Chapter 12
Lou: We missed tee time again because of your shenanigans.
Chuck: My shenanigans? You mean the two love birdies who just landed in the rough.
Lou: Seems like the golf cart is closer to the DeLorean than we anticipated.
Chuck: No one could have anticipated this.
The sun is blazing and I feel every burning ray as I swipe the back of my hand across my forehead.
“Do you want to try?” Clinton asks, angling his head to the golf club in his hand.
Since he started a few months ago, he’s kept me intrigued with his shameless flirting and light teasing.
His first week was busy but after he got his schedule all sorted, he always seemed to break during my lunch hour, and we spent that time laughing through meals together.
I’ve enjoyed every moment of our playful banter.
If he lived in Cypress Lake permanently then I may be more worried about actually falling for him and end our friendship all together.
But he doesn’t, and I find that fact somehow makes it feel safer to get closer to him.
Will it suck when he leaves? Of course, but I’ve already readied myself for his absence.
Today, we were planning on getting some ramen off the course, but Glen pulled us both into the office.
What I thought was going to be a reprimand for spending so much time together turned into me becoming Clinton’s assistant which is strange to me, but everyone here seems to simply jump in wherever they’re needed, and I didn’t want to seem like someone who couldn’t play their part on a team.
Glen may have mentioned it would help me better understand all the terms and needs of the clubhouse.
He isn’t wrong; I’ve tried to learn the rules and terms, but they just aren’t sticking.
When Clinton was hired to be the interim pro, I never would have imagined it would also mean I’d have to eventually spend entire shifts with him for the foreseeable future.
I wasn’t hired to walk around helping a man through every step of his day, and I won’t lie—it kind of pisses me off. Not really the man himself, just the situation. Instead of working in an air conditioned office I love, I’m out here sweating my ass off.
“No, golf isn’t really my thing,” I reply, attempting to rein in my frustration.
He chuckles, and I can’t hold back the question, “What’s so funny?”
“You work at a golf course, Paloma.” He laughs a bit harder, and I do my best to hold back the crack of a smile wanting to tug at my lips.
“I work at a golf club,” I snark, wanting it to be clear where I stand. “On a golf course, instead of in an air conditioned building. Sweating was not on my agenda today.”
“Po-tay-to, po-tah-to,” he says, tossing the club up and catching it higher on the neck.
“Isn’t it to-may-to, to-mah-to?” I argue.
Clinton shakes his head gently and widens his stance before taking a swing at the grass. He said he wanted to practice his swing a bit today since there aren’t any golfers on the schedule for instruction. I take the moment to peer at my phone, and I see a message from my best friend.
Cass
How’s the day with the golfer?
I looked him up.
That man is fine as fuck.
Definitely zaddy material.
Paloma
It’s fine.
He is so damn hot but so is being outside.
Girl, I’m sweating in places I shouldn’t.
Cass
Yeah, well, be nice.
And make sure you tell me if anything, you know…
Happens.
Paloma
Nothing is going to happen.
This is strictly professional.
Cass
Mmhm sure.
When I look back up from my texts Clinton is staring at me.
“Glen may have mentioned you needed to learn the terminology and rules of the game. And I may have mentioned I didn’t mind helping you.
I just didn’t know he would do something this drastic,” he says, as if this wasn’t his master plan all along.
“So this is your fault?” I retort and watch how his forearms flex when he grips the neck of the club again.
“Are you going to argue with me or get over here so I can explain why the shaft is so important.”
Did I just black out and wake up in a perfect dream? I look to the left and right of me. Well, air conditioning would make this perfect. I blink hard and stare at him. “Your shaft?”
“No, the shaft. Come see.” His gaze sears through me and then he points to the neck of the golf club.
“This is called the shaft. It connects the head and the grip of the club. It’s responsible for all the energy transferred from your swing and affects the speed of the ball, as well as the accuracy of where the ball lands. ”
That’s a whole lot of golf mumbo jumbo, but somehow coming out of his mouth, I actually understand it. Still, he knew exactly what he was doing. I glare at him and playfully put my hand on my now popped out hip. “You know what you said. You’re such a flirt.”
“No more flirting. Pinky promise.” He holds out his pinky, and I consider taking it. Before I can, he continues, “Come over here and let me show you this stroke.” His lips tilt up at the corners, and I roll my eyes playfully, knowing this term.
“Fine. But keep your hands to yourself, Mr. Morrison,” I say, teasing him as I walk closer.
He holds his free hand up between us and wiggles his fingers. “Then how else will I show you how skilled they are?”
Clinton teaches me how to hold the club properly, from my stance to how my hands hold the grip.
Each time when he says a term or rule we haven’t gone over, he tells me what it means, which helps me feel a lot less foolish.
Not needing to pull the information from him encourages me to try, as well as ask questions I may not have asked someone else.
“Here, let me show you.” His voice is low and close enough I can feel his words whisper over my shoulder. As I attempt to step away, thinking he wants to take over, he asks, “May I adjust your stance a bit? I’ll need to touch you, and I want to be sure you’re comfortable with that first.”
I nod my head and wait, but he only walks closer. He doesn't touch me.
“Can I have your consent?” he asks again, and this time I answer him.
“Yes. You can touch me.”
He comes up behind me and moves his fingers over mine, adjusting them slightly so my grip is higher and more firm. He stands close, resting one hand on my shoulder and the other on my hand holding the club. Tugging on my shoulder gently, he forces me to stand a little taller.
“Now, grab the club with both hands.” I do, but I don’t think it’s correct as he walks up, kicks my foot out just a smidge and wraps his arms around my frame. I take in a gasp, snapping my head in his direction, and instead watch his Adam’s apple bob and fuck me, why is that hot? “Like this.”
His voice whispers over the shell of my ear, and no matter how hot it is outside, I shiver nonetheless.