9. Shelby #3
“I’d never.”
He bumps my shoulder again as we share a smile—a smile that sends a shiver through my body, so obviously, I look away.
I don’t know what’s happening now. Over the years, I’ve trained my head—and my body—to not react to Beau Devereaux.
Sure, he’s gorgeous. And exactly my type.
But I’ll jab a needle into my leg to pass a polygraph to make sure no one ever knows that I’ve wondered what his beard would feel like between my thighs.
“Can I ask you a question?”
“Why not,” I respond. “The fact that we’re sitting here civilly means pigs are already flying somewhere.”
My joke doesn’t land as he turns to me, sincerity in his deep brown eyes. “Why did you try to make it work for so long? With Chad. Why were you hellbent on forcing the square peg into the round hole?”
I don’t know where the pigs are, but they might just be flying over a frozen meadow in hell, because I don’t even have the urge to give Beau a smart-ass answer. Nor do I tell him it’s none of his fucking business. I must be more exhausted than I realized.
“A few reasons,” I begin. “There was his reputation. It couldn’t be denied.”
“I get that,” Beau says. “Say what you want to about the guy, but he’s carved out a nice niche for himself in the golf world.”
“Which is why I kept fighting to make it work. I read countless articles online, all quoting our peers, praising him for fixing their slice. Or others like me who had a surgery and needed to tweak their swings, and he helped them do it. I hadn’t heard a bad word about him, so I figured the problem had to be me.
That I just had to keep pushing through and sooner or later it would happen. ”
“But it didn’t.”
I don’t answer Beau’s rhetorical question. “Also, somewhere in my subconscious is eight-year-old Shelby. The girl who wanted to learn everything about the game, but had to teach herself. Or pick up on things from watching you.”
Beau’s eyebrows raise up. “Belle, I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be,” I say, though I find a smile creeping out.
“When I was growing up, I always promised myself that if I ever got a coach, I would listen to everything they said. That I wouldn’t take anything for granted, because I was finally at the spot when I could have one.
Even if it was shitty advice from my high school ex-boyfriend. ”
I always thought not listening to a coach—or even firing one—would disappoint younger me. That I was letting down the little girl who used to hide and watch the lessons Beau got. But now I know I’d only be letting her down if I didn’t fire him.
And I know deep down she’s proud of me.
“Thank you.”
I tilt my head, giving Beau a questioning look. “For what?”
“For telling me that. I know you’ve never been one to overshare, or share at all. So, thank you.”
A rush of warmth runs through my body from the praise.
And there’s no wind right now, but something is happening, because suddenly Beau’s cologne is all I can smell.
It’s not the scent from high school, but it’s reminiscent of it.
Cool and aquatic. But somehow…elevated. Woodsier?
I don’t know how the two scents blend like they do, but it’s about to put me under a spell where I do something really fucking stupid.
Luckily, the sound of an animal that could be a yeti for all I know, breaks the daze I’m falling into. And that is my cue to get the hell out of here.
“I should get going,” I say as I stand up. “Early flight tomorrow.”
Beau doesn’t say anything, but stands up from the bench with me. I turn to my left toward my golf bag, and Beau turns toward me, leaving us chest to chest.
Fucking hell, he smells so good…
I know we were this close the other day, but somehow this feels different.
For years, my head has been able to remind my body that I hate him.
That I can—should ignore every part of me that is attracted to every physical part of him.
But somehow, when I need her the most, my brain is on a fucking smoke break and didn’t even put up the “back in fifteen minutes” sign.
My breathing is picking up, and I’m almost hyperventilating when I see his jaw tick back and forth. There’s not an inch between us. All I can smell is his cologne, and all I can feel is his chest against mine.
“Belle…”
My name on his lips is too much. Fourteen-year-old me would die if she knew she was this close to Beau. That if she wanted to, she could lean up and kiss him.
It wouldn’t take much…
And just when I think I’m about to do the stupidest thing I’ve ever done, the Golf Course Gods smile upon me and the automatic sprinklers turn on. We don’t get wet, they’re a little too far away for that, but the sound is enough to break me from the spell that Beau somehow put me under.
“See you in Vegas,” I rush out, not looking at him as I power walk to my clubs, throw them on the back of my golf cart, and speed back to my house. I need to get away from here. I need to pack. I need to get my head on right.
I need to remember that I hate Beau Devereaux.