The Secret Club (The Clarendon Playmates Kink #1)

Prologue

“Rosie, something has to give. We either sell up and move somewhere more affordable or one of us needs to get another job.” My husband’s words pull on my heart strings.

I love this house, I love this cul-de-sac, I love this area, and I love the kids’ schools.

The last thing I want to do is sell up and move somewhere more affordable.

My husband works full time, I work part time for my own business.

We need extra money because of the rising costs of life—our mortgage, food, bills, just about everything has gone up.

And wouldn’t it be nice to afford the nicer things in life?

Family holidays being the top of my wish list.

There’s been a niggle at the back of my brain since James told me a few months back about a friend of a friend’s golf pro buddy being flown out to Singapore to help a golf club member take part in a golf weekend away.

It made me wonder about who plays golf at the prestigious Clarendon Club, how they can afford the annual fees and what else goes on there when they can literally pay to fly golfing experts out to their sporting holidays.

Opening my laptop in bed I look up the Clarendon Golf Club and am greeted with a beautiful website showcasing inside a modern clubhouse and beautiful pristine landscapes and greens.

I know nothing about golf, have never set foot in a golf club, watched it on tv or desired anything about it.

I don’t even care for miniature golf. But something is pulling on my desire to reach out to the owners for a job.

I have bar and café experience, surely these well to do golfers need some coffee to fuel them around hectares of grass all day.

Or a beer to celebrate a successful day of golfing?

Do they even call it golfing? And would they drink a nice chardonnay instead of a beer?

Taking a sip of my Pinot Noir for dutch courage, I write what I hope is my most flattering but not desperate email asking to be a part of Clarendon Golf Club in any capacity they might need.

Once that’s done I shut my laptop and try to sleep.

What would it be like working for someone else again?

It’s been eight years already working for myself. Can I even work for someone else?

The next morning to my utter surprise is a reply waiting.

Nervously, I click on the email and read to my amazement

Dear Rosie,

Thank you for reaching out overnight. You have actually caught us in a moment of need and we would love to arrange a meeting for Tuesday morning. Please let me know if 10am suits you for an interview at our in house café/bar the Marion.

I look forward to meeting you, Sandy.