Chapter 25 #2
The irritation in this kid’s expression speaks louder than words, though that doesn’t stop him from verbalizing it. “Sorry my ass,” he mumbles.
My breath catches, and before I can find my voice to respond, a large body appears next to me.
Beckett.
“You wanna try that again?” he scolds.
The teen’s eyes widen, and he takes a step back.
The muscle in Beckett’s jaw pulses. He cocks one eyebrow at the kid, waiting for him to reply.
“Um. I-I’m. . .I’m the one who should be sorry, ma’am,” he stammers. “It’s been a long day, and I didn’t mean to—”
Beckett lifts his hand, interrupting the teen. “Here’s some advice—don’t be an asshole. The world is shitty enough as it is.”
Shoulders sinking, the boy nods. “Your game is on me tonight. Sorry for upsetting you.” He holds out our putters and a pair of golf balls.
For a miniature golf course, this place is actually romantic. Shimmering twinkle lights wrap around nearby trees, illuminating the course as the sun dips below the horizon. The air is filled with laughter and the occasional cheer.
“What was that back there?” I tease, giving Beckett a sidelong look.
“I didn’t appreciate the way he spoke to you. That’s all.” He shrugs.
I huff a breath. “I could’ve handled the twerp myself.”
He lets out a deep sigh. “Yeah, but you shouldn’t have to. You don’t always need to fight your battles alone and you deserve to have someone in your corner.”
I pull up short, a wave of emotion washing over me, making my chest flutter.
And this man wants to be in my corner. Not out of obligation, but because he genuinely cares.
He turns around, brows pulled low, and backtracks.
“Is everything okay?” he asks.
“Yep! Just a rock got stuck in my shoe,” I blurt out a little too fast, buying time to compose myself.
He narrows his eyes like he doesn’t believe me.
Dammit. He’s too attentive to fall for little white lies. Especially mine, since I’m a terrible liar.
I may or may not have gotten written up at my first job out of college because of my nonverbal communication skills.
My face can be even more expressive than my words.
In order to rectify my behavior, HR required me to take a class about body and facial language.
Imagine how difficult it was for me to keep a neutral face through the course.
My muscles were practically twitching with the need to make a what the fuck am I doing here? expression.
Standing at the first hole, Beckett rolls up the sleeves of his black henley. And just like Pavlov’s dog, I practically drool. All around us, people stare. For a man so shy, he sure knows how to command the attention of an audience.
I may or may not be objectifying him.
Who am I kidding? Of course I’m objectifying him.
When he bends to set his ball on the green, the way his jeans hug his ass is a treat to anyone who looks his way. The fabric molds to every curve and contour of his lean form, causing my pulse to quicken. The denim brand should really hire him for their advertisements.
He clears his throat, and I snap my head up. “Whatcha looking at over here?”
Once again flushed with embarrassment, I ramble, the words falling out of my mouth at an impressive speed.
“Wow. Beautiful weather we’re having, huh?
Not too hot. Or too cold. A slight breeze.
Perfect. Very comfortable. I hope the stars come out tonight.
Then again, there’s a lot of light pollution here.
Did you know that more than one-third of the world’s population can’t see the Milky Way due to—”
“Joey?” He takes a step closer.
“Yeah?” I say, finally looking him in the eye.
“You’re okay.” His lips curl into an amused smile, soothing my nerves.
And it might be my imagination, but that sparkle in his eye is one of affection. Or maybe adoration?
I could spend all night trying to decipher what that little glint means. Regardless, it sends a fluttery wave through my body.
“But I can’t have you distracted when you’re so hell-bent on winning,” he jokes.
I wave him off. “I wasn’t distracted. I was just—”
“Being opportunistic?”
Yep.
With a sheepish grin, I say, “Guilty.”
Chuckling, he turns back to his ball.
We probably look hilarious together. He’s in head-to-toe black, all tattooed and scruffy, with perfectly disheveled hair, while I’m in a long, colorful floral dress that hits at my ankles and an oversized denim jacket with decorative embroidery.
All I need is a flower tucked in my hair and a bit of devil’s lettuce coursing through my veins, and I’m all set for a peace and love music festival.
The way his muscles and tendons flex as he lines up his shot has no business being this erotic. I would love golf much more if all the men looked like him while holding a club.
With a steady, smooth swing, he hits the ball and. . .that sly son of a bitch.
It stops no more than three inches from the hole.
Mouth hanging open, I look at him and then his ball and then back at him. “Dude. What the hell?”
He sways a little, embarrassment rolling off him. “I played in college.” Shrugging, he steps aside so I can set my ball down.
“That information would’ve been nice to know beforehand. Then I wouldn’t have been so cocky,” I mumble.
Tipping his head back, he belts out a laugh. Tonight, he’s carefree and relaxed. Holding a putter in one hand, his arms hang loose at his sides, a soft smile on his lips that hasn’t once disappeared since we arrived.
This is the Beckett the world should get to know.
And I’m honored to have the privilege of seeing this side of him.