. I blew out a calming breath, relieved to know I wasn’t the only one still affected by that hands-on-instruction stunt I’d pulled without thinking.
She watched me from the far back corner, clear self-preservation instincts in play now.
Better for both of us. Keep it all business.
“The perfect swing rhythm has a three-to-one ratio in its tempo.” After a slight in-and-out quiver of my clubhead in front of the teed-up ball, I arced the club back and slow-counted aloud to demonstrate. “One...two...three” —the windup stretched through my body as I twisted the club up over my left shoulder— “one,” I called on the exhale as I powered through the down stroke. Th
e clubhead hit the ball with a satisfying ping and launched the ball in a high classic arc to hit the turf at about two hundred and fifty yards.
“Wow.” She put her hand over her brow, watching where the ball landed. “That swing was so slow. But look how far the ball went.”
“Speed has nothing to do with it. The power is in the rhythm.”
“And that tinny musical sound...”
I nodded. “The ping. Means I hit the sweet spot. What happens when what we aim for is struck pure and true.”
For a long beat, she stared hard at me.
Then with a scooting wave of her hand, she signaled me out of her way. “My turn again. And I’ll say out loud what I’m thinking during my swing.”
Amused by her smartass tone, I happily complied and stepped back to the far corner, her designated safety zone.
The second time around, she followed her same pre-swing ritual. Same ass-wiggle. Same horizon-glance. Same ball-gaze. All at the same speed. But when she moved the club, she spoke aloud her three-to-one ratio. “Yeaaah...two...three...whatever.”
“As in, you’re not taking this seriously?”
“Ping.” She pointed out with a nod toward the sky where her soaring ball had disappeared, again. “Annd...as in, if I don’t get invested, I don’t get disappointed.”
Touché. “Would you take it somewhat seriously?”
Her golf swing? Knocked it out of the park.
If only I could get her attitude there, get her to believe just a little. “I promise not to let you down.” The very least I could do. If she gave working for me her all, I’d back her all the way.
Her steady gaze held mine for long seconds. Like even though she’d heard my words, she searched my soul for hidden subtext.
Apparently satisfied with her mental pat-down, she gave me a slight nod. “Yeah, I could do that. Somewhat seriously.”
“Not substantially seriously.”
“Nope.” She gave me a headshake before stepping up to the ball again. After another little ass-wiggle, she lined up her club then fired off another one of her textbook shots. “That’s your problem.” She held her follow-through position, watching another ball soar.
