Chapter Fourteen
Sutton
For the eleventy-billionth time today, Bobby’s hands slide over my hips, and I think it might be time to put a stop to this.
At first, I entertained him, if for no other reason than petty, childish games with Max.
Watching him try to remain calm while his former schoolmate put his hands on me was worth the momentary discomfort.
But this is moving right past friendly teaching and getting damn near creep territory.
And there’s a direct correlation between how many cans of beer Bobby has to how much his hands roam during his lessons.
His fingers flex against my hips as he pulls us close, his groin pressed against my bottom. Gritting my teeth, I step forward out of his reach. “I think I’ve got it now, but thank you.”
He doesn’t move.
I raise my eyebrows.
It’s the sixteenth hole, and if I can’t get him to back off now, I have a feeling the brunch that follows this game will be a miserable experience.
“You’ve been so helpful,” I say, hoping he’ll get the point. When he still doesn’t move, I add with emphasis, “Thank you.”
His eyes narrow, but they’re swimming, so it could be that he’s trying to figure me out—or it could be that he’s trying to see me at all. I lost count of how many drinks he’s had, but I stopped counting around fifteen.
“Dad, come on. Let her swing.”
His poor son has been trying to wrangle the man for the last three holes, but after Max’s shot nearly knocked him on the head, he’s been upping the ante, touching me more blatantly and feeding into the jealous way Max watches us.
It might be flattering if Bobby’s attention had anything to do with me. At this point I think he’s just a jerk who has an axe to grind with a former classmate.
“Bump,” Max calls, striding toward us with obvious intent.
Normally, I wouldn’t appreciate the whole caveman routine, but watching Max stalk toward us right now has the opposite effect. My pulse skips into overdrive.
Maybe it’s the mid-morning heat, but I’m ten degrees hotter with every step he takes forward.
He’s just so broad and big, his short-sleeve polo taut against his massive chest and those thick biceps. The white fabric makes his skin look extra tan today. His thighs—god, I love his thighs—strain against the fabric of his khaki trousers.
I never knew I was a thigh person, but good grief, this man fills out a pair of pants.
“Change of plans.” He jerks his thumb over his shoulder. “You’re in that foursome now.”
Bobby laughs. “Yeah, that’s not how it works.”
“New rule.” Max stops in front of us, then positions himself so I’m partially blocked from Bobby’s view. “You get handsy with the players, you either switch teams or get the fuck off the course.”
I suck in a breath. I’ve never heard his tone so… so forceful.
Protective.
It sends a delicious shiver down my spine.
What is wrong with me?
“I was teaching her how to swing,” Bobby says, the words starting to slur.
“Come on, Dad.” His son approaches us at the tee. “We’re holding up the game.”
“I’m not doing shit.” He points at Max. “Cruz is the one interrupting the game.”
“Make a decision here, Bumper.” Max points to his golf cart. “Join that team, or—
“Or what?” Bobby steps forward and his son grabs his arm. “What are you going to do, Cruz? Kick my ass like you did in school? You’re an old man now.” He snorts. “I dare you to fucking try it.”
Grayson hoots loudly, then lifts his flask in salute. “You heard him, Cruz.”
My eyes widen at the challenge. Max might not be college-aged anymore, but he’s damn near still the same size as he was when he played pro ball, and a force to be reckoned with.
Either Bobby Garrison is an idiot—or he has a death wish.
He did tell me he’s recently divorced, but this is just reckless for the sake of being reckless.
Max’s shoulders shake on a quiet laugh, then he shrugs. “You could have chosen the easy way, old man.” He closes the distance between them in one long stride, bends at the waist, then tosses Bobby over his shoulder in one easy motion.
“What the fuck!” the man yells, and I have to cover my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.
I mean, it serves him right for challenging someone of Max’s size.
Max strides to the golf cart parked behind ours, then plops Bobby into the front seat.
The man immediately tries to get up, but Max holds him down with one big hand on his shoulder.
“Stay down, Garrison.” He points to Bobby’s son and snaps his fingers.
“Brantley. Get your old man out of here before he embarrasses himself further.”
“It’s Grantley,” the kid mumbles beneath his breath, then gives me an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry about my dad, ma’am,” he says in passing as he hurries to obey Max’s orders. Hopping into the driver’s seat, he steps on the gas—
And Bobby nearly tumbles out of the cart.
I keep my mouth covered as they drive around our cart, then hop back onto the path and leave us standing at the green.
Six people remain, with only one four-person cart between us.
Max strides back over to me, then motions to the cart. “Get in.”
He’s radiating anger, and a smart person might just do whatever he asks.
But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t push his buttons a little.
“I’m not finished.”
“Oh, we’re finished.”
I prop a hand on my hip. “I have two more holes to play.”
Max steps closer and I hold my breath, craning my head back to look up at him. My god, he’s gorgeous when he’s mad. My pulse races in response to the possessive way he stares down at me. I shouldn’t like it, but tell that to that twist of desire low in my belly.
“Listen, darlin’, either you put that little behind onto that seat right now, or I’m throwing you over my shoulder and we’re walking back to the clubhouse.”
I lick my lips, tugging the bottom one between my teeth to keep my smile at bay.
Why would something so very neanderthal make my stomach swoop like I’ve just dropped ten stories in a roller coaster?
“I don’t know who you think you’re talking to, Mr. Cruz, but I’m going to finish my round of golf whether you like it or not. ”
Max’s shoulders rise and fall on a deep breath and I find myself holding my own.
Part of me can’t wait for him to throw me over his shoulder, but the smarter part of me, the grown-ass woman who doesn’t allow men to manhandle her, knows that wanting that is probably wrong.
I’m going to blame my evening with Dominus for this new, unsettling side of me—
“Sutton,” Max says, his voice low enough that only I can hear him.
I blink, bringing him back into focus.
“It has taken every last ounce of my will power to stand back and watch that asshole put his hands on you all goddamn morning. And now I’m all out of restraint. Please get into the cart so we can go have some lunch.”
“Well,” I begin, “if you were bothered by it, imagine how I feel.” I raise my eyebrows and motion toward the tee. “Now if you don’t mind, I would like to play these last two holes without some random man’s hands all over me.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches as he considers my words, then he finally shakes his head. “You’re going to be the death of me.”
I finally allow my smile to burst free. “Only if you don’t get out of my way.”