Chapter 7 #2
She grins up at me. “It was a memorable start to a date.”
I’m so busy cataloguing her smile, the kind of smile I never see in the office, that I almost miss the key word there: date .
Internally, I am not fist-pumping. Because only idiots who wear graphic tees do that kind of thing.
“No, I’m apologizing for my brother.”
“Is he going to give me the third degree?”
Zane already seemed suspicious, which I can’t blame him for, considering the state of undress in which they found me. It’s also the sign of a good brother to care about the guys your sister dates. The thought of Zoey dating other guys derails my thoughts for a moment.
“He’ll probably give you a hard time about the age thing. But I meant—that.”
We’re at the top of the stairs now, and just up the concrete path, Zane and Abby are making out.
Full-on lip-locked in a way that would be perfectly expected inside the privacy of a home, or maybe even in a car.
(With heavily tinted windows.) But in the middle of mini golf, it looks as out of place as … me in a parking lot with no shirt on.
The same mother is covering her daughter’s eyes again. She probably had no idea that mini golf had turned into a PG-13 kind of affair. They could have stayed home and seen less skin and tongue on primetime TV.
Zoey clears her throat. When Zane and Abby keep at it, she claps her hands, like she’s trying to chase off a pair of alley cats. I bite back my grin.
“Ready to play?” she asks.
Zane hands over the clubs and balls, smirking as he gives me the shortest club and a pink ball. Like that’s going to bother me or my game. Not even a little bit.
Zoey does quick introductions. “My younger brother, Zane.”
“Ha,” he says, giving her a playful nudge before shaking my hand. His smile is genuine and his grip strong. Maybe he won’t be so bad.
“And my best friend, Abby.”
Abby shakes my hand with a lot of enthusiasm. “If you ever need someone to create an app, fix a bug, or break into the Pentagon, Zoey can get you my number.”
“The Pentagon, huh?”
She smirks, and Zane gives her a mildly panicked look. “White hat hacking only, right?”
“Mm-hm.” Abby stands on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, which seems to only somewhat placate him. I get the sense that Zane is wired as tight as Zoey. Abby is clearly his opposite.
Is that what Zoey needs? Someone different than her to balance her out? Because I’m definitely more on the type A side of the sliding scale. We have that in common, which I’ve always thought of as a good thing, something that would make us work well together. Maybe not.
Or maybe you need to get out of your head. Probably that.
We begin, and what follows is a travesty of golf. And yet, as the only actual golfer in the group, I’m the odd man out. Taking too long lining up my shot, considering angles and doing my best with the tiny child’s club Zane gave me.
When I’m losing by the fourth hole, I have to remind myself that I don’t care.
No one else does. Abby has lost one ball already, hitting it far enough that it probably landed in Zilker Park.
She and Zane head back down to the little hut to grab a replacement ball, and I don’t mind the time alone with Zoey.
She nudges me with her shoulder as I line up my shot. “My short game isn’t so bad either.”
Mine is going to be worse if she continues standing so close. I’m aware of the heat of her body, or maybe I’m just suddenly aware of the temperature. The sun is dipping below the hills, but it’s still muggy. It’s probably my nerves combined with Zoey’s presence, but I’m suddenly burning up.
“You’re definitely a worthy opponent,” I say, smiling as I tip the ball. It hits off one of the walls to slide right past the hole, ending up wedged in the corner.
“Aw, too bad,” Zoey says. “Now scoot.”
Now she’s using her hip to bump me out of the way, and it’s all I can do not to wrap my arms around her waist and tug her close.
Her flirting is light, playful. It’s the perfect balance, though it leaves me still not totally sure how Zoey feels about me.
I resist the urge to show her how I feel about her in the shadowy area before the sixth hole, and instead watch as she birdies and I bogey.
“Is something throwing you off your game?” she teases, looking at me like she knows exactly what’s got me distracted.
It’s her, definitely her. Though I’m trying to be gentlemanly, don’t think I haven’t noticed her toned legs underneath shorts that are at least five inches shorter than the skirts she wears to work.
Still classic, not too short, but yes—very distracting.
There’s also the fact that my brain fog seems to have thickened from a light mist into a pea soup.
I tried to add up the scores a few minutes ago and the numbers seemed to run around the scorecard like ants.
“Nothing I can’t handle,” I say, feeling like my flirting game needs serious help.
“What did we miss?” Abby asks as she and Zane join us again. They’ve skipped the previous hole, but don’t seem to care.
Zoey does though. Or maybe she wants more time with just me. Her annoyance with her brother and Abby seems to be mounting.
Zoey points her club at hole four, then waves the little white score card. “You missed one.”
Abby just rolls her eyes, but Zane takes her hand, leading her back. We’re almost two holes ahead of them now, and I don’t mind either.
“What’s the prize for the big winner?” I ask.
“The loser buys the frozen custard after.” She frowns. “I’m not sure how it will work tonight.”
“I’m sorry if this is a disappointment,” I say, remembering what she said in her text about the tradition changing.
Zoey looks up at me before taking her next shot. “It’s not so disappointing,” she says softly. Then she turns back to her ball and sinks a hole in one. Making a notation with the tiny pencil, she smirks up at me. “Looks like you’ll be buying my custard.”
I step toward the tee area, crowding her more than is necessary. “I would have bought your custard anyway,” I tell her. “It’s your birthday. I also have a present in the car.”
I probably should have played that cool. But her eyes light up and she chews her lip a little before speaking. “You do?”
“I do.” I tug lightly at the end of her ponytail. “I like seeing you like this.”
“Like what?” She blinks up at me, her eyes so innocent. So beautiful.
“Relaxed. Happy. You’re never like this at work.”
Zoey sucks in a breath, her face shifting slightly, as though just mentioning work invited a dark cloud over our date. Add it to the growing tally of things I’ve done wrong on this date. Remind her that I’m her boss and we shouldn’t get romantically involved? Check.
“Can I tell you something?” She doesn’t wait for me to respond. “I hate coming into work.”
This doesn’t fully surprise me, yet it takes me aback. “You do?”
“I do. The vibe in there is just so … cutthroat. No one is nice to me. Or to each other.”
I should have noticed this, but never have. Maybe because I’ve been too busy ignoring everyone but Zoey.
Is that why they aren’t nice to her? Have the other women seen through my professional veneer and figured out my secret crush? Are they taking it out on her? My mind starts spinning out, running scenarios, troubleshooting.
Zoey touches my arm and her hand feels cool on my skin. “Hey. Don’t stress about work stuff. There are a few good things about going into work,” she says, her tone turning flirty. “One good thing I can think of.”
“Only one?”
We were already standing close, but I’m inching closer, still wanting to pull her into me, to feel her in my arms. But my temperature just keeps climbing, to the point that sweat is beading on my forehead and my lower back feels damp.
Dripping sweat on her would be like the rotten cherry on top of this lopsided cake, so I keep more distance between us than I’d like.
Instead of answering, she spins away, her ponytail swinging out and brushing my cheek. “Your shot, Gav.”
Gav . The sound of the nickname only my family uses on her lips is like sending a jolt of pure, radiant sunlight through my veins. Would it be too much to ask her to say it again? It would, so I follow her to the next hole.
Abby and Zane catch us again, then drift away when she hits his ball into another part of the course.
Zoey wavers between amusement and irritation, and I completely get it.
If this used to be her birthday bonding with her brother, it’s turned into something else entirely.
I’m benefitting from the change, so I won’t complain, but I can sense her disappointment.
“Are you okay?” I ask just before the eighteenth hole.
She’s still beating me, but I can’t bring myself to care. I’ve found myself wondering a few times if she would enjoy golfing with me sometime. I don’t know about her drive, but her skills avoiding plaster animals could translate well to her short game.
I wipe the back of my hand over my forehead, trying to keep the illusion that I’m not melting. I’m not sure why I’m the only one who seems affected by the heat. Even my eyeballs feel hot.
Zoey smiles at me, then her expression morphs into concern. “Are you okay?”
Great. She noticed the excessive sweating. How many strikes do you get on a first date before getting thrown out?
“Sure. It’s just summer. You know, hot.”
I’m a regular wordsmith. I should get a job writing greeting cards. Or sitcoms.
Zoey is still looking at me strangely when Zane and Abby join us again. She’s giggling and his shirt is wet. I’m not sure I want to know. What I want is to sit, so I lean on the fence, trying to catch my breath.
“So,” Zane says, teeing up his shot, “we’re turning twenty-four today. How old are you, Gavin? Thirty-five? Thirty-nine?”
I suddenly have a headache. Maybe it’s not so sudden. Probably from dehydration. I need water. Why didn’t I bring water?
Zane is speaking in a casual tone, and I’m not sure if it’s nice that he thinks I look younger, or if he knows that I’m actually older and he’s trying to highlight that fact. Judging on the little time we’ve spent together tonight, he’s not my biggest fan.
“I’m forty-three.”
He’s definitely surprised, and maybe even more disapproving now than he was before.
My eyes flick to Zoey. Thankfully, she doesn’t look surprised or bothered, just angry with her brother.
I peel myself off the fence and find myself wishing that my club was long enough to use as a crutch. I’m suddenly exhausted.
Zoey looks like she’s about to say something, but Zane interrupts, running a hand through his hair as his gaze bounces between me and his sister.
“Wow. So, you were starting college when we were born. That’s—”
Whatever he was about to say is cut off when Abby jabs him in the stomach. “I think that’s quite enough from you, birthday boy.” She mouths sorry to me, and I nod.
But his words did their damage. I’m running all kinds of numbers and scenarios in my head. I would have been nineteen when Zoey and Zane were born. An adult when she was an infant. That’s … not pleasant to consider.
I was married to Eleanor when Zoey would have been a toddler. It would have been illegal for me and Zoey to even date until I was thirty-six. The year after I got divorced.
If I was hot before, I’m the embodiment of August right now. I need water. I need to sit down. I need to stop thinking about the fact that Zoey could be my daughter.
Abby and Zane have moved on to the next hole, and Zoey walks over to me, almost tiptoeing, as though she senses that I’m teetering on the edge. I’m sure it’s obvious. Sweat is dripping down my face. Even the backs of my knees now feel damp.
“Don’t worry about Zane,” she says.
What she doesn’t say? Don’t worry about the age difference . She didn’t reassure me that it doesn’t matter to her that I could have been her babysitter or her father’s friend. That she was getting her first diaper changed when I was casting my first votes in an election.
“I guess it could be worse,” Zane says. “It could be a twenty-year age gap.”
“Zane!” Zoey shouts, tossing the tiny pencil at his head. It bounces off, lost forever in an elephant palm bordering the course.
Meanwhile, my brain appears to be melting. Literally and figuratively.
“I have to go,” I say, not even realizing that I was about to say the words. But I do need to go. My vision is starting to blur, and I realize much too late that I probably have whatever virus Nancy does. I need to get home and take a painkiller and just get in bed.
“What about the game? And custard?” Zoey is doing a valiant job trying to hide her hurt, but I can still see it. Zane and Abby have drifted away, and she appears to be giving him an earful.
And I care that Zoey is hurt, I really, really do, but I suspect that any minute now, I’m going to embarrass myself further on this date by fainting. And if there’s one thing that I know, it’s that there’s nothing less manly than eating a face full of mini golf turf.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I had a great time. Happy birthday. Here.” I thrust a twenty-dollar bill at her that I’ve managed to pluck from my wallet. At least, I think it’s a twenty. My vision is full-on swimming now. “I’ll text you.”
I think Zoey takes the money, but what I know for sure is that I’m walking as swiftly as I can around the peeling plaster animals to the parking lot, doing the best I can to keep myself upright. Should I drive a car? Probably not. But do I pretty much peel out of the lot anyway? Yes. Yes, I do.