Chapter 7 - Diana
“Ahh! Why am I so bad at this?”
“Because you aren’t using your hips.”
“What?” I turn and look at Karter like he’s lost his damn mind. Because he has. Mini golf doesn’t require hip movement. How can it? I just swing a tiny club and hit a ball that gets bounced all over the place till it finally finds its home in the hole that’s under a damn windmill.
“Your hips.” He saunters over to me and grabs my hips, moving them around till I’m facing the ball again and not where I started six strokes ago.
Yeah, I’m horrible at mini golf. I’ve never played before, but I understand the concept well enough.
When he suggested it after dinner, I figured it could be fun.
It was either this or axe throwing. And I have nothing against axe throwing.
The wait for a bay was over an hour, though, and I do have work tomorrow. I didn’t want to stay out too late.
Nana was right about my curfew time. Which sucks.
I would like to think I wasn’t a responsible adult and could willingly just stay out all night long, but I’m not the type.
Never could do all-night movie marathons or stay in line all night waiting for tickets to something.
I’m home in bed by eleven and getting my full six hours no matter what.
Six might not be the best, but if I can get that much, I can work the rest off with caffeine in any form and the pressure from both angry patients and doctors. Both get my blood pumping more than a three-shot espresso could ever do.
He gets close. Like “I can feel every part of him behind me” close. My breath catches in my throat for a second as his hands glide over my hips a bit before he moves them up to my arms, bending me over just a little as he guides me into position.
“Most people think that if you just swing hard enough, it’ll work. That might be the case if we were playing actual golf, but this is mini golf, which makes it all about finesse and slow movements. You feel that?”
He’s all over me, though not in a creepy way, more like cuddled around me to keep me safe. But safe is the last thing on my mind as he moves my club back and forth as if I’m going to swing.
“If you just move your arms, the club isn’t as stable as if you put all your weight in your hips and swing from there. Like this.”
He takes one hand off the club and puts it back on my hip, then pushes me in the way he wants.
“You see the difference?”
No, not at all. But to be fair, I can barely concentrate with him behind me like this.
Especially with me bent so my ass is grinding into his pelvis with every swing of my hips.
And I know that isn’t just the mini pencils they gave us to keep score.
There’s nothing mini about the log I feel behind me.
“Babygirl, you’re blushing again.”
His voice has my pulse fluttering as I grip the putter tighter. What he calls me sends a rush through me like no other name ever has.
I nod because I can’t help it. I’m not going to say what I’m thinking.
Not after what happened at dinner. Twice, I opened my mouth, and things that I wasn’t expecting to ever say out loud to him flew out.
And then he couldn’t let it go. Even said he liked how it made color flood my cheeks, and that my thoughts of him were what got it there.
He did all the talking. Guessing, really. Probably hoping for more blushing. It worked. And I never denied his words. Because it was true. Anything about him intended in any way but platonic had heat creeping up my neck.
I’ve thought about him a lot. Like, a lot. Even before he woke up. Wrong on so many levels, I know, but even then I didn’t stop. It was just a crush on the older guy in the coma. The one I told things to and would imagine as the voice of reason in my head.
Then he woke up, and bam! Everything changed.
He said things and looked at me in ways that no man has ever looked at me before.
We might have rarely spoken, but when we did, he listened.
He remembered, and he asked questions about me, and not just the normal bullshit nurse-to-patient talks.
It was like he saw me as someone beyond the other nurses, making me feel special. Seen.
And the way I felt his eyes on me when I was in the room, or as I left? It sent goose bumps down my spine each time. Still does.
I might have thought about those eyes and his words—and every part of his salt-and-pepper hair and chiseled body that doesn’t seem possible for a man his age—more times in the shower than I can count. I know I’ve thought of him each time I used a certain toy I keep hidden in my drawer at the house.
And now he’s calling me Babygirl. Something I only fantasized would leave his lips one day.
I can hardly breathe, let alone speak to him. So nodding is all he gets from me.
He chuckles, and I swear I feel his lips against my neck a second before he backs up and gives me space.
“Try it again.”
Easy for you to say. How can I concentrate now with so many other wicked thoughts popping into my head since he had to call me something that should only be reserved for smutty books and fantasy land?
I take a deep breath and try to remember what he said about moving the whole body, including the hips, and not just letting the arms swing the club. I pull back and gently tap the ball.
“Fuck.”
“Well, that’s one way to do it,” he says with a clear laugh of surprise.
Apparently, my idea of gentle still needs some work. Somehow I hit it over two other holes and into the small pond in the middle. That isn’t even part of the course, just a decorative feature.
I turn to him and put the putter over my shoulder. “Think it’s safe to say my golf career will start and end here today.”
With all the pride I can muster, I march over to the sign-up window and ask for another ball.
They don’t even bother to ask why, which is very kind of them.
But by the third ball, I’m getting the side-eye.
I swear the teenager manning the place let out an audible sigh of relief when we turned in our putters to end our game.
“Ice cream?” he suggests.
“After getting a beating like that? Of course. Remind me never to play a sport against you again.”
“Oh, come on,” he snickers, throwing an arm around my shoulders as we walk back to his ride. “I’m not good at everything.”
I stop by his motorcycle and cross my arms, giving him my most skeptical look.
He leans forward with a laugh as he pulls the helmets out. “Okay. I kind of am, if I remember right. But hey, there might be something I don’t remember that I suck at.”
“Gee, I can’t wait to find out what that is.” My sarcasm ends with an eye roll as I let him secure my helmet.
“Might take a while. Up for sticking around for a bit to find it?”
His words are softer, and a different meaning comes with them. No longer are we just playing around. Now something hangs between us.
This is moving fast, I know that, but it’s not like he’s putting a ring on my finger. In high school, you’d be in a relationship by lunch some days. If he’s asking me to see him for a while, that seems almost normal.
“I don’t mind if you don’t.”
His headshake is slow as he holds my stare, and I give him a small smile before stepping back a bit to allow him to mount the bike before I get on the back.
I’ve never thought much of motorcycles before. I know some hospital workers will never get on a bike because they see too many injuries that way. But I’ve seen injuries from pretty much everything; if I lived by their theory, I would barely leave the house.
So I continue to do what I’ve done all night—close my eyes and hold on tight.
Being on the bike is like nothing I’ve felt before. It’s exhilarating. I feel both free and as if I’m doing something wrong because it’s dangerous. Silly, I know, but I can’t help feeling like a little kid being allowed to sit up front without telling Mom.
It doesn’t take long before we’re pulling into a small parking lot next to the Ice Cream Shack.
It’s a small place but always has the best flavors in town—even if we are technically outside of town.
Everyone knows about this place. Not only because it’s amazing, but they offer a free scoop each semester in the college newspaper, and college kids never turn down free stuff.
Some even hoard the vouchers, since it’s an unwritten rule that you can stack them and get as many scoops as you want as long as you have a voucher for it.
I once saw a kid walk away with seven scoops.
Maybe not that impressive till you think about how many they either saved up or conned out of other kids to get.
“What’s your poison?”
I glance at the menu on the wall as we move forward and purse my lips in thought. “Either Death by Chocolate or Caramel Craze. You?”
He shrugs. “Whichever you don’t want.”
I squint at him in disbelief but smile. “You don’t like ice cream?”
He looks down at me and grins. “Oh, I like it plenty. Could have every flavor on there except for pistachio. Never liked that one. I figured we’d just get your favorites and share.”
I face forward and move with the line.
He brushes my neck with the side of his finger, and I close my eyes as goose bumps sprinkle across my body. “Blushing again, Babygirl.”
Thankfully, I don’t even have to nod or speak before it’s our turn and he’s ordering for us. My two favorites, a scoop in each bowl. He pays—ever the gentleman—then walks with me to a bench that’s open.
Then we share. And not like “Here, take a bite from mine and I’ll get one from yours.
” The man literally feeds me his. Says nothing, just scoops out a bite of the Caramel Craze and holds it out to me, waiting.
I debate for all of five seconds, but from his smirk, he knew I was going to take it.
And I do. It’s ice cream, for goodness’ sake.
I’m not going to just ignore it. And then I do the same for him.
We trade bites between taking our own, and it’s both intimate and entirely natural for us.
We don’t even talk, just little looks and smiles while we eat till it’s all gone.
I feel like I’m in damn school again with all these looks.
Something about Karter makes me feel young, which is hilarious.
He’s twice my age, yet I’m the one who feels young and giddy?
“Done?”
I nod, and he takes the cups to the trash. I stand, too, and when he comes back, he grabs my hand and we casually make our way back to his bike.
“I had a lot of fun tonight.”
“Me too.” He pulls me around till I’m standing in front of him with the bike at my back.
“Maybe we should do it again?” I really don’t know what I’m saying, but I think I just asked him out. I don’t want this, or tonight, to end.
He just hums softly. “Thought we already determined that.” He reaches up and brushes a hair behind my ear. “With the whole ‘seeing what I’m not good at’ plan.”
I nod. “Right. Of course.”
His hand doesn’t move off my face, but he shifts his fingers down to my neck and grips me. Not in pain, but in possession.
“God, you’re cute, Babygirl.”
Then his lips are on mine, and I have to do everything in my power not to squeal with delight.
This is not a boy’s kiss. Nothing sloppy or all tongue. It’s demanding, gentle, open, and passionate. Perfect. How he does it all at once, I don’t even want to know, and I’ll never tell him to stop. I grip his jacket and hang on tight for the ride he takes me on.
Lights spark behind my eyes. My feet feel as if I’m being lifted off the ground. The air seems fresher, and I swear I hear birds chirping despite the late hour. It’s absolutely perfect.
Then I hear a motorcycle and feel him stiffen a second before he loosens his hold on my mouth and releases me.
I look up at him, all doe-eyed and with my lips still parted.
I tried to match his energy, taking in his kisses and giving him all of me in return.
But I’m the one who feels wrecked—and probably looks it—while he looks the same as before.
Devil-may-care handsome with a smirk that makes me weak in the knees.
“We should get you home. Don’t want Nana to sic the dog on me.”
I pull back, confused by his words. “We don’t have a dog.”
He just laughs and shakes his head, then kisses my frowny lips in surprise and pulls on my helmet.
I don’t care that he laughed at me. I got an extra kiss out of it.
And if I’m lucky, I’ll get a few more before Nana comes out of the house yelling about God knows what to just embarrass me.
Which might be a good thing, because the last thing I want to do is have tonight end.
And if Nana doesn’t come out screaming, I’m liable to just say screw work tomorrow and take Karter up to my room so he can give me an actual reason for calling in sick.
“You’re blushing again, Babygirl.” He breathes out a laugh as he starts the bike, and I get on with a nod.
I don’t think I’ll ever stop blushing. Especially if he keeps calling me Babygirl.
And I hope he never stops.