Chapter 2
TWO
MAX
Shit. Fuck. Shit.
Max tore through the small apartment kitchen, hopping up and down as she stuffed her foot into the crisp white sneakers required as part of the McCallum-Windsor Country Club employee uniform: white sneakers, white socks, and any golf attire in black with at least one article of clothing in the quintessential McCallum-Windsor green.
Her selection for today: a quarter zip pullover.
She propped her foot up on the kitchen chair, lacing up her sneakers with lightning speed, ignoring the stack of envelopes on the kitchen table that so desperately needed her attention. That was an after-work problem. Right now, Max was late.
Swiping a banana from the basket on the counter, she paused in the front hall for only a moment to straighten her hair, put on a quick swipe of mascara, and apply a thin layer of tinted lip gloss—enough to meet the insanely strict dress code for McCallum employees.
She scrunched her nose, examining her reflection—long dark hair falling a little below her shoulders, square jaw like her mother, and clear blue eyes like her father.
Her appearance was as good as it was going to get today, and now she was really late.
She thundered down the exterior stairs of the second-story apartment she rented on the edge of town, the crisp November air biting her cheeks.
“Good morning, Max!” a voice called from the glider on the front porch of the old Victorian house she called home.
“Morning, Lynn! I’m so sorry, I don’t have time to chat today.
I’m late. Chloe called out sick at the last minute, and I need to get to the club to cover for her or else I’m going to have to listen to Landon bitch at me that the golfers don’t have their drinks,” Max explained to her landlord and best friend Lynn Paterson, whom she had met shortly after moving to the sleepy coastal Connecticut town of Wellington Point.
Lynn rose from the same spot she sat every morning to enjoy her lavender Earl Grey tea and joined Max as she hurried down the flagstone steps set into the hillside. “No worries, I needed to stretch my legs anyway,” Lynn said with a grin. “Everything going okay?”
“Yes, why do you ask?” Max raised an eyebrow at the older woman before noticing an envelope clutched in her hands, the sight of which made her gulp with unease.
“This accidentally ended up mixed in with my mail.” Lynn handed her the envelope as they reached the bottom step and Max took it gingerly, glancing down at the familiar return address and the aggressive red lettering, the words ‘urgent notice’ stamped across the front. “Looks pretty serious,” Lynn observed.
Max’s lips parted as she searched for an excuse to give to Lynn. She hated lying to her. Lynn was a ‘good person.’ As her mom would have said, you don’t lie to good people.
“Oh yeah, this is nothing. Looks like one of those marketing strategies, you know how crazy they can get trying to make you open junk mail.” Well, so much for not lying to good people.
Lynn clearly wasn’t buying the lie, and Max was thankful she didn’t push her on it. She really didn’t have the time right now. “You know you can always come to me if you need to renegotiate rent. I can be flexible if you need some wiggle room.”
Max jingled her keys in her hand, unlocking the passenger door of her beat-up Volvo station wagon, the same one her dad had gifted her as a college graduation present a decade ago.
“I appreciate it, Lynn, but really, I’m sure it’s just junk mail.
I’ve gotta go. Gym date later tonight? Spoon Me afterward?
” Her mouth twitched in delight as she said the name of their favorite frozen yogurt place in town because how could you not? It was a ridiculous name.
Lynn smiled, sliding one hand into the front pocket of her jeans, the other still wrapped around her mug of tea. “It’s on my calendar.”
“Perfect!” Max said, opening the back door and tossing her bag across the back seat. “See you later tonight!”
As anticipated, Landon was waiting for her with a speech about the importance of punctuality. She half-listened, half-zoned out as she stared blankly at him, her resting bitch face firmly in place as she counted the seconds till he finished. Sixty-eight to be exact.
“Okay, I get it,” she bit back, her response dripping in annoyance.
She had never been good at keeping her impatience in check, but it did shut Landon up quickly.
“It’s Chloe’s shift anyway. Be grateful I was available to cover, or else you’d have no one,” she grumbled, pushing past him into the employee changing area.
Max shoved her belongings into her cubby before grabbing a clipboard and keys from the hook labeled “beverage cart.” She despised working the cart—especially on Saturdays.
At thirty-two, it felt weird to be the drink cart girl again, and usually she wasn’t, except for days like today when she had to be.
She scanned the tee off sheet, looking for any standout names of regulars she should keep an eye out for, of which Max spotted several.
She made a mental note of their tee times as she headed out.
After collecting the beverage cart and stocking it accordingly, Max hit the course, making her way down paved pathways connecting the perfectly green and precisely manicured rolling hills.
Max liked her job at the McCallum-Windsor Country Club, or at least liked it enough.
She typically worked weeknights in the club’s restaurant as the on-site wine expert.
She couldn’t quite call herself a sommelier, what with the lack of proper accreditation, a fact Willis Windsor, the club owner, was quick to point out when Max had approached him with the idea of having a dedicated wine expert on staff.
So they had hatched a plan: a trial season in which Max would act as the first-ever McCallum-Windsor wine expert.
If everything went well, Willis agreed to pay for her sommelier certification.
Well, the season was almost over, and Max didn’t think it could have gone any better.
All morning, Max zipped around the golf course in the McCallum-Windsor green beverage cart collecting drink orders, running food and snacks from the kitchen to the 9th hole snack bar, and most importantly, making small talk.
She spent much longer than she should have chatting with the Howards.
A delightfully sweet couple in their fifties who, as they liked to remind her often, had a daughter about her age.
She avoided spending any more time than necessary getting Dr. Hands (the club staff’s nickname for Dr. Friedman due to his tendency to be a little too familiar with his touches) his usual Tom Collins—extra cherry, extra lemon, light on the club soda.
And she tried her best not to roll her eyes at the repeated inappropriate comments tossed her way by some of the club’s more out-of-touch members.
The November sun hung high in the sky as the day progressed.
She had hoped it might get a little warmer as the day wore on, but no such luck.
They were inching their way towards colder weather even if Max hated that thought.
She slowed the cart as she approached the thirteenth hole, scanning for people, locating the cluster of players down near the flag pin.
The cart whirred to a stop at the edge of the green, and she waited until the man standing a few feet away from the hole with a putter in hand finished his swing.
She tried to adjust her voice, aiming for chipper and upbeat but landing somewhere in the block of mild happiness. “Anyone need a beverage?”
“Took you long enough to find us out here, girly,” one of the men said, playfully gesturing his putter in her direction.
Max didn’t respond, simply waited. She had already received her fair share of weird-to-inappropriate interactions today… What was one more?
“You know,” came another man’s voice, “I think I like the other cart girl better. What’s her name, Davie? It’s something cute and perky like her ti—”
Yeah, fuck that! The thought flashed through her mind as Max inhaled deeply, preparing to give this man a verbal lashing she would likely get written up for, but not fired—that distinction was a crucial skill learned over the years.
Just as Max was about to say something, a woman’s voice spoke over them.
“How about I grab this round? Usuals for everyone?” Murmurs of agreement reached Max where she stood next to the beverage cart as a blond woman made her way over. “Hello,” she called, chipper and a little breathless as she stepped onto the asphalt path.
“Hi,” Max said, a little flatter than she intended, still slightly annoyed by the interaction with the men on the green.
“What can I get you?” Her gaze flicked over the woman, assessing her—yup, typical country club wife.
Perfectly slicked back hair. Perfectly pressed clothes, wrinkle-free, even after twelve holes of golf.
And a perfect dazzling smile, which Max couldn’t help but notice as the woman rambled off a list of drinks.
Max busied herself preparing the drinks.
Two Stella Artoises, a spiked Palmer, one Bloody Mary, and a bottle of water.
As she worked, Max couldn’t help the way her gaze wandered to the woman standing a little ways away.
She was on her phone now; where she had grabbed it from was a mystery to Max because there was no way in hell the crisply pressed black pleated golf skirt she was wearing had pockets large enough for a phone.
But the skirt—the skirt looked good on her. Really good.
You’re being inappropriate, she chastised herself, averting her gaze. But a moment later, it was back, taking in the length of perfectly curvy thighs all the way up to the hem of the skirt skimming across skin.
Stop it.