8. Peyton
Peyton
Men. All I see are men everywhere.
I can count on one hand the number of women in front of me as I get closer to the golf club’s entrance.
I tug on the hem of my fleece-lined, oversized green sweater, which covers the majority of my polo dress.
It’s chilly, but thankfully my layers, combined with the matching fleece-lined knee socks I’m wearing, keep me warm.
My work wear is more of a “costume” to me than anything else. If I were acting as myself, I wouldn’t be here at all. I may not be as opposed to country clubs as Romy, but golfing is not how I’d choose to fill my free time.
I adjust my visor and wonder what Callum will be wearing today.
Given that he’s already doing us a favor, it didn’t feel right to dictate his clothing choices apart from the club’s dress code.
I glance at my watch, hoping that he won’t be late—and not just from a professionalism standpoint.
I also don’t want to be alone in this environment without him, which surprises me.
It’s been a long time since I’ve felt comforted by the thought of a man by my side.
Romy’s reaction to finding out Callum was “my Callum” in our office was…
interesting, to say the least. She seemed shocked, and not necessarily in a good way.
But I’m confident that Romy wouldn’t have encouraged his participation in today’s event if she didn’t think highly of him, so it must be something else.
I check my watch again. Where is he? I retrieve my phone from my belt bag. I don’t like having it out during assignments, but I haven’t seen the organizer yet, so it should be fine.
“Peyton?”
I glance up and find a man walking in my direction from the club’s entrance. It’s Callum… I think?
But this Callum isn’t wearing a health inspector’s outfit, and this Callum’s hair isn’t practically covering his eyes.
No, this Callum is wearing fitted golf pants and a quilted full zip jacket.
This clean-shaven Callum has some sort of gel in his hair, securing his thick, slightly shorter waves in place.
This Callum is even more attractive than the Callum of last week, who was already distractingly attractive to begin with.
“Sorry. Um, do I look okay? Is this outfit correct?”
Caught completely off-guard, I realize that I’ve been staring at him in silence.
Before I can even open my mouth to answer his question with a tamer, professional version of you look extremely hot and very correct, he starts speaking again.
“I actually brought two changes of clothes if this isn’t right.
Initially, I only had one backup outfit, but Clover said it looked ‘emotionally confusing’ and got me another one at the sporting goods store.
I’m parked nearby, because I got here thirty minutes ago.
It won’t take me long to grab it. My truck’s just over there. ”
I wordlessly turn in the direction he’s pointing, and confirm that yes, a truck is parked in the very first spot.
As I face him again, I gather myself and say, “You look perfect.”
Callum’s head turns to the side at the compliment, as if he’s looking for someone else I might be complimenting.
When he realizes I am, in fact, complimenting him specifically, a bright flush paints the tip of his nose red.
“Oh.” He clears his throat. “That’s good, then.
And you always look perfect, too.” He coughs again, and his light brown freckles nearly disappear behind his deepening blush.
“I mean, put together perfectly. Perfect for the job. Any job. At hand.”
Christ. Clearly, we both need medical attention, but there’s no time for a trip to urgent care, so I start heading toward the door.
Callum walks next to me, his shoulder inches from mine. The mere proximity of him is enough to lull some of my anxiety to sleep, which is a very disorienting reaction to have around a man. Especially for me.
In fact, everything about me feels relaxed, with the exception of my heart, which is galloping for reasons I don’t have time to investigate right now.
As we navigate the large group of men in front of us, I notice him stepping slightly in front of me, clearing a path. It’s only after we’ve finally made it through the crowd that he steps back to my side.
Callum scratches his neck. “Hey. Before we go in there, you should know that I haven’t been part of a ‘couple’ in forever. You might have to take the lead here. I really don’t want to screw this up for you.”
His genuine concern absolutely melts me, and my lips tip up. “Actually, I don’t have the best track record of being part of a functioning couple either. We’ll get through it together.”
“Should we, um, hold hands or something?”
My answer flies out of my mouth before I can soften it. “No.”
Callum blanches.
I don’t want him to think that he’s the problem here, but I’m also not ready to talk about my own baggage yet, so I try to salvage the outburst. “I mean, we probably shouldn’t touch at all during this assignment. Public displays of affection at high-class establishments are generally frowned upon.”
His posture relaxes, and he nods. “That makes sense.” He holds open the door and follows me inside.
As soon as we walk through the foyer, I spot Bobby—the manager I met on my intake video call—near a liquor cart down the hallway. On our way to meet him, we pass ornate paintings and pristine leather armchairs. The closer we get, the stronger the cigar smoke smell.
I give Bobby a small wave, and he motions for us to join him in a small room just off the hallway—a study of sorts.
Usually, being enclosed like this with a man I don’t know might give me pause.
My shoulders would be inching toward my ears, a tight knot of stress trapped in my lower back.
But Callum seems to ease some of my tension just by being here.
He keeps a small distance between us, and there’s just a sense of calm about him.
“Well, Peyton! We’re thrilled to be working with you.” He appraises my outfit, scanning me up and down. “Wow. You look perfect for today.”
Instead of the butterflies I felt when Callum told me I looked perfect, queasiness streams into my stomach when Bobby says it.
“Bobby, nice to see you in person.”
He holds out his hand, and I fuss with the hem of my dress.
If Callum notices my hesitation to touch Bobby, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, he leans in front of me and shakes his hand. “Hello, I’m Cal. I’m partnering with Peyton today. Everything looks fantastic.”
“Thank you. It’s been a labor of love—and gobs of money.
” Bobby guffaws, clapping Callum on the shoulder before facing me.
“As discussed, we’d love for you to play nine holes and establish yourselves before heading into the clubhouse to mingle with the rest of the guests.
I’ve sorted you into a small group with a younger crowd for the course. ”
“Got it.”
Even though Bobby’s retracted his hand, my pretend boyfriend hasn’t moved from his spot just barely in front of me.
Callum seems to have this soft leadership about him. A modest confidence to show up without showing off. It’s so pleasant and refreshing from what I’m used to.
A staffer pops their head through the cracked door and whisks Bobby away—something about not enough mint for the crème br?lée garnishes.
And so my work begins.
Callum and I set off toward the golf carts, and he jingles the keys in his hand. “Do you want to drive or hang out in the passenger seat?”
I love that he asked, but I hate driving, so I say, “I prefer to be cargo, thanks.”
Callum sits behind the wheel, and I take my seat beside him, ready to go. But he doesn’t start the ignition. He bounces his knee, seemingly waiting for something.
“You should put on your seat belt.” He gestures toward my lap.
I smooth a flyaway underneath my visor. “Should I be expecting a lot of traffic on the way to the first hole, or are you just a reckless driver?”
“Plenty of people have gone to the ER from golf carts, Peyton. In fact, nearly forty percent of golf cart related injuries are due to people falling out of them.”
I slap my hands over my cheeks in mock horror. “First, it was the mechanical bulls, now it’s the golf carts. What’s next? Grocery baskets?”
“Funny.” He scratches his chin. “But since you brought it up, children are the number one victims of grocery cart accidents. I don’t know the exact percentages, but harness safety is important.
Just like it’s important here. So, buckle your damn seatbelt.
” He tops off his command with a boyish grin.
“You win, Callum,” I concede, fastening my seatbelt. “Injury statistics hate to see you coming.”
“As long as you’re safe,” he replies casually, turning the golf cart on and releasing the parking brake. He gently presses on the accelerator pedal and starts driving at a snail’s pace.
I wonder if he even registered the “you’re” in his comment. It didn’t seem like a slip of his tongue. It felt like this was the hundredth time he’s told me that he cares about my safety, specifically.
“I never actually asked… Do you even know how to golf?” I ask him.
While my golf training is limited to casual lessons from my grandfather as a teen, I’m adept enough to get by. This past weekend, I played on a golf simulator at a sporting goods store just to double check. I’m not great, but I’m good enough.
Callum nods. “I’m just okay. I haven’t golfed in a while, but I’ve always been pretty athletic. I used to play sports in high school.”
He definitely seems like the kind of guy to downplay his skills, and it only takes one hole of Callum dominating our entire group to confirm that he was, in fact, being modest.
I unbuckle my seatbelt and retrieve some chapstick from the pocket of my polo dress, swiping across my lips. “So, it turns out you’re pretty good at golf. You’re a real Rory Gilmore out there.”
“Do you mean Rory McIlroy?”
“That’s what I said.”