2. LARISSA
CHAPTER 2
LARISSA
“Shoot!” I jump backward and right the glass of sweet tea, but it’s too late.
I’ve spilled it all over Wyatt’s pant leg, and even though I can’t see it for myself, I imagine his sock is drenched like he just stepped into a puddle.
Is there any chance he might find this funny?
“Fuck,” he hisses and lifts his dark, narrowed gaze to me.
Nope. He does not find this funny. It was a long shot to even wonder as much, anyway.
I open my mouth to apologize and to reassure him that I’ll be right back with a clean towel and a dry pair of socks from the locker rooms at the resort gym, but he cuts me off.
“What the hell are you even doing here?”
My throat constricts.
His clipped question stings more than I’d like to admit. It washes up far too many unpleasant memories, and any thought of helping him disappears.
“On your turf, you mean? Because I’m not allowed to frequent these types of places, even as part of the staff—is that it?”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.” The flames of anger in his eyes dull to a flicker. “I just didn’t know you work here. Last I heard, you graduated with a degree in fashion design and were moving to New York.”
“Have you been checking up on me?”
He sighs. “Our mothers still brunch every other weekend. Your mother tells mine everything, and of course, Mom relays it all to me too. She always was your biggest fan.”
Wyatt grumbles the last part so low that I almost don’t catch it.
“She wishes you’d go by to see her more often, though,” he says, and again, it’s barely audible.
“I didn’t figure I’d be welcomed at your house anymore.”
His eyes snap up to mine. “You’re always welcome.”
Dr. Drake appears over his shoulder, and instinctively, I cringe. It’s an inherent reaction I’ve always had, but I haven’t had to deal with him in recent years.
I’d much prefer I don’t deal with him now, either. One Drake at a time is plenty.
“Everything okay?” My friend Matilda races over, a crease between her thick brows.
Behind her, a few players and other guests glance our way, and I swallow around the lump lodged in my throat.
“I’m going to get a towel,” I croak, squeezing Matilda’s shoulder and backing away from Wyatt and his father. “Can you get table six a new sweet tea, please?” I ask her, but I don’t wait for an answer before I drag my legs away.
My limbs barely function, as if my muscles have been stuffed, basted, and baked like my mom’s holiday turkey.
But this doesn’t have anything to do with my muscles at all. It’s Wyatt Drake. Even though I knew I’d be seeing him today—he’s the talk of the town since he scored his tour card last September—I didn’t expect him to affect me so deeply. Not after five years of his absence.
And he knows all about me.
He knows the version of my life I wished were reality, anyway, and now he’s learned the sad truth. I didn’t go on to be the success in the fashion industry that I’d hoped and worked for. People around town aren’t gawking at me like they are him. Wyatt’s done all the things he set out to do, with plenty more on the horizon, and he’s doing it all without me.
With a deep breath, I slip into the linen closet to retrieve a towel from the shelves, but once I reenter the bar, the teams of two shuffle out the side door. Through the window, I find a few players huddled around the first tee, the pond bordering one side glistening under the midmorning sun.
Wyatt is nowhere to be found, and I slump against the bar, where Danny washes whiskey glasses and says, “He’s out on the course.”
I blink. “Who?”
“Wyatt. Isn’t that who you’re looking for?” He cocks a brow.
I laugh nervously. “I spilled sweet tea on him earlier and wanted to give him a towel. It’s all about five-star customer service around here, right?”
“Right,” he draws out, but his emerging grin speaks for itself. He knows there’s something else going on here, but that’s only for me and the peanuts on the bar to know about.
I stick my tongue out at him and toss back, “I’m going to change.”
“Did you get sweet tea on yourself too, or is that just egg on your face?” he calls out after me, and I duck into the restroom, where I hide my shameful blush.
I exit the restroom, finally free of the god-awful mustard button-up we were required to wear for the festive weekend. Management believed these shirts would brighten up the place, but all this color does is bring sadness to the world, not joy.
I don’t like mustard on my sandwiches, and I definitely don’t like it on me.
On my walk back to the bar to help Danny prepare the beverage cart, a group of women from the Ladies’ League stops me on their way to breakfast. One gushes over my vest—a Larissa Emerson original.
“Now this is one fun vest.” She beams.
“I love anything with pockets,” another says and turns to her friends, who nod in agreement.
“Pockets make any garment better,” I add.
“Where did you get it?”
“I actually made it myself.” I hold my head high. “Some people who can’t sleep flip through TV shows, scroll TikTok, count sheep, or eat ice cream, but I sew. I sew until the tips of my fingers are more tender than the resort’s award-winning slab of Wagyu beef.”
They howl with laughter, and I hold my head even higher as I give them a spin to show off the back. I stitched Talk Birdie to Me on the back with the outline of a turkey at the bottom. It’s nothing like any of the couture designs I studied in school. Truth be told, my former classmates would totally laugh and tease me for this vest.
But the beauty of having graduated last spring after five long years of college is not having to care about their opinions. Attempting to fit in never got me anywhere, anyway.
I think this vest is delightful, and considering the reactions of these women, I’d say it’s a winner.
“So impressive.” One steps around the two ladies in the front and asks, “Could I get one that reads Grandson’s Favorite Golfer ? It would drive my husband nuts.”
“Our favorite pastime is driving the men nuts,” another jokes.
“When you start designing cute golf outfits for women, give us a call, young lady.”
A round of murmurs erupts as they all agree on how hard it is to find reasonable clothes to wear on the course that don’t have wretched patterns and awkward fits.
“We’re in our sixties—we don’t have the figures to wear these clothes today,” one complains. “The last pair of trousers I tried on were far too large in the waist, but my legs couldn’t breathe. Felt like I’d wrapped each one in cellophane.”
They continue swapping stories of fitting room mishaps as they meander down the hall, a flock of big hair and clouds of perfume. I wave goodbye to a few, who smile in return, and I skip down to the bar, happy with the feedback on my vest from women who are notorious around here for nitpicking the floral arrangements and paintings.
Evidently, if the décor was up to them, they’d go brighter and flashier, with more knickknacks too. They’re clearly not in their minimalist era.
Once I reach the bar, Danny nods toward the window. The beverage cart is perched in the middle of the narrow path, the pinstriped awning a bright green and white. “Your chariot awaits.”
“But I don’t have diamond shoes. Can I still ride in it?” I tease back in a high-pitched chirp, then thank him before I head out to complete my job for the day.
Outside, I smooth my hands over the blush-colored pearls lining the front of my vest and pat one pocket to ensure I remembered my Chapstick and extra scrunchies. In the other pocket, my phone buzzes with a few incoming messages, so I give it a quick peek to confirm nothing’s on fire.
A few texts come in from a group chat I share with my two sisters and our mother, where they go back and forth over the menu for Thanksgiving and if Francine’s new boyfriend has any allergies.
The newest texts are from Addie at the dance studio in nearby Sapphire Creek. Addie wants to get a jumpstart on the spring costumes, which she’s asked me to design. She’s an English teacher by day, and instead of enjoying her Saturday off, she’s still working. According to her, staying busy keeps her sane.
I’m not one to judge, though. On top of my part-time job at Magnolia Point Resort & Club, I fill shifts waiting tables at my cousin Kenny’s bar, The Tipsy Tap, in Sapphire Creek, design dance costumes, and serve as my mother’s assistant with bouquet bars she hosts in the area.
Keeping my hands and body busy means my mind doesn’t have time to wander.
But as I cruise around the course, the fall breeze in my hair, all my mind does is wander, especially when I arrive at the eighteenth hole.
Wyatt .
I trickle to a stop, partially hidden behind a bush, and freeze, completely mesmerized.
Wyatt tugs on the bill of his hat as he steps up to the ball in the fairway, his stride calculated and confident. With an iron in his hands, he squares his hips, bends his knees, and rears back, his muscles rippling through the airy material of his polo. If I were closer, I could get a better look at his forearms too—I’ve always been a sucker for arm porn.
He swings and launches the ball into the air. The dull impact of the clubface with the ball sounds more like an echo to me as a memory knocks the wind from my lungs.
“Like this?” I peek over my shoulder at Wyatt, my grip on the club unnatural. Why must I loop my pinkie through my forefinger? Whose idea was this?
“Let me show you,” he offers and stands flush against me with his hard chest pressed to my upper back. The contact is so intimate that my breath hitches. He wraps his arms around me, adjusts my grip higher on the shaft, then pulls my shoulders back. “Now, remember to keep your head down through your entire swing.”
His voice tickles the back of my neck like a caress.
My mouth dries as I attempt to focus on his instructions, but my body heats up as if he were talking dirty to me. Like we were discussing different sex positions to try later, instead of the proper way to hit a golf ball.
“Take a deep breath, then swing,” he rasps, and I gulp as he steps away, taking his warmth with him.
A thud against my windshield jolts me back to reality, and I yelp as a little white ball disappears into the rough a few feet from me.