Chapter 9
It takes a whole three seconds for Aubrey to realize where I’ve brought her.
“You’re not being serious, Finn,” she says tightly.
“Oh, but I am. This is exactly the type of place you’d go with a guy who didn’t know you well.”
“Yeah, that’s not selling it.”
She tries to tug her hand out of mine, but I thread our fingers and squeeze, refusing to let go. When she whips her head back to glare at me, I make obnoxious kissing noises.
“Oh, come on, sweet cheeks. Give me a chance. Let big daddy show you a good time.”
Eyes squeezed shut, she makes a silent retching motion. “If the point of this is to make me more open, you’re crashing and burning already.”
“Fine, fine.” I sigh, forcing myself to sober up. “Remember when you said you trusted me?”
“Unfortunately.”
“This is me cashing in on that.”
She’s silent for a few moments before reluctantly jerking her chin in a nod. The couple of teenagers in front of us finish paying at the check-in and take their clubs before stepping out of the way. With my hand still clinging to Aubrey’s, I pull her forward and get us set up.
The kid running the register waits for me to pay for our round before handing me two balls and our clubs. With my sunglasses and hat tipped low on my head, he shows no sign of recognition. In a perfect world, not a single person here tonight would be a baseball fan.
Stepping away from the desk, I look down at Aubrey, the golf balls in my open hand. “Green or black?”
“Black.”
My lips twitch when I hand it over and close my fingers around the green one. “Of course you chose the least fun colour here.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Judgment, but black is a classic. There are more than enough colours around us right now to bring joy to the darkest of souls without needing a golf ball to match,” she muses before dropping her gaze to her heeled shoes.
“I would have appreciated a heads-up that we’d be here tonight before I left the office. I’d have dressed more appropriately.”
“A luxury that you may not have gotten from a Tinder date.”
Her glare is sharp enough to cut anyone but me. “I think you’re enjoying this a bit too much.”
“Me? This is all about you, honey muffin. Now, this is how tonight is going to work,” I start, stepping up to the first starting position. The green turf is bright enough to hurt my eyes even in the dark as I set my club onto it and lean to the side. “Each hole, I’m going to be a different guy.”
“So you want me to speed date you around the putt-putt course?” She asks it like the idea offends her, and that only makes my grin stretch wider.
“Exactly.”
“And what’s the point of this?”
“To figure out the difference between what you view as red flags and what is just you being allergic to men. Plus, it’ll give me more information on what type of guy I need to be setting you up with to avoid another Leo experience.”
“I’m not allergic to men,” she argues, but it’s weak.
I pull my club in front of my body and chuckle. “Have you ever checked yourself for a rash after one of your failed dates?”
“No. Because I’m not allergic to all men. Just the shitty ones.”
Without responding, I close the gap between us and take a lock of her shiny hair between my fingers, rubbing it. “Your hair is so beautiful. It’s like silk . . . are you sure it’s real?”
A shocked pause. She clears her throat and flicks her eyes up to mine. “What are you doing?”
“And your eyes are so bright. Have you ever wondered what exact shade of blue they are? They’re just like my mom’s.”
“Hit your ball, Finn.”
“Only if you watch me when I do, hottie.”
Her glossy lips flatten at the nickname as she pokes me in the back with the end of her golf club. “Don’t make me shove this up your ass.”
My mask cracks as I choke on a laugh. “Okay, cool it. You’re making me get off track here.”
“Just swing the damn club.”
Giving in, I set the ball down and get ready to swing. All it takes is a weak tap for the ball to roll up the small hill and into the hole. I step aside for her to take my place, and she repeats my motions. Her ball glides right past the hole, and her groan follows.
“You have the most perfect swing,” I say sweetly.
Poison glistens in her eyes when they find mine. “You’re full of shit.”
“Have you ever considered getting into golf professionally?”
She blinks in response, completely emotionless. “Do you think I’ve ever considered that?”
“That’s why I’m asking, gorgeous. Trying to get to know you and all that.”
Her entire expression flips. Suddenly, I’m staring at a beaming smile that I know would burn my skin if I let her close enough. “That’s so sweet. But I actually fucking hate golf.”
“Oh!” I pretend to be flustered as I fidget with my club. “Well, for our next date, I’ll plan something else. Preferably at a venue where I can see your beautiful figure more clearly.”
She swings her club at me, and I stumble back, narrowly avoiding getting hit on the back of the head. My laugh is abrupt as it cuts through the course, drawing a few eyes as I reach for her club and tug it from her.
“Alright. So, what exactly pisses you off with the compliments?”
“I like being complimented. It’s the lame, fake ones that rile me.”
“I can promise you that hitting your date with your club and catching a charge isn’t the best way to respond to them, Bree. Men are simple creatures—dumb, yes—but simple. If you don’t like the sugary compliments, just say that.”
“Because men listen so well?”
“Fair. But if he doesn’t listen, then you shouldn’t waste your time with him in the first place. It doesn’t hurt to make your preferences known instead of swinging first, though.”
“I only swung because it’s you,” she grumbles fleetingly.
“Alright, grab your ball. We’re moving on.”
Once she’s grabbed her ball from the turf, I hand her back her club and lead the way to the second hole. The sound of kids screaming has dulled a bit, which hopefully means they’ve left. It was already late when we arrived, but I guess that doesn’t mean the same thing it did when I was a kid.
“You go first this time,” I tell her once we’ve stopped in front of a miniature, swinging windmill. Pointing to a spot beside me, I add, “Step up here.”
Once she does, I settle behind her and reach around her front to grip the club. Her hands are holding it tight, but when I improve their position, they grow slack. There’s a moment when she locks up, her breath cutting off in surprise, but it doesn’t last long.
“You’re holding it wrong. If your hands aren’t right here, you won’t be able to swing correctly,” I direct her bluntly. When she shoves out a rough exhale and keeps her hands where I just placed them, I shake my head. “No. No, that’s still wrong.”
My jaw brushes her temple as she bends at the knees and swings the club. I don’t let her. With my grip controlling, I force it to stay in place and lean in closer, plastering us together. The position is more intimate than I was meaning it to be . . . and I freeze.
Aubrey wiggles impatiently and jerks her elbow into my side. “You’re being—”
“Come on. I’m trying to help you out here. You want to do good this time, right?” I mutter, too aware of the way my breath hits the back of her ear and the plethora of piercings she has there.
“I can figure out how to play minigolf,” she bites out.
The heat from her body seems to cling to me, even as I ease off and give her grip one final adjustment. “I’m just trying to help, honey.”
With a strong shove, she has me taking a wide step back. I run a hand over the back of my neck, finding it damp, before straightening.
“You’re being condescending.”
“Exactly. And I was waiting for you to tell me off, but you didn’t. Why?”
She ignores me and hits the golf ball instead. When it rolls through an opening in the windmill’s swinging blades and sinks into the hole on the other side, she looks at me with a smug twist of her mouth. “Because I knew I could do it myself.”
I snort. “That was a lucky shot.”
“Let’s see you make it, then,” she counters.
“Easy.”
But when I take the shot, my ball bounces off a blade and rolls back down to me. I try again, and it sails through before coming just short of the hole.
“That’s karma, honey.”
I fight off a smirk and head to my ball before picking it up. “Come on. Let’s keep moving.”
“What date do I get this time?” she asks, her voice suddenly monotone.
We step up to the third stop, and I go first, finally sinking my ball without struggle. Once I’m finished, I wave a hand for her to go next.
“Where do you see yourself in five years?”
The heel of her shoe digs into the turf when she whirls toward me, figuring out quickly the type of guy she’s on a date with now. “That’s a loaded question for a first date.”
“It’s important that we see if our futures align before we waste our time, isn’t it?”
“You’re not . . . wrong.”
I lean against a small half wall separating our hole from one further along the course and motion for her to continue. “I know. So, your future?”
“I haven’t thought about much more than where I want to be in my career,” she says a bit cautiously while lining up her shot.
“Tell me about what you see there, then.”
Once she’s swung, she glances back at me and chews on her lip. Neither of us watches where her ball ends up.
“I want to be a name partner at my firm and at least triple my current client list in that time frame.”
“What comes after that? Marriage? A family?”
Her discomfort is obvious in the way she fidgets with the gold bracelet around her wrist and avoids my eyes. “I don’t know about those things yet.”
“Are you scared of them? What are your other weaknesses?”
“Fears aren’t weaknesses,” she snaps, immediately paling. “They’re not.”
I debate putting an end to this persona right now but decide to push forward just a bit more. She’s closing up fast, and these are questions she’s going to need to have some sort of answer ready for if she’s serious about dating. Even I know that, and I’m not currently ready for anything like this.
“On a scale of one to ten, how emotionally available are you?”
“Finn!”
“Just answer the question. This is what first dates are all about.”
“If a guy asked me these things so quickly, I’d already be running out.”
“Exactly. But you can’t do that if you’re searching for something real. If you want fake, Bree, I can give that to you without all of this work, but if you want Spencer to buy any sort of relationship, you need to stop stalling like this.”
She presses her lips into a straight line before stalking around the open-mouthed clown housing her ball and dropping into a crouch to grab it. “Let’s move on to the next date, please.”
“I haven’t even hit my ball yet.”
“Go first at the next hole.”
“Aubrey.”
“Finn.”
Standing with her ball in a white-knuckled grip, she pins me with a look that tells me there’s no room for argument here.
“That was the overly serious guy, by the way,” I say lightly.
“Mark him down as a no go.”
I chuckle, rounding the clown to join her. “We’ll work on it.”
“Choose a guy that isn’t going to make me run into traffic now, please.”
Yeah . . . as if that’s going to be an easy task.