Chapter 9 #2
“Alright,” she said, stepping closer with her arms crossed. “You swing pretty good for somebody who can’t sleep.”
He smirked but didn’t turn around. “You watch everything I do?”
“You literally asked me to watch you and I’m right here.”
“I heard you,” he teased.
“Shut up.”
He laughed under his breath. A low, quiet sound that made something warm move around in her chest. He finally looked over his shoulder and nodded toward the clubs. “You wanna try?”
Meadow lifted her chin. “What makes you think I don’t know how to play already?”
Zaire blinked, just studying her. “You know how to swing a club?”
“I really do.”
“You sure?”
“Zaire,” she huffed. “Give me the nine iron.
Zaire stared at her like she’d just started reciting the periodic table. “A nine iron?”
“Yes, the nine.”
He dragged his eyes down her face, then scanned them over her stance, then back up again. “You know what a nine iron does?”
“Do you want to keep being cute or do you want to be humbled? Cause I’ll humble your ass.”
Zaire bit his lip to hide a grin. “That’s what we on this morning?”
Meadow put her hand out. “Club.”
He handed it over but slow, like he needed an extra second to look at her fingers as they wrapped around the grip. Something about his gaze made heat crawl up the back of her neck. She adjusted her stance and lined up with a confidence he didn’t expect.
Zaire leaned back a little, surprised and entertained.
“Aight then. Show me something, baby.”
Meadow inhaled with a gulp, eyes on the ball.
She let her body remember everything she loved about golf.
The mornings Ray used to bring her out here when she was barely tall enough to hold a grown club.
The long summers of whispered instructions in her ear.
Elbow in. Feet shoulder width. Don’t rush. The swing will come.
She pulled back and swung.
The ball went straight. It didn’t go far like Zaire’s, but it was still controlled and confident.
Zaire’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, you wasn’t lying.”
Meadow flicked her curls behind her ear like she didn’t care. “Told you.”
“You golf for real.”
“Been golfing since I was eight.”
“Eight?” His head jerked back in disbelief. “You was out here hittin’ balls instead of watching cartoons?”
Meadow shrugged. “Ray taught me. He taught all of us. He’s the best golfer I know.” She beamed with pride.
Zaire nodded, quieter now, eyes lingering on her a little longer. “That’s why he moves like that, like he really grew up in this game.”
“He did,” she said softly.
“And so did you.”
“I guess I did.”
The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was warm, intentional. He watched her set up for another swing like she was revealing pieces of herself without saying it out loud.
“You know,” Zaire said. “You hold the club right. Your grip clean as fuck.”
“Thank you.”
“But your stance is off a little.”
Meadow snapped her head toward him. “No, it’s not.”
“Yes, it is,” he teased, grinning.
“No, it’s not,” she insisted.
He laughed and stepped behind her. “Relax…damn. You always fightin’ me.”
“Because you always wrong.”
“You not even listening.”
“You not even coaching.”
He shook his head, walking toward her slowly, shoulders bouncing from his laugh. He stopped right behind her but didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. His presence was a heat she could feel through her hoodie.
“Turn your left foot out a little,” he instructed.
She complied but rolled her eyes while she did it.
“Drop your shoulders.”
“They are dropped,” Meadow fired back.
“A little more, cuh.”
“They are, cuh,” she mimicked him.
He gave her a look that was half-smirk, half-warning. “You gon’ let me help you or you gon’ keep arguing, Meadow?”
Her stomach flipped in ways she didn’t approve of. “Fine. Go ahead.”
She loosened her jaw, relaxed her stance and waited.
Zaire approved her ability to submit. “Now…when you swing…don’t force it…let it flow.”
“I know how to swing.”
“I’m trying to be nice. Damn!” he groaned in frustration.
She laughed before she could stop herself. He smiled at the sound. She caught it. He caught her catching it. Something unspoken passed between them.
Meadow swung again.
The ball flew farther this time.
Zaire nodded, impressed. “Aight. You decent.”
“Decent?”
He shrugged. “Don’t gas yourself.”
“You’re just mad I hit better than your first swing.”
Zaire turned fully, lips parted in playful disbelief. “Hold up. Don’t start talkin’ crazy.”
“You pulled a gun on me this morning. I deserve to talk a little crazy.”
Zaire laughed and rubbed his forehead. “You not letting that go.”
“Nope.” Her pretty lips popped. He liked that.
“Aight. Fair enough.”
They fell quiet again, both watching the sky lighten by the second.
Zaire leaned on his club.
Meadow held hers close.
Their shoulders weren’t touching, but the pull between them felt loud.
Zaire cleared his throat. “You competitive as hell.”
Meadow kept her eyes forward. “You bring it out of me.”
Zaire looked at her for a long beat.
No smile…no jokes…just the truth sitting in his eyes like he didn’t mean to say it out loud.
“You bring shit outta me too,” he murmured.
Her breath stalled.
He didn’t expand and she didn’t press, too afraid of what might come out of his mouth.
Meadow gripped her club tighter. “You want another round?”
“Hell yeah,” he said, grin returning. “But this time…loser gotta make breakfast.”
Meadow turned her head, brows lifting. “Loser?”
“I didn’t stutter, cuh.”
She pointed the club at him like it was a finger. “First of all, I don’t lose.”
Zaire chuckled. “We gon’ see.”
“And second…” Meadow stepped into her stance again, but her voice softened into something warm. “I cook because I feel like it, not because I lose.”
Zaire grinned, her witty words hitting him dead center in the chest. “Oh,” he nodded, dragging his eyes down her body and back up. “So you one of them women who throw down without bein’ told?”
Meadow shrugged, cheeks warming in spite of herself. “Something like that.”
He stared at her longer than he should’ve. “That’s sexy.”
She choked on air and swung too fast, the ball slicing left. “Can you not—”
He laughed, the sound bouncing across the grass. “Got you flustered now.”
“No, you don’t,” she lied. Her pussy was purring and her heart skipping beats.
“You doin’ a lot of talkin’ for somebody who just sent that ball to the neighbor’s house.”
Meadow stuck her tongue in her cheek and stepped back, refusing to let him see her smile. “Shut up and swing, Crescent Park.”
Zaire lifted his club and moved past her, close enough for their shoulders to brush. “Yes ma’am.”
Her stomach flipped again.
He lined up the shot. She watched him.
When he swung, the ball soared dead center down the field.
Meadow pressed her lips together. “You showin’ off.”
“You started it.”
“You still showin’ off.”
He looked at her, voice easy and honest. “I’m tryin’ to impress you.”
Meadow’s breath hitched…just a little.
Not enough to expose her, but enough for him to feel it.
She turned away before he could see the softness in her eyes. “C’mon” she murmured, reaching for another ball. “We both know you’re hungry. Let me go make breakfast.”
Zaire’s smile shifted and became deeper, softer, not as playful. “You sure?”
“I said I cook because I feel like it, not because I lose.” She looked back at him over her shoulder. “And I feel like it.”
Zaire rubbed his jaw, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth while staring at her like she was a sunrise he didn’t expect to see but never wanted to miss.
“Well damn,” he murmured. “Lead the way then, baby.”
Meadow walked ahead, hips swaying just enough to make his mind misbehave.
Zaire followed, clubs over his shoulder, eyes locked on her without shame.
Meadow worked the stove with a confidence that didn’t need explaining. One hand on the pan, the other grabbing seasonings without looking. Her meaty hip bumping the oven door closed. Her bare feet tapping the tile to whatever rhythm lived in her head.
Zaire leaned against the counter across from her, arms crossed, watching her like she was a show he didn’t plan to enjoy, yet couldn’t pull away from.
She flipped French toast, the heat rising around her face. “You staring,” she said without turning around.
“I’m allowed,” he answered.
“No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am,” he replied, taunting her.
She side-eyed him hard. He grinned.
The air was soft between them…different from yesterday.
A little too warm for morning but still refreshing.
Zaire cleared his throat. “You cook like somebody raised you right.”
“Ray don’t play about food,” she laughed. “I been cooking since I was able to hold a spatula.”
“I can tell.”
She rolled her eyes, but she was smiling. She hated that he made her smile this much.
Zaire pushed off the counter, walked over, and grabbed two plates from the cabinet like he belonged there.
Meadow’s stomach dipped a little.
“Put the plates down,” she mouthed. “Food’s almost done.”
“You the boss,” he teased.
“No, you just listen well.”
“That too.”
She snorted. “Shut up!”
He laughed and leaned beside her…too close. So close their arms brushed. Meadow felt a spark run through her body so fast she almost flipped the toast onto the floor.
Zaire lowered his voice. “You nervous around me?”
“Not even a little.”
“You sure?” He smiled that beautiful Colgate smile that earned him the Sexiest Man alive award in Black Excellence Magazine two years in a row.
Her phone rang.
The name flashed across the screen: HANK BELL PROPERTY GROUP.
Meadow sucked her teeth. “Oh Lord.”
Zaire stepped back. “Who that?”
She didn’t answer him, just rolled her neck, hit accept, and put the phone to her ear. “I told you to stop calling me,” she snapped.
Zaire froze mid-movement, watching her energy shift hard and fast.
“I ain’t selling my Black ass land!” she yelled. “Stop calling my damn phone before I kill you and your whole bloodline!”