10. LARISSA
CHAPTER 10
LARISSA
Wyatt’s name graces the top of the leaderboard today.
He must’ve gotten his groove back, and despite my mixed feelings toward him, I inwardly cheer. I’ve always loved seeing him succeed, whether it’s killing it on the golf course, acing a chemistry test in mean Mr. Shrink’s class, or baking the most perfectly golden loaf of sourdough bread.
How many people know of the latter—the secret talent of his? And it’s something I definitely consider a talent. I’ve never mastered the art of sourdough bread myself, but he’s always had the required patience and determination to conquer such a feat.
Knowing him and how much golf affects his mood and state of mind, Wyatt should now be able to fully enjoy the holiday week with his family and friends.
A week without me.
As much as I ache to kiss him again, I can’t. He obviously still holds far too much power over me. I can’t allow myself to even be near him anymore, or I’m sure I’ll do something crazy and let him back into my heart.
It’s best to keep my distance.
With the tournament finished, I scurry through the bar to assist the staff. First, I deliver a basket of wings and two beers to table twelve. Then I rush to take a new table’s order, and I keep my head down as I continue working, hell-bent on staying away from Wyatt Drake.
It works well for about ten minutes.
Over the following two hours, Wyatt’s everywhere—at the bar, in the hall, on the patio. I can’t escape him.
And at the end of my shift, he lingers by the door. Is he waiting for me?
A man I don’t recognize tips his hat toward Wyatt on his way out and says, “That was a wicked little bird’s nest lie you had there on seven, but the flop shot you hit within a foot of the hole was downright impressive.”
“Thank you, sir.” Wyatt shifts, a white box nestled in his hands.
“I’ll be following your career. Keep up the good work.”
Once the coast is clear, I assume the spot in front of Wyatt, my chest light as if I were the one just complimented. Judging by the scores, Wyatt pulled a hell of a one-eighty. He and his father snuck into second, even after the squabbles of yesterday’s round.
Then again, I’m not surprised. Even at his worst, Wyatt’s still better than most. The only pair who beat him was a professional-playing brother duo.
“Golfers really have their own language, don’t they?” I fold my arms over my chest and stare after the man who was just here. “I didn’t understand a word he just said, but it sounded like a compliment.”
He shrugs, ever the modest golfer.
“Congratulations,” I offer. “I’m sure you and your father are very proud.”
“Definitely prouder of today’s round than yesterday’s.” He gives me a small smile. “And it shut his friends up, so that’s comforting too.”
I shift from one foot to the other and glance around for Dr. Drake. “I figured you’d be celebrating. Where’s your dad?”
“He had to go to the hospital. One of his patients had an emergency, and he didn’t feel right leaving it to the on-call surgeon.”
It’s hard to believe, but I guess Dr. Drake does have room in his heart for something other than just distaste for me.
“Here.” Wyatt nudges the box in his hands toward me.
I frown. “I don’t want your leftovers.”
“It’s a sandwich for you.” His chuckle is soft, airy, and fantastically familiar. It resembles the one I used to know and love. I haven’t heard it in a while, and my chest squeezes. “And don’t worry—I asked for mayo instead of honey mustard, with no pickle.”
“Why?”
“Because I know that’s how you like your club sandwiches.”
I gulp. “Why did you get me this?”
“It’s the best I can do for the time being, but I’d like to do better and take you to dinner later. I want to take you on a date.” His hopeful eyes land on me like a pair of headlights in the dark.
A date? He wants to take me on a freaking date ?
Panic seizes my body as if he informed me that I’m on a sinking ship. Alarm bells are triggered in my head until I’m sure steam shoots from my ears.
What is he up to?
He closes the distance between us, until the tip of his grass-stained golf shoe grazes my black grease-stained Sketchers. The low octave of his voice causes reverberations through my core as he whispers, “And not to be presumptuous, but I’d also like to show you exactly what I can do to you with five minutes.”
Drool is dangerously close to dripping from the corners of my mouth as I inhale the faint scent of his cologne, which is now mixed with the woodsy smell of being outside most of the day.
It’s natural. Manly. Heady.
It drives me wild, but his filthy promise? Now that’s enough to make me do something positively stupid—like agree to go on a date with him.
“No,” I blurt, and my cheeks flush with the heat of a thousand suns.
“No?”
I jolt backward and shake my head, doing my best to keep my voice down when I say, “You just asked me to go on a date with you, Wyatt. After five years of silence, you think you can just waltz in here like nothing’s changed.”
“That’s not at all what I think.”
“That’s what you’re acting like.” I throw my hands up. “I can’t do this.”
My heart stammers as I rush out of the clubhouse, blood roaring in my ears.
“Larissa!” he calls out from behind me.
My pulse quickens as I hear footsteps behind me, and when my eyes land on a golf cart, I know it’s my best shot to escape since my car is too far away in employee parking.
I hop into a cart owned by the club, thankful these guys usually leave the key in them, and quickly put it into drive.
Except I’m not fast enough.
I’ve rolled three feet before Wyatt jumps in, his shoulder bumping mine and rocking the entire cart.
“Easy!” I screech as the wobbly cart steadies once again.
“Where are you going?”
“Away from you. Get out .” I keep one hand on the steering wheel and use the other to shove him away, but he doesn’t budge.
“Stop the cart, Larissa,” he says over the buzzing of the tires. He stashes the to-go box into the nook in front of him, then leans over to take control of the wheel, but I just keep pushing him.
We swerve to the left, then the right.
I let go of the steering wheel completely and use both hands to wrestle him, caught between pushing him away and desperately pulling him toward me.
I thought I’d made up my mind about him, but I just can’t stick to the smart thing, can I?
“Ow!” He grimaces as we careen through a bush, and the leaves scrape the side of his arm. “Press the brake,” he demands, but I keep my foot on the gas.
A few players pause their next shot as we zip around them and onto an unmarked path lined with palms and other trees, the leaves glorious shades of reds and oranges.
The tires kick up some of the fallen leaves and clouds of dust, creating a tornado of fall in our wake.
“Let me drive. You’re going to get us lost.” I finally abandon my futile attempts to expel him from the cart.
“Like I could ever get lost here. I know this property better than my own backyard. Turn here.” He points to the right.
So, I turn to the left.
“Real mature,” he grumbles.
I turn into a field, and the cart jostles us from side to side.
“You know what your problem is? You don’t know how to have fun anymore. You always have to control everything. No distractions. No time for anything that isn’t on the right path . No fun,” I say, punctuating the final syllable with an eye roll.
“From the looks of it, you’ve been having enough fun for the both of us.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I gape and nearly swallow a damn fly as I follow a curve around a corner. I purposely steer into another bush to ensure it clips Wyatt.
He shields his face, but it doesn’t stop his stupid mouth from opening again. “You shouldn’t be here. You should be in New York, and the fact that you’re not only tells me that you gave up. There’s no other explanation, because anyone would be lucky to work with you. You’re too talented and valuable, but you quit, didn’t you?”
It’s probably the nicest thing he’s ever said to me, present and past combined, but it’s also a punch to the gut.
His words are harsh. Then again, the truth always is.
“You don’t know anything about me anymore.” I lean into a sharp turn, where we disappear into a teepee of more trees, getting farther and farther away from the course.
“I know it’s easier to give up than to keep pushing.”
“I didn’t give up, okay? I’m just not good enough.”
“Bullshit.”
“If it’s such bullshit, then why do I have a desk drawer full of rejections from fifteen different companies and internships? Why won’t anyone hire me?”
“Apply to different ones.”
I scoff. “Of course, you’d think it were so simple.”
“Do you know how many tournaments I’ve lost? I’ve completely fucked up on the course to the point where I truly believed I should quit. That I’m just wasting my time and money. But I keep showing up. I showed up day after day until I got what I wanted. Quitting would’ve never gotten me here.”
My mouth dries, and sudden jealousy trespasses into my heart.
Wyatt is the reason I ever believed I could do big things outside of this town. I was captivated by his drive and the stars in his eyes that lit his road to success from a young age. He persevered through every low of his budding career, but I folded at the first sign of trouble.
“Stop the cart already,” he says.
My knuckles pale as I tighten my grip, but my foot lightens on the gas pedal.
“Stop it, Larissa.” Wyatt grabs the wheel again. My foot pops off the pedal, and we slide to a stop near a ditch.
I jump out of the cart, my fight-or-flight instincts tipped toward the latter, but Wyatt catches me and wraps me in his steady arms from behind. “Stop running,” he whispers, and goose bumps erupt along the back of my neck.
I slowly turn, and he covers my mouth with his, massaging my tongue so deliciously that my eyes roll into the back of my head.
The sensations from this kiss reach the tips of my toes and back up, and my stomach flips with anticipation.
My body screams, “More! More!”
I slide my hands up his chest and rest my palms over his pecs, digging my fingers into his shirt. I’m desperate to feel his skin.
I need to feel him against me. On me. Inside me.
I need everything only he can offer, no matter how dangerous he is to my fragile heart.
As I lean my forehead to his, my lips tingle from the way he owned them. “Stop kissing me all the time,” I say, but it’s more of a plea than a demand. My voice shakes with too many emotions to decipher.
He twists my hair into his fist and nips at my bottom lip just once before rasping, “I will… as soon as you stop kissing me back.”
I gulp, and an electric surge from his touch lights my core on fire.
“Tell me you don’t want this as badly as I do. Tell me you don’t want me , Larissa, and I’ll never bother you again. Just tell me,” he begs.
I squeeze my eyes closed and steel myself against thoughts of never having him like this again. Of never feeling the warmth of his embrace or the heat of his kisses ever again.
“I—I can’t,” I confess softly.
“Then I’ll keep kissing you.”