Talk Birdie to Me (Magnolia Point)

1. WYATT

CHAPTER 1

WYATT

In the spacious lobby of the clubhouse, two faceless turkeys stand tall before me.

I grimace as I study the wooden pieces of what some children might call art. The pair is over the top, with vibrantly painted feathers outlined in glitter.

One turkey meets my height, while the other towers over me, like it’s going to gobble me up.

With the crystal chandelier glistening overhead, the white marble glossed and pristine beneath my feet, and the decadent orange-and-yellow flower arrangements adorning the double doors of the dining room ahead, the turkeys are so out of place. They’re on the same level of blasphemy as someone wearing sweatpants and flip-flops on the golf course.

Judging from the sign next to this obnoxious display in honor of the upcoming holiday, it’s part of a promotional effort from Magnolia Point Resort & Club. Guests are encouraged—with more than one exclamation point—to snap pictures with their faces filling the spaces where the turkeys’ should be, post them online, and use the hashtag foretheloveofbirdies . Each post counts as an entry into a raffle for the grand prize of a one-year golf membership.

I roll my eyes at the juvenile marketing gimmick.

The oversized mahogany doors groan open, and my father enters. I don’t have to turn around to know it’s him. His signature booming laugh echoes across the open space as he claps his friend on the shoulder. Three others follow too, like my father is the leader of the pack.

He tends to have that effect on people.

After all, he’s a Drake and a respected surgeon along the East Coast, with an older brother who’s an oil and gas tycoon in Texas. The whole town loves and reveres him. My teachers in school used to gaze up at him with stars in their eyes like he walks on water.

I’ve always believed people hold a mix of respect and intimidation for him, much like I do.

“Next time I see you will be from the winners’ circle this afternoon.” Dad winks at his friends, who guffaw as they meet me by Earl and Stanley, which are the names of the turkeys, evidently.

Mr. Ellis shakes my hand in greeting. “Take it easy on us out there, would you, Wyatt?”

Another man around my father’s age nods. “The rest of us don’t have a brand-spanking-new tour card to show off.”

“You drained a putt from fifteen feet like it was nothing.” Mr. Ellis throws his hands up.

“You’re going to have to show me how you pulled that off,” the other man says.

“What for? It’s not like you’d be able to replicate it yourself.” Mr. Ellis snickers.

“Maybe if I were twenty years younger.”

“If that were the case for any of us, we’d be able to do a lot of things.”

“All right, all right.” Dad cuts in between the pair, holding his hands up to break up the commotion we’ve inadvertently caused as more players file inside. “No secret sharing today. Good luck out there, gentlemen.”

“Good to see you, son.” Mr. Ellis shakes my hand one more time, then follows the rest of the group down the hall toward the bar. A few women in large sunglasses and floral dresses enter as well, and chaos ensues as everyone splits in different directions.

My head spins with the verbal ping-pong I just witnessed. Did they even realize I never said a word?

“Don’t mind those old goats.” Dad chuckles. “They’ve already had their shots of brandy in their morning coffee. Helps take the edge off the hip pain.”

“Is that what you recommend to your patients?” I cock a brow, my tone dripping with amusement.

But instead of smirking like he’d done with his buddies, he stiffens. His lips set into a firm line as he grasps my shoulder in his strong grip and says, “We need to win today.”

I frown. “Didn’t we promise Mom that we’re only playing for fun?”

He waves me off. “I know what we told her, but what she doesn’t know won’t raise her blood pressure. Besides, winning is fun, right?” His grip tightens, and he gets down to business, delivering the same speech I’ve heard in the same grave tone before every tournament since I was ten. “Now, focus. Use every past failure to guide you to victory today. Take everything you’ve learned up until now to kick ass. Don’t get distracted.”

I clench my jaw with determination. Every word sinks into my gut and becomes part of me.

“There are ridiculous decorations and booths set up around the property and the course.” He flicks the turkey behind me and scoffs. “Things like this are here to distract the weak. You’re not weak, are you?”

“No, sir.”

“Ignore this turkey and gobble, gobble shit. There will be enough time for fun and games when we’re eating a real turkey this Thursday, but not today. No distractions,” he asserts.

Today, it’s this distraction. Last week, it was the rain. Three years ago, it was the raccoon pilfering in my cart during a practice round because my caddie forgot half his protein bar on the seat.

That caddie and I haven’t worked together since.

No matter what distraction Dad’s referring to, though, they all serve the same purpose—to deter me from success.

My blood pumps faster, and my heart races as I gear up for the round, my muscles already warmed up from the last hour on the range.

Dad hooks his thumb over his shoulder, excuses himself, and makes his way toward the restroom, leaving me alone with Earl, Stanley, and the burning desire to fucking win.

I might’ve promised Mom we’d have fun, but Dad’s right—winning is fun. Besides, I don’t know what I was thinking when I agreed to Mom’s terms. The last time I played for fun was in high school.

The only goal I have now when I put a club in my hand is to win, even if the round doesn’t always go my way. The blessing and curse of the game is that it’s unpredictable, but with practice, preparation, and precision, I can swing the odds in my favor.

Today will be no different. It’s a chance to practice and improve for next season. Next week, I’ll be back home in Florida, where I’ll continue preparing to claim my place in the history of professional golf.

It’s everything I’ve worked—and sacrificed—for.

In the bar, high wooden rafters stretch over my head as I help myself to a cup of lemon water from the pitcher on one side of the room. Men of all ages are scattered about, waiting for our shotgun start. They’re in a polo and a hat, much like myself. A few wear dizzying patterns on their pants that remind me of cartoon characters, and while they laugh, I lock my jaw tight.

They can have their merriment, but I’ll be the one celebrating later.

As I scan the room, staking out my competition, my eyes land on someone I didn’t expect to see, not here of all places. She’s the only person who stands out.

And she’s not a player.

I carefully set my cup on the table behind me, and when I turn back around, she’s still there. I didn’t imagine her, as I’d hoped.

Larissa Emerson .

My gaze involuntarily fixates on her as she floats through the room with graceful movements and a bright smile.

The orange ribbon tied around her ponytail bobs with the rest of her thick strands while she laughs with another girl our age. They’re in matching uniforms of crisp yellow button-ups and black slacks. The material is glued to her curvy legs, and my mouth instantly fills with saliva like a starved animal in a meat fridge.

An empty tray is tucked under Larissa’s arm. Does she work here? Since when?

And what is she laughing at?

I find myself inching forward, her melodic giggle a siren’s song.

I only pause my idle steps when she sashays behind the bar. My chest tightens over the honey-sweet smile she tosses the bartender. She emerges with a Bloody Mary clutched in one hand and a tea in the other, and I can’t tear my attention away. She holds all of it simply with her existence.

My blood boils.

It’s like she’s touching me, even though she’s on the other side of the crowded room.

She always did hold me captive, with my balls in a vise and her name written across the front. But that was a different time.

Against my better judgment, I drift toward her until I stand toe to toe with her.

The smile and joy Larissa donned so effortlessly just seconds ago slips away, and her expression morphs into one I might see on a wounded puppy.

It’s the same look she wore the last time I saw her, when I said good-bye.

My stomach rolls with something I haven’t felt in years—regret. Bricks of the dreadful feeling fill my body as I stare back at her big brown eyes.

I open my mouth to say something, although I don’t know what it could be. What does one say in a situation like this?

Fortunately—or unfortunately , depending on what future me will think—I don’t have the chance to decide. Not before a river of something cold slides down my pant leg and soaks my sock.