Chapter 27
POPPY
Igrin down at my phone, giddy as I tap out my message to Lori.
Me: The dress worked.
Lori: Of course it did, hon. He is just a boy after all.
Me: The way he’s been looking at me all night… I think I might be in trouble.
Lori: The best kinda trouble to be in, baby
Shaking my head at her words, I tuck my phone into my purse and I check my reflection in the mirror of the ladies’ powder room. I smooth a hand down over my pin-straight hair, momentarily wondering who this woman is staring back at me.
I never imagined I would ever be this… brazen.
This is the first time in forever that I’ve ever wanted something—someone.
And I’m nervous and excited and more than a little scared, but I don’t hate it like I always thought I would.
It’s like this whirlwind of conflicting emotions that twist and spin in my chest; for the first time in my life, it’s as if I’m finally alive.
Turns out Lori Jones is a mastermind when it comes to men.
I’m in awe of her. When she concocted this whole plan, I wasn’t sure to begin with.
I mean, calling the hotel and posing as Brookes’ assistant to switch the reservation from two bedrooms to one?
Diabolical. It was so hard to keep a straight face while watching Brookes try not to lose his cool with the poor, innocent check-in attendant.
He’s vowed to sleep on the couch, but when he sees the pathetic excuse for pajamas that I brought to wear tonight…
we’ll see how long he lasts on the couch.
As I snake my way back out through the party, I spot Brookes across the way, over on the far end of the lawn, talking to Max and two other men who look like they fit the bill of professional golfers.
You can spot a golfer a mile away. Clean cut.
Tan skin. PR-approved smiles. There’s just something about them.
Brookes is definitely the odd one out with his permanently stubbled jaw, tattoos, and the way he never tries too hard to impress anyone, the way he never looks impressed at all.
In a throng of professional golfers, it’s easy to see why Brookes Devereaux has been labeled the bad boy of golf.
“Poppy, right?”
Flinching at the feel of an unwelcomed hand on my arm, I spin around a little too quickly, suddenly dizzy.
It takes a moment, but when I come to, I’m caught off guard by the man who was paired up with Brookes on Friday in Oklahoma.
Jackson something or other. He smiles down at me, his dark eyes lingering a little too long at the dip in my neckline, and I lift a hand, toying with the charm on my necklace while purposely covering my cleavage.
“Jackson Taylor,” he introduces himself, holding a hand out. “We met briefly in Tulsa.”
I look down at his hand hanging in the air between us, hesitating before reluctantly shaking it.
It’s soft. A little too soft, in my opinion.
I’m not against men who take care of themselves in the slightest, but this guy’s a professional golfer; they’re supposed to have calloused, rough fingers. It’s par for the course, pun intended.
“Hello,” is all I say, keeping my voice airy, my smile generic.
“Having a nice evening?” Jackson asks, taking a sip from the glass of amber liquor in his hand, watching me intently over the rim. And it’s then I notice the shiny gold ring on his finger. His ring finger, specifically.
“Yes.” I nod.
“It’s nice that you follow Brookes around. You’re like a loyal puppy dog,” Jackson continues with a light, humorless chuckle, gazing out over the party. “My wife is not as devoted, sadly.”
I say nothing, just offer him another small, blatantly forced smile.
“How long have you and Brookes been together?” Jackson asks casually, which is all kinds of weird if you ask me. I don’t even know this man.
“Not long.” I shrug a shoulder. “But we’ve known each other for a while.”
“You were a… cart girl, right?” He offers a knowing smirk.
“Yes.” I nod again, keeping my tone level. I know he’s trying to goad me. I can tell by the smirk and the derisive lilt. But I’m not biting. This guy’s clearly a dick.
“Funny how that happens.” He chuckles again.
I cock my head to the side, studying him. “How so?”
“Just… cart girls and golfers…” He winks as he says, “I’ve heard the stories.”
At that, my polite smile falls because I know exactly what this asshole is insinuating. And how. Fucking. Dare he.
“Look,” Jackson says, shrugging a shoulder and moving even closer to me, probably so as not to be heard by the people standing around us. “If you have a spare hour or two over the next few days, I’m in Penthouse B, in tower two at Vedanta. I could use the distraction…”
He arches his eyebrows, clamping his bottom lip between his teeth as he leers down at me. And I shudder at the feel of his body pressed up against my arm, his hot breath skating over my shoulder, laced with liquor and the long-forgotten hint of an after-dinner mint.
“I’ll make it worth your while,” he murmurs, purposely grazing the skin on my upper arm with the backs of the fingers as he holds his glass.
Suddenly, a big hand is on my waist, jerking me out of Jackson’s reach, my back colliding against something firm and warm.
A strong arm wraps around my middle from behind, and I know immediately by the spicy scent that engulfs me, along with the way he’s practically vibrating through me with rage, that it’s Brookes. And he’s clearly pissed.
“What the fuck is going on?” he demands on a low, rumbled growl.
Jackson’s smile turns malevolent, his dark, almost black eyes dancing as he looks over my shoulder.
“Hey, Brookes. I was just getting to know your… girlfriend.” He lifts his glass to his smirking lips, taking another slow swig of his drink, and the way he says the word girlfriend, like he doesn’t buy it one bit, makes the contents of my stomach curdle.
“Are you okay?” Brookes asks me softly, his lips so close to my ear, my skin erupts in goosebumps from his warm breath as it fans the sensitive skin at my nape.
I nod and he turns me in his arms, his eyes meeting mine and asking again, without words this time, if I really am okay.
I nod again, because I am. Now. If he’d taken a second longer to intervene, I can’t be sure I wouldn’t have slogged this asshole in his stupid, smarmy face.
The last thing I want is to be responsible for Brookes losing his tour card when it’s my literal job to make sure he keeps it.
The hint of a smile ghosts Brookes’ lips, and right then, his hand navigates the dip in my lower back, continuing downwards before coming to rest casually yet possessively against the curve of my ass.
The look in his eyes turns dark, heavy, glinting with something that has butterflies swarming low in my belly, and I don’t miss the foreign yet somewhat familiar throb that settles between my thighs.
My breath shudders, and my brows knit together the longer I stare into those cornflower blue eyes, because I’m not sure if it’s the lust surging through me that might be clouding my judgement but… this doesn’t feel as fake as it probably should.
Still holding me flush against him, Brookes tears his eyes from mine, his smile turning dangerous as he spears Jackson with a hard glower. “If you value your teeth,” he gruffs, shaking his head, “don’t ever fuckin’ talk to her again.”
And before Jackson can do something stupid and respond, Brookes looks down at me with a murmured “Megalodon,” and then he takes my hand in his and we walk out of the party together.
Brookes hasn’t said more than a word to me since we left the party. As soon as we got into the back of the car, he let go of my hand, and boy did I feel the loss.
As we drove from the country club back to the hotel, he avoided me completely, choosing instead to stare out the window into the darkness of the night.
Even now, as we stand in the elevator, he barely acknowledges me, looking straight ahead at the brushed brass metal doors, his arms folded tightly across his chest, face devoid of any and all emotion.
When we arrive back at the suite, he holds the door open for me, and I walk inside, watching him from the corner of my eye as I unfasten the buckle on my wedged sandals.
He empties his pockets, dumping his phone, wallet and keys on the table, kicks off his shoes, and then, without a word or even a casual glance in my direction, he walks directly through the living area to the glass doors and slides them open, continuing out onto the terrace, as if he can’t wait to get as far away from me as possible.
My heart sinks because every sliver of hope I’d had earlier, from the way he first looked at me when he saw me in this dress, to the feel of his hand on my ass back at the party, it was all my stupid imagination.
This is just a job.
He’s paying me to pretend to be his girlfriend.
He doesn’t like me like that.
And all I’m doing is getting my hopes up.
Grabbing a fourteen-dollar bottle of water from the bar, I cross the living area and head straight to the bedroom, closing the doors behind me and resting back against them with a heavy, ragged sigh.
And, in an attempt to try and knock some sense back into me, I bang my head a few times, closing my eyes and whispering under my breath, “Stop making a goddamn fool of yourself, Poppy.”