Chapter 14
JAMIE
The champagne and water work their way through me, and I realize that my usual aversion to using the bathroom on an airplane isn’t relevant here.
Sure enough, the jet’s bathroom is larger and nicer than the one in my apartment. It features a basin sink, gold fixtures, and natural wood accents. I help myself to facial cleansing wipes and a packet of moisturizer, which help banish the lingering fatigue of jet lag and the day’s early start.
There’s even a shower, which is insane to me, but might be practical with the tight schedule Morgan keeps. I can’t imagine the kind of life where you’re so busy and so accustomed to luxury that you’d do anything other than enjoy your private view of the landscape below.
Even with the chance to reset, I’m still looking forward to getting to the hotel and getting settled.
But our driver takes us out of the city—Paris, this time—and I’m certain Morgan didn’t pick a rural hotel. There’s nothing about this on my itinerary.
As the black car pulls to a stop, the destination is now clear—a high-end country club and golf course.
“I thought we had a busy day,” I say as we step out of the car.
“We do,” Morgan says. “This is a business meeting.”
I try not to act like a total tourist as I ogle the delicate wood paneling and tasteful tufted furniture in the country club. I assume we’re here for lunch until Morgan leads me out the back and nods for a staff member to hand me a bag of golf clubs.
Morgan’s shoes, while on-trend and all black, are athletic. She slides her crop blazer off her shoulders, revealing a sleeveless collared button-up that has a slight sheen to it. I’d guessed it was silk, but now I see it’s sweat-wicking.
The muscles of her arms are almost captivating enough to distract me from sneaking a glance at how the perfectly tailored pleats of her grey pants show off her ass.
I glance at the clubs, then at Morgan. “We’re playing golf?”
“I’m playing golf,” she says, angling towards a man waiting by a golf cart. He’s middle-aged, salt-and-pepper hair, deeply tanned skin, and dressed in classic men’s golf attire. “You’re my caddy.”
“But I don’t know anything about golf,” I say, scurrying to catch up with her, not even sure how to pull the bag correctly.
“You’ll learn.”
The other man’s caddy, who’s similarly dressed in classic attire and standing at-the-ready, gives me an odd look as I approach.
I can understand why. I’m wearing black jeans, a dark grey oversized sweater, and sneakers. Morgan could have at least warned me!
As we near the other golfers, Morgan leans close to my ear. “Since you care about cost-saving measures so much, I figured I’d save the company the cost of hiring a caddy for the day.”
This feels like revenge. I glance up at Morgan and the predatory twinkle in her violet eyes, and I’m sure it’s revenge.
Morgan greets the other man, Peter, like they’re old friends.
“Benny,” the caddy says with a posh British accent, extending a hand to me.
“Jamie,” I reply, taking his hand. “I, uh… lost a bet? I apologize in advance for any crimes against caddying.”
“Hm,” Benny says as he climbs into the golf cart behind Peter. Looks like we won’t be friends.
I take the seat behind Morgan and catch myself staring at her shoulders, her upper arms, totally losing track of the passing of time.
We arrive at the first hole, and Peter goes first. I carefully watch what his caddy does, desperately trying to notice every detail.
One guy in my PhD lab was obsessed with golf. He’d chat about his games and once convinced us to play a golf video game at a department party. So, I’ve got the absolute basics.
Drive, then chip, then put. The clubs have numbers on them. The numbers matter.
That’s all I’ve got.
Well, that and birdie, thanks to mini golf.
I can’t see what number the other caddy pulled for Peter, and he’s not going to tell me, so I grab the one that looks the closest and offer it to Morgan.
“So you think I play the same kind of game as Peter?” she says, and I can tell it’s a test.
I should be angry about this. I should resent this kind of weird revenge trap. But I actually feel kind of… competitive.
Golf is physics, and I know a lot about physics.
Morgan hits hard, of that I’m sure. So, I reach for the bigger driver.
But no, that’s not right—Morgan is incredibly strong. Putting the biggest driver in her hands is likely to send the ball three holes over.
I select the next smaller driver, and Morgan accepts it.
I watch her swing, mesmerized by how the muscles in her shoulders and back shift with the movement.
Her outfit and effortless poise make Peter look like a relic in his vest and golf cap. I think that’s on purpose. I get the sense that Morgan is the type of person who makes her own rules.
Morgan’s ball soars, dropping perfectly onto the green.
“Lucky shot,” Peter teases in a thick French accent.
Lucky for me, for sure, since the green means the putter. At least I know that.
I watch as Benny and Peter discuss his chip, Benny producing statistics about the remaining distance and vertical drop. I carefully scan the course, spotting distance markers amongst the grass.
But as I scan around, I can’t help but notice where we are.
The sun is warm above, with a gentle breeze rippling across the lawns.
Clusters of trees punctuate the well-groomed greens, and pools of azure water twinkle throughout.
The course has been shaped thoughtfully along the countryside, accentuating the topography.
It’s a shame it’s not a public space, but… it’s gorgeous. Quiet.
“Jamie?” Morgan says, amusement in her tone, as if it’s funny I’m zoning out. I’ll take her amusement over her ire any day.
“Sorry, it’s just… it’s a really lovely day.”
Morgan shifts her weight back and lets her gaze spread out over the golf course, taking a deep but silent breath. “It is,” she says simply.
Then I see that Peter and Benny are already in the golf cart, the hole now finished, and I scurry after them.
Morgan’s second drive is still better than Peter’s, but it doesn’t hit the green. So, it’s time for something that is neither a driver nor a putter, which are the only two types I understand. I slide a club out, glance at Morgan.
“That’s a sand wedge,” she says dryly, but not impatiently. There’s no sand around here.
I slide out the one next to it.
“The goal is to get there in the fewest hits,” she says.
So I guess this one is short range.
Benny glares at me. Peter chuckles.
Amusement dances in Morgan’s eyes. But there’s a subtle challenge there, too.
I could fret around, trying and failing to act like a real caddy, eager to prove myself to my CEO. Or I could just enjoy myself and this gorgeous day and this ridiculously nice golf course.
“Which one do you want?” I ask.
“Five iron,” she says.
“And what does that look like?”
Benny pales with secondhand embarrassment.
“Smaller triangle, has a five stamped on it.”
I rifle through the clubs, and it’s not so hard now that I know what I’m looking for. I hand the club to Morgan, and she takes the shot, getting the ball within a couple feet of the hole.
Keeping score isn’t much harder than counting, even if Morgan and Peter keep talking about birds as they shit-talk each other. I’m not really sure when the business meeting part starts, but as far as the golf game goes, Morgan and Peter are neck-and-neck.
By the sixth hole, I’ve gotten the hang of cleaning the clubs and placing the tees and markers.
I’m enjoying myself. I’m glad Morgan dragged me along, and I think she’s glad too. I have zero opinions as a caddy, which means I just hand Morgan what she asks for.
Sure, she’s kind of bullying me, but… she’s also teaching me about the game in that sarcastic way of hers. And I kind of like being bullied by Morgan.
Meanwhile, Benny and Peter bicker over each shot, I think because Benny wants to prove his worth as, like, an actual caddy. In contrast to me.
The only problem is that I’m sweating. I am not dressed for this, not even remotely. Other than my sweater, I’m only wearing a mesh undershirt. Ironically, its purpose was to prevent me from overheating, but it means taking off my sweater isn’t exactly an option. I didn’t plan on being in the sun.
As we hit the halfway point and stop at a small cottage for refreshments, and I chug an entire bottle of water, I worry I might be at risk of heatstroke.
When we start the ninth hole, I can’t see straight. I finally decide that if I embarrass Morgan, it’s her own fucking fault, and I strip my sweater off while she’s taking her first shot.
Morgan turns to hand the driver back to me, and she stops short.
Her eyes graze my chest, my arms. The mesh is sheer, and I know I’m a disgrace. I brace for a scolding comment.
“I wondered how long that would take,” she murmurs, and it can’t be right, but I swear there’s an edge of hunger in those words. They skitter down my spine, leaving tingling in their wake.
I’m struck by the ludicrous idea that Morgan brought me out here to sweat just so I’d strip a layer off, and the air feels another ten degrees hotter. But I push the notion aside as wishful thinking, and try to shift my focus back to golf.
Could Morgan really have invited me here because… she wants to spend more time together?
We finish the sixteenth hole and Morgan’s in the lead, with tensions between Peter and Benny rising. It seems less likely that Morgan wanted to spend time together than that she’s proving she doesn’t need anyone’s advice to win. It’s clear I’m not contributing much.
And she is going to win. Except she hits the sand trap on the last hole and takes two chips to clear it, then misses her first putt. It’s a close enough game that Peter takes it right at the end.
“Ah, almost,” Peter teases, shaking her hand. “Unlucky.”
Morgan should be furious, but she’s as poised as ever.
They rattle through a quick conversation I can’t hear, but as Morgan returns, I get the sense that she got exactly what she wanted.
Benny follows Peter towards the country club, looking back like he wants to rescue the poor clubs from my clutches. Morgan signals to leave them in the golf cart, and a staff member from the course comes to pick them up as Morgan says, “Time for lunch.”