Torrie leapt to the edge of the path, her thumb out, and Grace laughed at the hitchhiking act.
“Care to give a lost golfer a lift back to the hotel so I can meet my agent on time?”
Grace narrowed her eyes playfully. “My mother always told me hitchhikers are dangerous.”
“Who, me? Why, I’m as harmless as a little kitten.”
“Yeah, right!” Grace laughed, happy that she wasn’t as uncomfortable around Torrie as she had been in the kitchen the other day. It’s just that Torrie had stood so close to her then, and when she’d licked her finger so seductively, Grace had nearly fainted from shock and unwanted desire. She settled back in her seat. “C’mon aboard. I think I can handle you, even if you are more of a leopard than a kitten.”
Torrie slid in next to Grace, the space so small that their shoulders touched. “You’re a tough little chef. I don’t imagine there’s much that scares you.”
It was true, there wasn’t, but she’d certainly become scared of the person she’d become with Aly, sneaking around, cheating herself out of much more than she deserved. Being untrue to herself. Those were the kinds of things that scared her.
“How’s it going, anyway?” Torrie asked.
“Busy.” Grace put the cart into gear and drove off.
“Guess that explains why I haven’t seen you around. Can I help? I mean, I am supposed to be your official helper or something, aren’t I?”
“Can you cook?” Grace asked, not meaning it.
“Probably about as well as you play golf.”
“Hey! How do you know I’m not some ace golfer in my spare time?”
“Oh, yeah? What spare time? You look like you don’t have much of that.”
Grace winced. Did she look that tired and overworked? That intense? “It shows, huh?”
“No, no, not at all.” Torrie quickly tried to make up for her gaffe.“It’s just, you know, you’re everywhere on that food channel and in those magazines in the grocery stores.”
Resigned, Grace sighed. “You’re right. I don’t have a lot of spare time and I’m no golfer.” An idea popped into her mind. A sweet, vengeful little idea. “But I do know a way you could help.”
Torrie looked innocently hopeful. She could be so eager sometimes. “Sure, anything.”
Oh, yeah, this was going to be sweet. “There’s a shipment of flowers coming tomorrow. I need someone to arrange them into displays for each table. You look like you’d be perfect for the job!”
Torrie’s reaction was predictably hilarious. She paled and began helplessly stuttering. “I—I. Are you…Jesus, Grace. Do these hands look like they were made for flower arranging?”
Grace laughed so hard she had to pull the cart over as the convulsions racked her body. She pictured Torrie fumbling with long-stemmed roses and baby’s breath, and the laughter started all over again.
“Jeez, Grace, it’s not that funny.”
“Oh, yes it is, believe me.”
“Sorry, but I’ll just have to help another way. Turn around for a minute.”
Grace hesitated for only a moment before she did as she was told.
“You don’t fool me with your joking around. You’re very tight.”
Torrie’s hands found Grace’s neck and shoulders. Strong, capable fingers began to knead her stiff muscles, and Grace slowly began to melt. Every stroke relaxed her another notch and her eyes began to slip shut. Oh, God. She needed this. Torrie’s touch was magical. Soothing too. She wanted to moan but didn’t dare. “Torrie, I’m going to fall asleep right here if you don’t stop.”
Torrie didn’t stop. She spoke softly into Grace’s ear. “How about a drink with me later tonight and more of this?”
Grace sat up straighter and turned around, effectively halting Torrie’s massage. “Are you crazy? A drink and more of this would leave this tough little chef a quivering, whimpering little fool.”
Torrie grinned victoriously.
“Stop it,” Grace said. She put the cart into gear again. “You’re already imagining what that would look like, aren’t you?”
Torrie didn’t say anything, just kept grinning while Grace drove. She pulled the cart up to the hotel, and Torrie looked at her with only a trace of the smart-ass attitude this time. “I’m not giving up on you, Grace.”
A tickle formed in her stomach at the little thrill Torrie’s desire gave her. Nothing would happen, no matter how persistent Torrie remained, and so it was safe to soak up a little of Torrie’s hunger for her.
Almost a shame, though. There was something very sweet and enchanting about Torrie Cannon.
“Grace, darling.” James Easton strolled up to her, looking impeccable in his pressed slacks, Italian leather loafers and Hugo Boss shirt. He gave her a quick hug, careful not to wrinkle his clothes.
In the clubhouse, they caught up over a quick lunch of tuna melts, and James, his smile suggestive, whispered to Grace, “Haven’t any of these gorgeous women run off with you yet?”
“Please.” Grace frowned.
“Or at least propositioned you, I hope.”
A moment of panic. Was it that transparent that Torrie had been hitting on her? “James, I’m far too busy for any of that.”
He looked around with disappointment. “More gorgeous women around here than men, that’s for sure.”
“Well, it is a women’s tournament, James.”
“Pity.”
Grace glanced at her watch. “When does Trish arrive?”
“A couple of hours. Oh, did I mention the book signing tonight?”
“What?”
James’s mind never strayed from business for long. “After dinner, at a Hartford bookstore. It’ll only take an hour, two at the most.”
Grace groaned. “Jeez, you’re killing me, James.”
“Relax,” he said, waving a hand like it was no big deal. “It’ll be fun. When it’s over, the three of us can settle in for a couple of drinks and some girl talk. After all, you’ve got the rest of the summer to sit on that cute little butt of yours.”
Torrie sipped her second martini, wishing for Catie’s sake that the alcohol would magically turn her into better company. She could have kept her misery to herself by just hanging out in her room, or she could have gone trolling in a lesbian bar in the city, but both prospects, for different reasons, had appealed to her for all of about twenty seconds. Still, she didn’t feel like being alone, so she foisted herself on Catie in the hotel bar and sipped her drink a little too vigorously.
Catie, for all her faults, was trying to cheer her up. She was trying not to talk much about the tournament—the gossip, the hole-by-hole replays. Her player, Eileen Kearney, was in sixth place heading into tomorrow’s final round, and Catie was pumped about their prospects, even as she tried to minimize her enthusiasm for Torrie’s sake.
Torrie reached across the table and covered Catie’s hand briefly in apology. “I know I’m being a drag, C. You really don’t have to sit here and babysit me.”
“Hey. I know it’s tough being here and not being able to play. Hell, you know I’d rather be on your bag right now than anyone else’s.”
“I know. Thanks.” She knew Catie and her friends on the Tour understood how hard this week was for her. But she tried not to say much about it for their sakes, tried to keep her distance. She didn’t want to be the downer—the self-absorbed, self-pitying suck—because they had their work to concentrate on. More than that, she knew what it was like to be one of the healthy ones and have a colleague go down. It was almost bad luck to be around the injured too much or to talk about it much, as if the injury could be contagious and you might join them on the heap of the broken.
She went back to her drink, glancing around the half-empty room. Most of the golfers had retired early, the bar patrons mostly strangers. Tomorrow night, after the final round, everyone would party, Torrie knew. But with another day’s competition to go, there was still much on the line. The athletes took seriously their rest, their foo
d intake, their routines. Even Catie was behaving herself, nursing the same beer for nearly an hour now. But Torrie had no intention of behaving. Getting a good buzz was the only comfort she could think of right now.
“Hey.” Catie nudged her. “Check out the babe at three o’clock.”
Torrie gave an obligatory glance, not interested in this little game they’d played many times before. Sometimes they’d rate a woman, debate her physical attributes, guess whether she was gay or straight before finally deciding it didn’t matter, that she was hot and deserved a good orgasm—compliments of one of them, of course. They’d try to shock and awe one another with outlandish stories of how they’d seduce their prey and how’d they’d satisfy her. Sometimes they’d even make a contest out of who could get to her first. It was stupid and sick and juvenile, and Torrie knew she would never do it again. Even now, she couldn’t believe she’d ever been like that. It was strange, this feeling lately of stepping outside of herself, of seeing herself in a new light. Maybe it was because she had all this time off from golf to think about things, to notice other things. Hell, maybe it was even because of meeting Grace and getting to know the highly successful, talented woman who really didn’t give a shit that Torrie was some hotshot pro golfer who could have anyone or anything she wanted.
There was distinct disapproval in Catie’s expression. “Jesus, Torrie. If I didn’t know you better, I’d say you’ve got a giant hard-on for Grace Wellwood.”
Torrie didn’t want to talk about Grace, at least not that way. Her growing feelings and attraction for Grace were incredibly private. They were to be protected from being some sort of fodder for Catie or anyone else to joke about, to minimize as though they weren’t important to Torrie. Grace was special and Torrie wanted to keep that knowledge to herself.
“Forget it, C.”
“Look, if you’re not fucking her, and clearly you’re not or you wouldn’t be this miserable—”
“C, I mean it. There’s nothing to talk about.”
“Exactly. Which is why you’re so miserable.” Catie’s tone softened from accusatory to conciliatory. “All right. It’s not just the tournament that’s got you down, is it?”
Torrie downed the last of her martini and signaled for another. She wanted to get shit-faced. Forget the pain in her shoulder, forget the disappointment of not playing, forget, at least for a couple of hours, that she’d ever met this unattainable woman who’d somehow so quickly made her forget the person she thought she was.
“What is it about her, Tor?” Catie said it so quietly and yet the words nearly crushed Torrie.
She had the bizarre feeling of not being able to breathe for a moment. “God. I don’t know. She just…” Torrie strained to find the right word. “Matters.” Yes, that was it. Grace matters to me. And not in the way Grace first mattered to her, in the strictly sexual wanting of her. Their sporadic togetherness had dulled Torrie’s sexual urgency a little, but at the same time enhanced her feelings for Grace. She missed Grace. She missed talking to her, having fun with her, just being around her.
“Huh? What do you mean matters? Matters like whether your steak is a little bit overcooked, or matters like winning a tournament?”
Catie clearly had no clue. Torrie shook her head, willing the subject to drop. She’d already said too much. Her third drink arrived and she sipped it gratefully. She could not expect Catie to understand, just as Torrie would not have understood if it weren’t happening to her. Whatever it was, exactly.
“Do you ever get tired of it?” Torrie suddenly blurted out. She didn’t often have meaningful discussions with Catie, even though they were like sisters. But now she had an overwhelming need for Catie to answer her seriously.
Catie looked at Torrie like she’d just sprouted a third eyeball. “What the hell are you talking about now?”
Torrie nodded at the woman across the room Catie had been making eyes at. “That.”
“Hell, are you kidding me?”
“No. I’m not.”
Catie looked quizzically at her again. “Are you going straight on me or something? Did you fall on your goddamned head?”
Torrie laughed shortly. “No to both, ya moron. I just mean… you know.”
“No, I don’t, actually.”
Torrie sighed. “Never mind.” Catie would probably always remain unapologetically promiscuous. She had expected as much of herself at one time, but not anymore. Christ, maybe I’m just getting old. Or finally growing up.
Catie stood, probably out of patience for Torrie’s melancholy. “I should turn in, Tor. Long day tomorrow.” She leaned down and kissed Torrie’s cheek affectionately, and then she was gone. It would be just like Catie to run as soon as a conversation about a woman turned serious, Torrie decided.
Maybe what she needed was to talk to Diana Gravatti, her best friend on the Tour. Diana would understand how Torrie’s world was rapidly shifting off its axis. How Grace made her feel special, like she was no longer just the stereotypical professional athlete—self-absorbed, one-dimensional and cashing in on every sexual opportunity that came along. With Grace, there was so much more that mattered. Or that should matter. Being around her was like that perfect moment when a wave swells to its highest peak, right before it breaks and collapses into itself.
Shit. What was she thinking? Diana was in contention tomorrow and didn’t need the distraction of a soul-searching, heart-to-heart. There was also the fact that Diana, who’d been with her partner for nearly ten years, would probably start sending out engagement announcements upon any talk of Torrie being truly interested in a woman. Diana tended to think everyone should be with someone—that being single was terribly ungratifying.
Torrie sipped her drink, the alcohol beginning to fray the edges of her thoughts, rounding them so that one rolled into another. She didn’t normally drink alone, but tonight she would drink, no matter what. And she would feel alone too, no matter whose company she was in, because no one could possibly understand her right now.
When she looked up she instantly sobered. Grace was being shown to a table along with another woman and a very effeminate guy. The three looked like they knew each other very well—their laughter spontaneous, their hands easily resting on one another’s arm or shoulder. Joy and friendship was seamless and genuine. Torrie was immediately envious of the intimacy the two strangers had with Grace.
Briefly, Torrie considered sneaking out without saying hello. Downing her drink, she covertly watched Grace and grew braver. She could no longer deny the acute need to go and talk to her, to share a laugh if she could think of something witty to say, to look into those rainwater eyes and feel helpless for a moment. That was intoxicating, not the vodka.
Torrie stood, feeling a little wobbly. When she arrived at their table, three pairs of intently curious eyes turned to her.
“Hi,” Torrie said, looking only at Grace, her thumbs slung loosely through the belt loops of her black jeans.
“Hi,” Grace answered, clearly surprised, but she looked pleased.
“I see you’re finally enjoying a night off.” Torrie gestured at the glass of wine in front of Grace, wishing it were just the two of them, sharing a bottle over the little lace-covered table with the small, flickering candle in the middle of it. “A well-deserved one, I might add.”
“Maybe you should wait until tomorrow’s dinner before you decide I’ve deserved the rest.” But Grace was smiling.
The woman across from Grace cleared her throat, offered her hand. “Since our friend is being so rude, let me introduce myself. I’m Trish Wilson, Grace’s partner.”
Torrie shook the proffered hand, gave a little start at the word partner, then remembered the two were in business together. She sure hoped Grace didn’t have another kind of partner.
“I’m sorry, guys.” Grace touched her forehead in a gesture of apology. “This is Torrie Cannon, the tournament’s host. And this is James Easton, our manager.”
His handshake was as warm and inquis
itive as his smile.
“Join us?” Trish said, meaning it as far as Torrie could tell. She was cute with short, curly dark hair and big brown eyes. A face that was pretty in an open, convivial way. Trish Wilson was uncomplicated, Torrie decided. She could see why Catie had gone for her all those years ago.
Torrie’s eyes trapped Grace’s and there was uncertainty in them. “I don’t think so, thanks. Long day tomorrow. For you, anyway.”
Trish looked from Torrie to Grace, and Torrie knew instantly that Trish had very quickly added up the emotional math and deduced that there was something between them.
“You’re welcome to, Torrie,” Grace added, and Torrie nearly agreed. But Grace was with her friends, and Torrie didn’t want to intrude. She only wanted to be alone with Grace, and since that wasn’t going to happen, she’d rather just be alone. She politely declined again.
“Tomorrow,” Trish said. “You’ll come by the kitchen and be our taste tester, won’t you?”
Torrie beamed. “I’d love to.”
They watched Torrie walk away. James and Trish exchanged a look as Grace ominously swirled the red wine in her glass. No one said anything until James broke the silence with a low whistle.
“I thought you said there were no prospects here, girlfriend!”
“I never said any such thing. I said I didn’t have time for that kind of stuff.” Grace drove home her point with a “drop it” glare, which James promptly ignored.
“I think that woman would give anything if you made a little time for her.” He winked and leaned in. “She looks like an allnighter to me.”
Wine sloshed over the rim of Grace’s glass. “James! Jesus.”
There was a trace of a giggle in Trish’s voice. “She did look at you like she wanted to throw you over her shoulder, march you off to her cave and ravish you all night long.”
Grace gave them a surly look, even as the titillating fantasy flickered briefly in her mind. Maybe an all-night romp with Torrie was exactly what she needed right now. It would be fleeting, but fleeting had its upside.
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