Chapter 8 Rory
Chapter eight
Rory
The stairwell down to the bookstore creaks under my feet. I should be relieved the call with Hays is over, that we’ve got our tournament schedule locked in, that everything’s on track for another season.
Instead, I’m heading toward Tabitha as if she’s magnetic north.
“You look…relaxed,” Hays had said, a knowing grin plastered across his face.
“It’s just one night that’s turned into two,” I’d replied, but even I heard how defensive that sounded.
“Right. Even though you’ve been thinking about her for months.”
I’d deflected after that, steered us back to golf talk, but his words still rattle around in my skull as I push through the door at the bottom of the stairs.
The scent of the bookstore hits me immediately, a combination of paper and wood polish, with undertones of pine from the abundance of holiday decorations. Outside, snow continues to fall past the front windows, muffling the world beyond into white noise.
I find Tabitha in the children’s section, sitting cross-legged on the floor surrounded by boxes and stacks of books, her hair pulled back in a messy knot. She looks like a sexy librarian, but I shove down that thought fast.
She doesn’t notice when I approach, too focused on whatever she’s doing. Could she be trying to lose herself in work? Hell knows, it’s a tactic I’ve used a thousand times. An excuse that’s come in all too handy with many women.
“Need a hand?”
She startles and glances up before her gaze darts back down to the books. “Your call’s done already? That was fast.”
“After this many years, we’ve got it down to a science. Plus, I did a lot of preliminary work to get things in order.” I lower myself to the floor across from her, the space tight between the shelves. Our knees almost touch. “What are we sorting?”
“Donated books.” She gestures at the surrounding chaos. “They need to be organized by reading level.”
I reach for the nearest stack and start scanning covers, automatically sorting based on her system. Picture books in one pile, early readers in another, chapter books in a third.
Tabitha watches for a moment. “How do you know so much about children’s books?”
“My niece,” I say, setting a Magic Tree House book in the chapter pile. “She’s eight going on sixteen and has been an avid reader for years.” I hold up a picture book with a dragon on the cover. “She went through a phase with these a while back. Made me read the entire series over FaceTime. Twice.”
A smile tugs at Tabitha’s lips, the first genuine one since I came downstairs. “You FaceTime with your niece?”
“Every Monday, no matter where I am or what I’m doing.” I shrug, oddly defensive about it. “She likes to tell me about her week. What she’s reading. Which boys in her class are being idiots.”
“That’s…” Tabitha pauses, studying me with those sharp brown eyes. “Really sweet.”
“Don’t spread it around. Ruins my reputation.
” I’m aiming for casual, but there’s too much truth underneath.
Sophie’s one of the few constants in my hectic life.
One of the few people who doesn’t care about my job or Hays’s ranking or anything except to ask whether I remembered to watch the latest Pixar movie, so we can discuss it.
We fall into a rhythm, sorting in companionable silence. The space is cramped enough that every time one of us reaches for a new stack, our arms brush. When she shifts to grab a box, her knee presses against mine for a second too long before she pulls back.
The storm rattles the windows, and I glance up to see the snow falling even heavier now. We’re completely cut off from the rest of the world, just the two of us in this small bookstore that smells like Christmas.
“So you’re all set?” she asks, not looking up from the graphic novel she’s examining. “For the season?”
“Tournament schedule’s locked. Hays wants to focus on majors this year, which means—” I stop, because suddenly I’m unsure what it means.
The words should come easily. I’ve been doing this for years.
But sitting here on the floor of her bookstore, talking about flying to Hawaii in three weeks for the first event, it all feels… flat.
“Which means?” she prompts.
“Strategic rest periods. Targeted prep. The usual.” I set down a book, Hays’s voice echoing in my head.
That head pro position at the country club is still open.
Just saying. I’d brushed it off. I mean, after over a decade as his caddy, why would I leave now when he’s nowhere close to stopping?
“It’ll be good,” I finish, circling back to the conversation. “A strong year.”
She’s quiet, and I realize I don’t sound convincing, even to myself.
I continue, wanting to fill the silence. “The grind doesn’t have the same draw it used to. When we were young and hungry, chasing that first win, it felt like everything. Now…” I trail off, picking up another book without really seeing it.
“Now?” Her voice is careful.
“Now, Hays has Leah. That changes the dynamic. He’s got someone to be with at tournaments. A wife to go home with on breaks. Something to care about more than the next win.”
The words hang there between us.
Tabitha reaches for a book from my pile at the same moment I do, and our fingers tangle. Neither of us pulls back immediately. Her skin is warm, and I feel her pulse racing in her wrist.
Her eyes search mine, and I can see her putting the pieces together.
Understanding what I’m not saying. Hays’s suggestion about the country club job flashes through my mind again.
He mentioned an open invitation from the GM to stop by for an interview anytime while I’m in town.
I’d dismissed it, of course, but now, looking at Tabitha…
Her breath catches, and suddenly, the already small space feels even smaller. We’re leaning toward each other without meaning to, the books forgotten between us. Her eyes slip south to my lips then back up.
“Rory—” she starts, but whatever she was going to say dies as I cup her cheek.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur, giving her every chance to pull back.
She doesn’t. Instead, she sways closer, her hand coming up to rest against my chest. I can feel my heart hammering under her palm. Can see the pulse jumping in her throat.
The first brush of her lips is tentative, testing, despite the fact my face was buried between her legs last night.
Then she makes a small sound in the back of her throat, and I’m lost. My hand slides into her hair, scattering the knot she’d twisted it into, and I deepen the kiss.
She tastes of coffee, and something else. Something I crave.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, holding me close as the kiss turns hungry. Real. As if we’re both starving for something we can’t quite name.
Then she jerks back, breaking contact so suddenly I almost fall forward.
“We can’t—” She scrambles to her feet, breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed. “I need to check on Aunt Mae.”
Right. Aunt Mae. The storm. The real world that exists beyond this bubble we’ve been living in.
I stand too, trying to ignore the way my jeans are entirely too tight in the crotch. “Give me five minutes to grab my coat.”
She laughs, but it’s a quiet, hesitant sound. “You’re going to need a lot more than that thin coat to survive out there.” She tucks her hair behind her ear as if she can put herself back together as easily as she puts books in order.
But as I head for the stairs, I catch her reflection in the window. She’s standing perfectly still among the stacks of books, blowing out a long, slow breath.