Chapter 5 Rory
Chapter five
Rory
Iwake early with no alarm. Fifteen years of dawn tee times have programmed my internal clock, no matter the time zone. My body knows the routine: up before sunrise, on the course before the dew burns off, ready to hit the driving range before spending the day reading greens and advising Hays.
Except there’s no course today. No tee time. Just Tabitha’s apartment and the odd, heavy silence pressing against the windows.
Tabitha’s curled against my side, her dark hair spilling over the pillow. In sleep, she looks younger somehow, all the confident energy softened into something that makes me want to simply watch her breathe.
I should be itching to leave. Should be calculating the earliest polite exit, the way I always do. Instead, I’m lying here studying the curve of her shoulder, fighting the urge to wake her with my mouth on her neck.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I’ve never wanted seconds before coffee.
Never wanted to linger in someone else’s bed, breathing in their scent and watching them sleep like some lovesick teenager.
But here I am, rock-hard again just from the press of her against my torso, her hip bumped up against my side.
I’m tempted to slide my hand down her spine until she wakes up wanting me.
The smart play is to get up. Make coffee and head out early for my meeting with Hays at the country club—if I can. I won’t let the fact rounds two and three last night were even better than the first time in August change my plans.
Careful not to wake her, I slip out from under her arm and grab my phone from the nightstand. Weather check, another occupational habit. Tournament days live and die by wind speed and precipitation. I’ve checked forecasts in thirty-seven countries and can read radar patterns in my sleep.
But before I can open the weather app, I spy two missed calls and three texts from Hays, along with a weather alert declaring a state of emergency. All roads closed. No travel advised.
I open the texts from Hays.
Roads are shit.
Virtual at 9 am work for you instead?
I let out a heavy sigh. I flew all the way here so we could meet in person. Tabitha shifts in bed and sighs softly. I glance over, my frustration evaporating. This trip wasn’t a complete bust.
I text back: 9 am works. Send a link, and I’ll see you then.
I’m about to set down the phone and grab my jeans, but instead, I stare at the screen, thumbs hovering over the keyboard. The country club position floats through my mind. Head golf pro. Here in Starlight Bay.
I could ask about it. Get more details. But bringing it up opens a door I’m not ready to walk through. It means admitting I’m thinking about the role.
I set aside the phone, tug on my jeans, then pad to the window.
The view stops me cold. Now, I understand why the world is so silent.
It’s a wall of white. Snow is coming down so thick I can barely make out the building across the street.
Cars below are buried under who knows how many feet of powder, and the wind whips the flakes into horizontal sheets.
Well, shit.
The apartment suddenly feels smaller than it did last night.
I’m used to wide-open fairways, endless skies, the ability to walk away when things get too complicated.
This place, with its cozy furniture and lived-in comfort, feels like working a course I’ve never seen, where a single sliced shot could turn a round upside down in an instant.
I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar tightness from years of carrying a forty-pound bag. I twist to stretch my lower back, working the dull ache that never quite goes away.
With one last glance at the gorgeous brunette in bed, I head for the kitchen, needing caffeine and space to think. At least, I can manage coffee.
Except Tabitha’s kitchen setup looks like something from a science lab. An ancient one. No simple push-button machine or pods in sight, just a complicated glass contraption with multiple chambers, a hand grinder, and what appears to be a small scale next to a canister of beans on the counter.
Who weighs coffee beans?
I’m standing there, holding the canister in one hand and about to search online for help, when I notice the cabinet above the sink is hanging crooked. One hinge is completely loose, the door sagging at an angle.
I set down the canister and open drawers until I find what I’m looking for—the junk drawer. Sure enough, I dig through random screws, rubber bands, takeout menus, receipts, a tape measure, and finally find a screwdriver set. I grab a Phillips head and get to work.
The hinge just needs the screws tightened and one replaced. Easy fix. It takes me maybe three minutes to get the door hanging level again, opening and closing smoothly. I’m testing it one more time when footsteps pad down the hallway.
My pulse kicks up as Tabitha appears in the doorway, wrapped in a thick terrycloth robe that covers way too much of her. Her hair’s messy, and she’s got a soft, drowsy look that makes me want to carry her back to bed and cancel my meeting.
Her gaze land on the cabinet then the screwdriver in my hand. Something shifts in her expression, an emotion I can’t quite read. “You fixed it.”
“Hinge was loose. Just needed tightening.” I return the screwdriver to the drawer, suddenly aware of how domestic this moment is. Me in her kitchen in just jeans, fixing things before coffee, as if I belong here.
She’s running her fingers along the edge of the door, testing the smooth swing. The silence stretches for a beat too long, and I realize this simple gesture means something to her I didn’t intend.
“It’s been broken for three months,” she finally says, her voice quiet. “I kept meaning to fix it, but…” She trails off and shakes her head. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
But she’s still staring at it, so I turn back to the coffee, not wanting to read too much into whatever she’s thinking.
“Having trouble?” she asks after a moment, stepping up beside me as I fiddle with the beans and grinder. I’m grateful for her teasing tone as she gives me a hard time, deliberately lightening the mood.
“Maybe a little.”
“It’s a pour-over, not a sand trap.”
Right. Except I can handle sand traps. This domestic maze of close quarters and morning rituals? I’m completely out of bounds.
“Let me,” she adds, grabbing the canister of beans from the counter. “Unless you want to drink coffee grounds.”
“Is this really how you make coffee?” I gesture at the glass contraption.
She laughs, and hell, if that raspy morning sound doesn’t shoot straight to my groin. “Only because I care what my coffee tastes like.”
“I care. I like it hot and caffeinated.”
“Spoken like a true road warrior.”
She moves past me in the narrow space, her hip brushing mine as she plucks the grinder from my grasp. The brief contact sends heat racing through me. I’m tempted to pull her against me and kiss her senseless. Instead, I watch her measure out beans, every movement efficient and practiced.
“You do this every morning?”
“It’s worth the extra few minutes.” She starts grinding, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment.
An extra few minutes? Right. Because she has the luxury of slow mornings, for perfect coffee. My mornings are bananas, protein bars and paper cups of joe grabbed from the clubhouse station. If I’m lucky.