8. LARISSA
CHAPTER 8
LARISSA
“Today’s scoop—Thor supposedly stole Dane’s lucky ball marker.” Matilda snorts as we roll silverware into linen napkins in preparation for the morning rush. “The rest of the staff and I are forming teams. Which side do you want in on? Hashtag Team Hammer or Team Goose?”
I add another roll to the pile, my brows furrowed. “I get the hammer for Thor, but why the goose?”
“Legend has it that a goose attacked Dane on a course in Florida, and he jumped into a pond to escape it. He saved his putter, though.”
“Legend, huh?” My friend has a flair for drama.
“ Legend also has it that he’s a playboy, so goose just fits.” On a sarcastically dreamy sigh, she adds, “Don’t you love when gossip has so many layers?”
“You should have your own podcast.”
“Don’t think I haven’t considered it.” She rolls the last of the silverware and perches her hip against the table. “So? What side are you on?”
“Considering the very little information I have on two strangers’ weird rivalry, I’d say the obvious choice is Team Hammer,” I joke.
“Samesies.”
Another server enters with a basket for the silverware, cutting off our giggle fest. “I need to finish setting up for a bachelorette brunch. Can you two help Danny outside, please?” She huffs. “I guess a group of jackasses left a mess around the firepit last night. I swear, some out-of-towners who come to play in these tournaments are just the worst. Absolutely no regard for our members and other guests, or us, for that matter.”
“On it,” we say in sync.
I put away my plate with my half-eaten toast drizzled with honey, then follow Matilda to the bar.
As soon as we throw the doors open and emerge outside, the morning chill tickles the tip of my nose and causes a shiver down my spine. Dew glistens off the grass under the early sun. Soft rays shine through the sharp leaves of the palms. The birds sing, and squirrels chase one another across the unimpeded terrain.
I only work big events at the resort, and I cherish rare mornings like this, before the beauty of the course is disrupted by the tire lines of golf carts, the divots in the fairways, and the absence of animals, as most of them hide from players.
“We’ll take it from here, Danny,” I offer and reach for the half-filled trash bag set against a patio chair.
“You don’t mind, do you?” He scratches the back of his head. “I have to get inside and cut up some fruit. Plus, we got a late delivery of beer last night, and I still need to stock that.”
“Go, go. We’ve got this.” Matilda shoos him away, and we get to work, putting away the abandoned cigars and empty beer cans lining the firepit.
I even find a half-chewed sandal under a chair. “What do you think the story is here?” I ask Matilda and hold up what’s left of the poor shoe.
“Isn’t it obvious?” She points to the mess and jokes, “They held a sacrificial ceremony here last night, but instead of a lamb, they offered up a sandal.”
As we continue straightening up the patio, she draws out, “So.”
I arch a brow, and the hair at the back of my neck stands. It’s not because of the rising chill from how long we’ve been out here, either. This is her inquisitive “so,” and it could only be in regard to one person—the one I don’t want to talk about.
“Did you see lover boy again last night?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t call him that.”
“What am I supposed to call him?”
“Wyatt, but if you must call him anything else, asshole or douchebag will do.”
“Ouch.”
“There will be no more secret kisses or association of any sort with that guy, so you shouldn’t need to call him anything, though.”
“Something tells me you’re very wrong,” she sings.
“I should not have gotten carried away yesterday in the first place.”
“But you liked it.”
“Of course, I did,” I blurt and pop upright, my posture stiffening like I’m plastered to a board. “I mean…”
“I know what you mean.” She snickers and eyes me from her spot behind a chair, which she scoots toward the pit. Leaning her elbow on the back of it, she adds, “And it’s not just because you’ve been out of the game for so long.”
“I’ve been busy, but I haven’t been out of the game for that long. I’ve been on the sidelines,” I argue with a shrug.
“That’s out, babe, and you need to be in. Or at least, some guy needs to be in .” She wiggles her brows.
Groaning, I plop into a chair and slouch against the back of it. “You’re totally right. I need to find a date—someone who’s not Wyatt. Someone who didn’t break my heart once already. Someone who doesn’t take an hour to scrub and shine each of his golf clubs but can’t spend more than five minutes between my legs. I need?—”
A throat clears behind us, and heat floods my cheeks.
Especially when I turn around and find Wyatt himself standing there, his lips twisted and eyes ablaze.