Page 112 of The Summer of Wild

"You're going to want to—"

"I know how to golf," I hold up at hand, stopping Cash.

"You do?" He tilts his blond head to the side.

Yeah, dumbass, I do.

"What I find so interesting," I turn my upper body to face him, "is that you spent years coming up with excuses to play golf with your dad at the country club without me. A game you love and play often. But you never took me to play it with you. Instead, I get the cheaper, smaller, washed-up version of the country club in the form of mini golf. If you want to give me pointers, save it. You should have done that before you left me."

"Okay," Cash shoves his hands into the pockets of what appears to be Wilder's shorts. "I deserve that."

"You do," I flash my eyebrows at him.

"So, when did you learn how to golf?" Cash asks.

"Wouldn't you like to know," I raise my eyebrows, annoyed.

"I would," Cash tries. "That's why I asked."

"Well, guess what?" I snarl. "You don't get to know because you dumped me for Europe."

"Ouch," Cash takes a wounded step back.

"Careful," my nostrils flare, "wouldn't want you to fall on your ass. Oh, wait, you already did. Otherwise, you wouldn't be here with Wilder and me right now."

"Blondie," Wilder interjects.

I let out an exaggerated huff. "What?"

"Would it kill you to be nice?" he lowers his voice.

"Yeah, I think it would."

"Someone's in a mood today," Wilder grumbles.

"Anyone else have something they need to say before I hit the ball?" I smack my lips together. Wilder and Cash shake their heads in unison. "No? Good."

I take a breath, my toes wiggling in my shoes. I need this ball to go in on the first try. I need it to curve just a little to the right, over that hump. I need to prove to Cash that I'm not the girl he left confused and hurt on the front porch. I'm the new, improved Ingrid who doesn't need him or his bullshit.

I carefully swing the club back before letting it slide forward. The ball soars over the straightaway, curving just slightly to the right, barely climbing the hump, and coming to rest in the first hole.

I smile triumphantly before rearranging my features into a mask of indifference. "Who's up next?"

Cash steps forward. He finagles the ball a thousand different ways as I stand beside Wilder, his skin so close I can feel the heat coming off it.

"Go easy on him," Wilder whispers.

I sigh, bored. "No."

"He's had a rough couple of weeks."

I laugh quietly in disbelief. "And I'm supposed to feel bad about that because?"

"Because he slept on my floor and snored all night long," Wilder grumbles.

"I'll be nice but I'm going to need something in return," I wager.

"What?"

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