7. Bryn
Chapter seven
Bryn
The next morning, I’m up bright and early, eager to hit the links with Jameson. Our exchange last night was fun and easy until the end. I’m not sure why an invitation to golf together made him shut down so quickly. It’s not like I asked him to have my babies. Or even out to dinner. But I heard him loud and clear: he’s not looking for anything romantic. Same, bud. Same.
I dig through my suitcase, wishing I would’ve brought a cuter bra than the thick-strapped sports bra I prefer to golf in, and then mentally chastising myself for the thought. It’s just golf. Neither of us is looking for anything close to a romantic relationship. We’re both focused on our careers. And, even if we were, I’m not the type of girl who needs to worry about her bra on the first date. Not that this is a date.
I shoot off a quick text to Izzy and Kelsey, letting them know I’ll meet them for brunch at 10:00 or a little after, and then head out.
When I get out to the clubhouse, Jameson is already there waiting for me. He looks even better in the morning light, a light blue polo and dark blue shorts making his green eyes fade toward blue. The whole ensemble reminds me of the edge of the ocean when the blues of the deep sea slowly shift into the teals and aquas of the coast.
“You sure you’re awake enough to golf?” Jameson asks, a smirk tugging at his lips. “You don’t look too well rested.”
“Wow,” I say, fluttering my eyelashes. “What did I do to deserve such a compliment this morning? I knew I was looking good, but nothing confirms it like someone telling you that you look tired,” I say sarcastically.
“Ah, yes. It’s almost as endearing as someone pointing out how shitty you’ve been at your job lately.”
I snort out a laugh, remembering my attempt to cover my awkward backtrack last night. “Feedback is a gift, Jameson, so, you’re welcome.”
We both pick up our bags from where the pro shop left them by the putting green and walk toward the first tee.
“So,” I ask, “I’m thinking we play a quarter a hole? But I get a stroke a hole, for the obvious reasons.”
“Oh really? You’ve been telling me since the minute I met you how terrible my game is, and you still think you need a stroke a hole to have a chance?”
“To be fair to me, I didn’t even know who you were when I first met you. And, while it pains me to admit this out loud”—I put my hand on my heart to show how sincere I am—“I do believe you may, possibly, be a better golfer than me.”
His shoulders shake as he laughs. “Fine, I’ll give you one stroke a hole. But I’m not playing for quarters.” He looks at me with one eyebrow raised. “What are you, eighty? Only old men play for quarters.”
I laugh because that is, without a doubt, correct. “I may not be an eighty-year-old man myself. Though, again, please feel free to stop complimenting my appearance at any time. I’m not sure my ego can handle all the praise. But I did grow up playing with my dad and grandpa and their friends, so I have a deep appreciation for the need to have a quarter bag with me any time I’m on a golf course.”
He laughs a deep rumble that sends shivers down my spine. “How about this, we’ll play for something else. How about a drink once we get back? Loser buys?”
I don’t typically start drinking before noon, but it feels safer than offering up something like a meal, which he may (again) misconstrue as me trying to ask him on a date.
“Deal.”
It’s clear that Jameson and I are both competitive when it comes to golf, but as the round goes on, it becomes obvious that Jameson is—and I recognize my own ridiculousness at this thought—very, very good. He’s clearly a professional who does this day in and day out. On every hole, he out-drives me by at least twenty yards, even though he’s playing from the tips and I’m playing from the women’s tees. He also makes putts that would make even the most experienced golfer jealous. It’s a huge turn-on. Apparently, I have some sort of putting kink I wasn’t aware of until now.
“Dang,” I say. “You read that green like a book.”
“Thank you,” he replies, taking the compliment smoothly. “It helps when I have such a talented player putting before me. It lets me get a good feel for what the green is doing.”
“Sheesh. You sure know how to make a girl blush. I bet you tell that to all the women you golf with.”
“You look good when you blush.”
If my cheeks weren’t on fire, they are now.
“And, no,” he continues like he wasn’t just blatantly flirting with me. I’d been suspicious before, but now I know he is. “My sister is the only woman I golf with, and I would never say something like that to her. If you think my ego is big, just wait until you meet my pint-sized sister who thinks she can take on the world.”
“It’s always the short ones you have to look out for,” I joke. “Unfortunately, I’m about to be in California working a lot with a couple other trips thrown in here and there, so I don’t know that I’ll get to meet her.” I stop short, realizing I likely read too much into his turn of phrase.
Silence hangs heavy between us until he coughs gently and says, “That’s too bad. She would really like you.”
He sets up for his next drive, and I quietly hang back by the walking path so I can watch his swing from the best vantage point. His shorts hug his ass as he moves, the power building in his body and flowing through to the ball as he swivels his hips and connects. Never in my life have I wished for a photographic memory more. Not only because it’s a lesson in technique, but because—damn. The man is a snapshot of power. His ball lands perfectly, smack-dab in the middle of the fairway. I catch the small smile that escapes from his lips before he catches himself and settles his features back into a look of professional disinterest. But that little glimpse into his happiness is infectious, and I can feel my spirit lifting with each shot he hits.
I’m surprised by how well he’s doing. I know he’s good. I know he’s a pro. But I wasn’t exaggerating when I said his game has been shit lately. I don’t watch golf religiously like my dad does, but I keep up with sports news enough to know that in Jameson’s last tournament, he got multiple triple bogeys. He played so bad, it made the news.
His time off and his new workout regimen have apparently paid off. He is hitting his drives solidly, his iron game is strong, and his putts have been on point. I’m honestly surprised I ran into him in the rough yesterday. He hasn’t missed the fairway all morning.
I’m also surprised by how much fun we’re having together. We’ve chatted throughout the round, the conversation flowing smoothly despite the regular quiet pauses necessitated by the game of golf.
Jameson has been fun, even a little flirty, which is a bit of a shock after yesterday.
By the time we reach our seventh hole, I’m feeling less confident that I can pull off a win despite the stroke a hole he’s giving me. He tees off and hits an impressive drive while I hit a much shorter one. I would love to say that his shirt hugging his biceps tightly or the lazy smiles he’s been sending my way are distracting me, but I’m having a very solid round. One of the best I’ve had in a while.
We continue to play, with him leading most of the time but me managing to stay respectably close. We reach the final hole with him narrowly ahead by a respectable three strokes. As someone who is undoubtedly a sore loser, I focus in, knowing I’m going to need to both play the best hole of my life and for Jameson to fall apart for me to have a chance.
As we step up to the tee box, Jameson turns to me with a sly grin on his face. “You know, I’m feeling generous today. How about we make this hole winner takes all?”
Do I want to win? Hell yes. Do I want to win because we changed the game in my favor at the last minute? Never.
“No way. I don’t need you to make this easier on me. We had a deal, and a stroke a hole was fair. I don’t want your charity.” I gesture to the men’s tee box. “I’ve seen you fall apart on eighteen before, I’ve still got a chance.”
He shrugs. “Okay, but don’t come crying to me when you’re the one buying our drinks.”
Damn it. Now I have to double down on this. “Tell you what, Jameson, how about this—we’ll make a side bet. Loser of this hole has to do whatever the winner wants.”
Jameson raises an eyebrow. “Anything? You know I’m a man in my midthirties, right? I’ve already thought of ten things I could ask of you that would make every girl at your sister’s birthday party blush. Even the streakers.”
My body lights up at the thought, but I nod anyway. “Anything. Plus, who’s to say I haven’t thought of eleven things to ask of you?” I most certainly have not, but he doesn’t need to know that.
His grin turns devilish. “You’re on.”
We both tee off, and I manage to hit a decent drive, but Jameson hits one of his best all day. We both make it to the green in regulation, but I’m on the fringe while he has a short putt. My heart is pounding as I line up my shot. Taking a deep breath, I tap the ball, playing the downhill.
My line is good, and as the ball slowly trickles toward the cup, it looks like I might actually win the hole. We stand there watching as the ball slows before the cup, before finally stopping just short of the hole.
“No!” I yell, completely disregarding any course noise regulations. There is a reason I like playing in the middle of nowhere. “Ugh. I can’t believe I nancied it.”
“That’s tough,” Jameson says, casually leaning on his putter. “Too bad you didn’t put a little more oomph behind that one. You had the line. Now watch and learn how you make a putt.”
With that, he taps his ball forward, easily sinking it in the hole. Then he turns to me, grinning wickedly. “Looks like you owe me a drink and some sort of favor.”
I’m suddenly incredibly nervous. What have I gotten myself into? But I never renege on a bet. When I was eight and my dad bet me he could catch more fish than me, and I lost, I didn’t run and hide—I ate the whole freshwater mussel, even if it took me way more tries than anyone wanted to witness.
“I guess I do. Just let me know when you want me to come back out and give you some golf lessons,” I say, trying to sound confident.
“Oh, really?” He smirks. “You think you’ve got something you can teach me about golf?”
How had I not noticed his lips before? They are just on the masculine side of plump, his bottom one a pillow I could easily sink into. Forcefully dragging my eyes away from his full mouth, I pause for a second, trying to remember what we were talking about before I was distracted by his stupid, handsome face.
“Umm…” What were we talking about? Oh! Right. Bantering. It’s always banter. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I know I’ve got something to teach you about golf. For my remedial course, I always start with a lesson I feel would be particularly useful to you: how to avoid snowmen on a scorecard.”
I shoot him a playful wink, letting him know I’m joking about his recent triple bogies, which are typically eights on the score card, rather than trying to rub it in his face.
He chuckles a deep, short-lived rumble as we reach our golf bags. “Damn, Bryn, you really know how to kick a guy when he’s down.”
“Thank you. It’s a skill of mine,” I reply as we both pick up our bags and head toward the clubhouse.
“You know,” he continues, “that’s a lot of shade coming from someone who just lost.”
“It may not have been my best showing.”
“So you’re saying you’ll do better next time?”
“Oh, I have no doubt I’ll come out with the W for sure.”
“Very confident, considering our respective professions. No matter what the last year may suggest, I am a professional golfer.”
“You are?!” I let out a mock gasp. “Someone should tell that to your game.”
“God, you’re insufferable. It’s like you don’t remember losing our bet three minutes ago or that you now owe me anything .”
The way he emphasizes the word anything makes my insides tingle. This has been fun. Jameson is surprisingly easy to be around. I know this isn’t a date. Neither of us want it to be a date. But, if it were a date, it would be the best date I’ve ever been on. Not that I’ll be admitting that to him…or to myself.
I mentally slap myself, reminding my hormones this is not a date one last time before saying, “Luckily, I also have a credit card that is very good at buying whiskey, and, regardless of what you might think, I am an absolute delight to be around, so it’s not as big of a loss as you might think.”
He looks over at me, the sun and his baseball hat casting his eyes into a dark shadow. “I’ll be the judge of that.”