9. WYATT
CHAPTER 9
WYATT
“I need to talk to you,” I say, using every ounce of restraint I possess to keep my tone even.
All I really want to do is throw Larissa over my shoulder, bury my tongue between her thighs, and show her just how wrong she’s remembering how things were between us.
But a chat seems safer for the moment.
I flick my narrowed gaze to her friend, then pin it back on Larissa.
She seems to take the hint and points toward the door. “I’m, um, going to help Danny.”
“Me too,” Larissa squeaks and pops up from her chair. She must stand too quickly, because she wobbles to the side.
I lunge forward to balance her and am immediately sucked into her orbit. “I really need to talk to you,” I say again as her ponytail caresses the side of my face.
“I have to work,” she whispers.
If I weren’t so close to her, I might’ve missed the subtle tremor in her voice.
I slip my hand up her forearm, and goose bumps erupt along her skin.
My body jolts from the contact, and my nerves rage into overdrive.
“What are you even doing here?” She whirls around and puts distance between us until we’re no longer touching. Folding her arms across her chest, she adds, “Shouldn’t you be on the range warming up? The tournament starts in less than an hour.”
My lips twitch as I recall how many mornings she used to sit on a bench in front of the range while I practiced. Before she got her own set of clubs, she’d bring a book or take pictures of the trees.
She always liked being on the course. While I tended to prioritize my strategy and assessed water hazards, out of bounds, and everything else, she found the open scenery peaceful, especially in the mornings.
I always loved that about her.
“I like to soak in the course before people tee off. I do it before every round,” I tell her.
“Why?” she asks hesitantly.
“Because you taught me to appreciate the beauty of it.” My thick swallow echoes between us, and her eyes widen, studying me as if she suspects a lie.
“About yesterday,” I start and remove the hat from my head to run my hand through my hair. I appreciate the chill in the air a little extra this morning. It allows me the decency of hiding the sweat between my brows.
“Won’t happen again.” She tosses her hands up and concedes too quickly for my liking. Her assertion slices through my chest at warp speed, especially when she continues, “I meant what I said to you and your father—I won’t be a distraction ever again.”
“That’s never what you were.”
“It’s not what you said back then.”
I step forward, my stomach overflowing with regret and shame. “I was an idiot back then.”
“Got that right,” she snaps.
I bite back a defense. Besides, it’s the truth. It’s why I’m the one who acknowledged it first. But hearing it from her makes the sting that much more painful. “I deserved that.”
“You deserve worse, but I’ll spare you in the name of turkey week.” She points over my shoulder and attempts to brush past me. “I really have to get back to work now.”
I interrupt the path toward the door. “Will I see you later?”
“Not unless you want a drink from my beverage cart.” She lifts her gaze up to meet mine, and I’m stunned.
She’s more beautiful than I remember. Her red nose from the cool morning is fucking adorable, and the ribbon tied in her hair is charming as hell.
But the hurt in her eyes contradicts it all. It overshadows the light in her soul, and it doesn’t belong in her expression. Her bright eyes should always smile.
I’m the cause of her pain. What will it take for her to forgive me?
“I need to see you again later,” I plead.
She purses her lips. “No.”
“I understand I’m the last person you want to talk to, but yesterday happened. It meant something.”
“It was a mistake.”
“You’re lying.”
“Why would I lie?”
“Because you’re stubborn as hell, Larissa,” I hiss and bring my mouth mere centimeters from hers. I can almost taste her.
The temptation is too much, and I find myself brushing my lips across hers—I can’t fucking help it.
But I pull away before I’m sucked back into an inappropriate repeat of yesterday’s linen closet incident and get caught.
At least her hand wouldn’t be down my pants this time, although I wouldn’t mind feeling it there again—in private.
As I inch backward, she leans forward and presses her lips more firmly to mine in a kiss that reminds me of all the ones she used to give me before a round.
She’d kiss me and wish me good luck.
Then she’d squeeze my hand before bouncing away.
The nostalgia of it nearly knocks me on my ass.
I’m about to slip my tongue between her parted lips when she yanks away. As she silently sidesteps me, frustration bubbles up my throat.
I clutch her hand and drop my voice an octave when I say, “This isn’t over.”
Quietly, Larissa disappears through the door, and at the same time, my father exits. He flicks his gaze to hers, but he doesn’t linger, nor does he spare her a greeting.
A curse shoots to the tip of my tongue, but I suppress it.
This is no time for me to lose it again.
Today will be different than yesterday.
“Time to go, son,” Dad declares, holding the door open with an essential warning—one that indicates I’d better walk through it if I know what’s best for me.
Undoubtedly, he witnessed my kiss with Larissa. The windows, along with my reckless lack of self-control, made sure of that.
But on the way to the tee box, my father surprisingly doesn’t scold or lecture me. Did Mom get to him? Did she leverage something over him to make him back off? I wouldn’t doubt it.
She’s a sweet woman, but Fiona Drake is not to be messed with.
“Let’s show those old bastards what we’re made of, all right?” Dad gives me a tight-lipped smile and climbs out of the cart.
He’s definitely referring to his friends, who arrived at the bar with a continuation of their teasing tirade from yesterday—at my expense yet again.
But today feels different. The tension in my back isn’t as severe as it was yesterday, and it might be thanks to my talk with Mom or my father’s more pleasant demeanor.
He isn’t as tightly wound as usual, and it gives me relief.
I’d never admit it out loud, but it’s the reason I’m glad he doesn’t make it to the majority of my professional tournaments. It’s a miracle he’s able to play with me this weekend, but another surgeon is holding down the fort at the hospital.
It doesn’t change that Dad will have to work on Thanksgiving, much to my mother’s chagrin, but she gets it. She understands the demands of his career, and she does her best not to add to his stress.
She’s patient with him, and as I’ve gotten older, I’ve realized it’s one of the reasons they work as a couple.
I hit the first tee shot, and the ball flight is pure art. The ball lands precisely where I want it, so close to the hole. It sits real fucking pretty in a canvas of green.
“That’s what I’m talking about.” Behind me, my father claps and meets me on the tee box. “The old bastards will eat crow later.”
He’s most definitely in a good mood, but it’s not exactly why I am too.
It’s because of the brief moment of indulging in the view of the course with Larissa. It’s the good-luck kiss we shared.
It’s Larissa herself.
She’s my lucky charm. My heart. My everything.
Even after all these years apart, that never stopped being true.