15. “Oh Yeah, I’m A Wild One” #3
“They’re aggressive all right.” He stroked the putt, and the ball curled across the green then died two inches shy of the cup. He grunted, half pleased, ambling toward the next tee without finishing his thought.
Soren tapped in and followed. Four holes down, fourteen to go.
Warren’s drive split the fairway. “Nice shot.”
Soren stepped up to putt. The ball arced and rolled exactly where he hoped.
“Magnus in the flesh,” Warren chided, clapping Soren’s shoulder.
The Magnus comparisons were grating on him, so he didn’t acknowledge it this time. “You were saying about the numbers…”
“Ah, yes.”
Soren’s phone shuddered against his thigh. Withdrawing the device, he quickly glanced at the screen as they walked. Captain Coyle’s name flashed as the phone continued to silently vibrate in his palm.
“I was saying, they’re aggressive. Not that I’m intimidated by aggression. I value it. That kind of assertion tells me you’re serious.”
Why the hell was his pilot calling? Soren angled away from Warren as if speaking to his caddie, and thumbed the phone to his ear. “Coyle?”
“Sorry to disturb you first thing in the morning, Mr. Hawthorne, but I wanted to give you a heads up. We’ve got a mechanical issue on the G280. The second engine’s throwing a fault the mechanics can’t clear. They won’t let us in the air until it’s identified and resolved.”
“What are you saying?” It was still early. They had plenty of time to fix whatever issue this was.
“Normally, I wouldn’t be concerned, but it showed up last night, and I’ve had guys trying to figure it out for hours.”
A cold dread settled in Soren’s chest. Sometimes, planes were grounded for technical issues. It wasn’t always a broken part or a quick fix. Especially if they couldn’t find the problem.
No jet meant no forty-five-minute hop back to Maine. No hop meant he’d have to find a commercial flight or drive. “Shit.”
He did the math twice. The drive from Newport ran four and a half hours on a clear day with no traffic. That put him back in Hideaway around half past two at the earliest.
“We have a call in to a specialist,” Coyle informed him.
“How long before he looks at it?” Soren asked, keeping his voice down as Warren took his shot.
“He said he can get here within the hour. I can call you back the second I know more.”
Running out of time, Soren grabbed his driver and glanced back at the hole. Warren waved a hand, brows raised, expectantly waiting for him to take his shot.
“Call me back as soon as you know something.” Soren pocketed the phone and summoned an easy smile. “Sorry. Work.”
“On a Saturday?” Warren tsked. “You young men. Nothing keeps till Monday anymore.”
“Occupational hazard.” Soren teed up and swung. The shot leaked left, sinking straight into the rough, and he cursed under his breath.
As soon as Warren was distracted again, Soren fired a text to Marie.
Mechanical issue on the Gulfstream, no ETA. Find me a charter. Anything wheels-up before noon.
The reply came before the phone cleared his pocket.
On it. Give me ten.
Ten minutes he didn’t have. Every hole was seven or eight minutes gone. Warren’s unhurried putts were bleeding the clock, and he was about to snap by the sixth hole.
“Soren,” the older man snapped, tearing Soren’s focus from his phone. Warren stood over his ball on the green, putter in hand, watching him with a mild, impatient regard. “Am I boring you, son?”
The endearment fell flat this time, hitting some nerve his father had beaten to shit years ago. “Not at all. My apologies.” He pocketed the phone. “There’s just a small fire I’m putting out. It’s handled.”
“Your shot.”
The phone buzzed against his hip. Every part of him wanted to answer but he ignored it. It buzzed again. When he finally crouched to read his line, rolled the putt, missed by a foot, only then did he steal a glance, holding the phone where the older man wouldn’t catch him.
If there was an alternate flight home, Marie would find it.
Nothing private before 2. Commercials are worse. Still digging.
Mother fucker!
The phone flared in his palm with an incoming call from Jocelyn.
“Soren. We’re holding up the group behind us.”
He fumbled the phone, and his thumb clumsily bumped the call to voicemail. “Damn it,” he cursed.
“Problem?”
“No.” He lied, burying the phone in his pocket. “No problem.”
It buzzed once more against his leg. A text, this time. He could tell by the clipped vibration.
Warren watched him like a hawk.
Soren stepped up to putt as Warren grabbed a drink from the back of the golf cart.
He quickly checked his phone. Four texts.
One from Coyle saying it wasn’t looking good.
Another from Marie saying she’d checked everywhere.
The earliest flight back to Portland she could find wouldn’t make it in time for the party.
Last was a text from Jocelyn. It was the only thing in that moment capable of making him smile.
Remind me again why I volunteered to do this? I fucking hate surprises—apparently, even when I’m not the one being surprised.
He smothered a laugh and texted Marie, telling her to find him a rental car. He was making it to that fucking baby shower come hell or high water.