The Perfect Putt: A Sweet Boss/Assistant Golf RomCom (More Than a Game Book 2)

3. Ellie Hart

“This is the ugliest thing I’ve ever seen,” I say as I hold up a lime green pantsuit.

“It was sage green on the website,” my sister Naomi says from where she’s folding clothes on her bed.

“It has shoulder pads.” I scrunch my nose up.

“It’s vintage.”

“It’s going in the trash.” I toss it on the floor. She frowns, but doesn’t object. Naomi has a tendency to buy the most outrageous items from online vintage shops, only to never wear them. She mostly wears leggings and t-shirts that she doesn’t mind her eighteen-month-old son Archie rubbing his nose on.

“I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to let you raid my closet,” she says as she folds a pair of Archie’s Paw Patrol pajamas.

“You’re my sister, you don’t really have a choice.” I slide another hanger to the side, revealing a navy dress that isn’t entirely atrocious.

“I’m going to stop inviting you over.”

“Like that would stop me.”

Ever since I got my own home, I’ve been coming to Naomi’s house for dinner at least once a week. I moved to Coastal Cove to be close to her after her husband, Owen, died in a car accident two years ago. I lived with her for a few months, but she refused to let me stay any longer than I needed to in order to get my own place. Not because she didn’t want me here, but because she hated the thought of my life centering around her and Archie. I can’t even deny that it would have.

I spent those months here helping in every way that Naomi would let me. I still try to help where I can. I buy clothes for Archie, never let her pay for a drink at Coastal Coffee, and force her to let me do dishes on the nights she cooks. It never feels like enough, but it’s all she’ll allow. We Hart women are too independent for our own good. At least that’s what my dad says every time my mom hurts her back rearranging furniture instead of asking him for help.

“None of these seem like the right thing to wear,” I say with a sigh. When I’m working at Coastal Coffee, I wear jeans and one of the t-shirts with the shop’s name on it. Outside of work, I’m usually in shorts, a bathing suit, and an oversized button down shirt. Most of my wardrobe consists of swimsuits. I have no idea what to wear to an interview with a professional golfer.

“Try my drawers, I might have a tennis skirt or something in there.”

“Why would I wear a tennis skirt to an interview?” I ask her as I rip down a t-shirt that says I’m not a regular mom, I’m a cool mom, and throw it into the pile with the neon suit.

“Hey, I like that shirt!” Naomi protests.

“I’m saving Archie from embarrassment. Cool moms do not wear shirts that say they’re cool.”

“It’s a Mean Girls quote.”

“All the more reason to throw it away. That movie came out two decades ago.”

“It’s a classic.” She sounds more offended than someone should about a movie.

“You still haven’t given your reasoning behind a tennis skirt. He’s a golfer, not a tennis player.” I change the subject.

She huffs and starts matching tiny socks up. “Haven’t you seen all the women that prance around town in those? It’s a part of the fashion. You’ll look like you fit in.”

“It doesn’t seem very professional,” I say as I consider her words. I have seen many a customer come in with skirts and polos on, bragging about how their man has a meeting on the course with the director of some major company with an obscure name. But that doesn’t mean it’s the best option for an interview.

“Then wear a pencil skirt, but you’re going to look out of place at the club.”

I sigh and walk over to her wooden dresser to dig through it. She’s probably right, even if the thought of dressing like a golfer–or wife of one–makes my skin itch. But I don’t want to stand out, and I certainly will at a place like Crescent Beach Country Club if I don’t dress the part.

“I can’t believe you’re going to work for Miles Day. Of all the people, I would not have thought him.”

“Me either,” I say dryly as I tug a white tennis skirt out of the drawer. It’s a little wrinkled, but after I steam it, it should work. “But double the pay and only having to make coffee for one person other than myself, sounds pretty nice.”

“What if he asks you about golf?” Naomi giggles when I shoot her a flat look.

“Hopefully he doesn’t, but if he does I suppose I’ll have to tell him the truth.”

“That you hate golf with a passion that burns as hot as the sun?” she says and I snort.

“I think I’ll just tell him I’m not a fan.” A smile twists my lips. “And my hatred for it burns hotter than the sun, actually.”

She laughs. “Forgive me for underestimating you.” She gestures to the closet. “There are a few polos in there that would probably match.”

“I’ve never seen you wear a polo in your life,” I say as I step over the pile of clothes I plan on shoving in a trash bag on my way out. I won’t actually throw it away. But I can’t tell her I’m taking them to the thrift store, because she’ll go and try to find them again.

“Just because you haven’t seen me wear them, doesn’t mean I haven’t.” I pull out a blue polo shirt with the tags still attached and raise a brow. “That one is new, because I loved the other ones so much I needed another color.”

I shake my head at her and take the shirt off the hanger. “This will have to do. I’m going to look ridiculous.”

“You are not. Oh!” She hops up from the bed and walks into her en suite bathroom. “You should wear this,” she says, coming out with a white visor.

“I’m going to be indoors, I don’t need a visor.”

“It’s called accessorizing.” She pushes it toward me. I eye it with uncertainty.

“Because you know so much about that,” I say with a laugh. She’s currently wearing black leggings and an oversized grey t-shirt that I think is on backwards. It also has streaks on it from where Archie clenched her shirt in his yogurt-covered hands during dinner.

“You cannot judge me based on this one outfit. I used to be young and hot,” she says defensively.

I roll my eyes. “You are young and hot. You just dress like those people you watch online that crawl into store dumpsters to find free stuff.”

She bursts into laughter, swatting my arm with the visor. “I do not!”

I start laughing with her, unable to hold back. Even if I could, I wouldn’t. She doesn’t laugh as much as she used to, so I soak it up every time she does.

“You do, but that’s okay. I would too if I worked from home,” I say as my laughter subsides.

In order to avoid sending Archie to daycare or hiring a sitter, Naomi is a web designer. She does her work around Archie’s sleep schedule, or whenever she can distract him long enough with an activity. I try to come by and help her when I’m off, but she usually refuses to let me.

“No you wouldn’t, you’d wear linen and bikinis and spend half the day outside.”

She’s not wrong. My two favorite places to be are my backyard flower garden and the beach.

I shrug. “Either way, I wouldn’t be wearing anything country club appropriate that’s for sure.”

“I think you’ll look cute.” She pushes the visor on my head. I give her a flat look. “Now head home to rest.”

“I’m going to do the dishes first, then I’ll go.”

“I can do the dishes,” she says.

“I know that, but you worked all day, then made dinner for us, and put a fussy Archie to bed. I’m happy to help. You finish up laundry,” I tell her and she sighs but ends up walking back to the bed with the heaping pile of clothes on top.

It’s a miracle she didn’t put up more of a fight. Or maybe it’s a sign that she’s burnt out. She spends all day chasing Archie around while also trying to get her projects done. Then at the end of the day she takes care of everything herself.

I walk through her bedroom door and head toward the kitchen. Along the way, I pick up toys and little baby clothes to place in a pile on the couch. If she catches me doing anything extra she’ll kick me out. Once I make it to the kitchen, I allow my mind to roam past my sister and Archie, and focus on my own life.

The life that has my feet and back aching as if I’m much older than twenty-three. After my shift at Coastal Coffee, I went to Sand Dollar Diner and helped Diane organize their finances in an excel sheet. The diner is by far the best restaurant in Coastal Cove, but it’s a humble little shack with owners who aren’t tech-savvy. I fell in love with the place after the first bite of Mrs. Diane’s famous key lime pie, and the more I got to know the owners, the more my love grew. Now I help with their bookkeeping in exchange for a free meal or two.

Even though I love Diane and her husband Paulie, it’s hard to go from serving customers all day to staring at numbers on a screen while Diane tells me how she can’t remember where the receipt from her last supply order is. If it wasn’t for the anticipation of my interview with Miles, I’d probably be asleep on the pile of laundry Naomi is folding. I know, because it’s happened before. Multiple times.

A sigh escapes me as I turn on the water faucet to start washing the pots and pans. Hopefully–if I get it–this new job will be a little easier on me. At the very least, I’ll be able to save up to leave it faster. Then I’ll open up a flower shop on Wave Way, Coastal Cove’s main street and social hub. I’ll have my own little brick building in the line of stores. I’ll create the most magnificent floral displays to go outside. The inside will be a rainbow of different flowers, and smell like a botanical garden. I can work the counter or hire someone else to while I work on arranging the orders. It will be beautiful and lovely and mine. I just have to save up the money to buy it first.