Chapter Twenty-Nine
FORE-PLAY AND FEELINGS
Cole
The moment she slides into the passenger seat of my truck, I know I’m in trouble.
Andi’s wearing jeans and a red tank top that dips just enough to make it hard to think. Her hair’s twisted up in some messy thing that still somehow looks perfect, and her lips are glossy in a way that makes me want to forget our plans entirely.
She eyes me like she knows it.
“So,” she says, buckling up, “where are you taking me, firefighter? And if it involves anything with the word ‘artisanal’ in the name, I’m out.”
I laugh, pulling out of her driveway. “No artisanal anything. I promise. But you might still judge me.”
She raises an eyebrow. “Now I’m intrigued.”
“Mini golf.”
She snorts. “What are we, twelve?”
“No,” I say, shooting her a grin. “We’re two very competitive adults with questionable hand-eye coordination and a tendency to talk trash.”
She leans back in her seat, lips twitching. “Okay. I’m listening.”
The course is just outside of town, all glowing neon dinosaurs and bad ‘80s music piping through the speakers. A complete tourist trap. It’s ridiculous. It’s perfect.
Andi looks around like she’s trying not to smile. “This place is aggressively ridiculous.”
“So, you love it.”
She shrugs. “We’ll see. If there’s a windmill hole, I might take that as a personal attack.”
I eye her.
“A personal attack against my coordination,” she continues.
“Got it. Windmills scare you.”
We pay, grab our clubs, and head to the first hole. She insists on going second so she can “observe my technique and mock it appropriately.” I tease her that she just wants a look at my butt. Andi pokes me with her club.
I sink my first putt in two strokes. Not bad.
She eyes me. “Beginner’s luck.”
She takes her shot. Misses entirely. Stands there, blinking. “Okay. The ball is obviously defective.”
I laugh and help her line up her next shot.
Halfway through the game, she’s winning, and I’m not even mad about it. Every time she sinks a shot, she does this little victory wiggle that makes her earrings swing and her top ride up just a little, and I have to look away before I combust.
She catches me looking. Of course she does.
“Eyes on your own putter, Hartley.”
I hold up my hands. “Just admiring the form.”
Her eyes narrow, but she’s smiling now. Full on, no hiding it. It hits me like a punch to the chest.
After the last hole, we grab ice cream from the shack by the parking lot. She gets chocolate with sprinkles. I get vanilla because I’m a simple man with simple needs. She steals a bite anyway.
“You’re not gonna make a move, are you?” she asks casually, licking her spoon.
I nearly drop mine. “What?”
“You heard me. You’ve been mooning over me for nine holes and half a cone. Are we gonna kiss or what?”
I blink. She’s serious. Teasing, but serious.
“You want me to kiss you in the mini golf parking lot?”
She shrugs. “Romance is where you find it.”
So I lean in. One hand on her jaw, one still holding my melting ice cream. She tastes like chocolate and summer and every dream I never let myself have.
When we pull back, she looks stunned. And just a little breathless.
“Okay,” she says softly. “That... might have been worth the windmill hole.”
We walk back to the truck slowly, our fingers brushing, then intertwining.
And somewhere deep in my chest, something settles.
She’s letting me in.
God help me, I think I’m already in love with her.
“Come back to my place?” I ask, feeling hopeful.
Her lips lift in a secret smile. “Sounds good.”