Page 44 of Fake Shot

I let go of her chin and pull her in front of me, wrapping my arms around her like I think someone might do if they were actually picking out a ring for their fiancée. Then I lean my head down close to her ear and say, “You sure you don’t want to choose? Because this is your last chance.”

“I’m good.” Her voice is full of amusement as she relaxes against my chest. It’s then that I realize how right I was ... when I’m close, or when I’m touching her, her walls start to come down.

“Okay,” I tease out the word in a way that sounds just likeyou’re going to regret this,as I lift my hand and motion the salesperson over. I turn my head toward her as she approaches, and right over Jules’s head, I say, “My fiancée would like something ... bigger.”

Jules is still not speaking to me when we pull up to the outdoor driving range. The sun has almost set, and the bright lights illuminate the front of the building and the nets in the distance. Outdoor speakers pump music so loud I can hear it through the windows of the car as thedriver pulls right to the front of the parking lot to let us out.

“Colt,no,” Jules says with an enormous sigh.

“It’s just golf. It’ll be fun,” I promise as I open the door and step out, holding the door for her. The driver rolls his window down and confirms that he’ll be back for us in a few hours.

“Colt, I’ve never golfed. And I know that, like most hockey players, you spend a fair amount of your off-season on the golf course.” It’s true. It’s one of the only sports I can participate in without violating my contract—they pay me way too much to risk me hurting myself in the summer.

“Right. So I’m going to kick your ass, and you’re going to enjoy learning how to do something you’re not already good at.”

“You think that discovering I suck at golf is going to teach me how to loosen up and let off some steam?”

The disdain in her voice clues me into two things. First, she really hates to lose. And second, she honestly doesn’t know what to do when she’s not in control, except to back away, refusing to participate.

Resting my hand on her lower back, I guide her toward the front doors. “Why so tense? I’ll make sure you can hit a golf ball by the end of the night. You might even enjoy yourself if you just relax and let things happen.”

I get the sense that relaxing and letting things happen is exactly what she’s trying to avoid, but I just don’t know why. I’m determined to figure it out eventually.

We’re greeted by name and shown to the bay I reserved on the top level—right in the middle of the action so that there will be plenty of evidence that we were out together. Afterchoosing the right size clubs for each of us, and ordering some food and drinks, she looks out at the giant targets lit up along the grass, then at the nets surrounding the range.

“So how does this work?” Her voice is quiet, and not just because of the loud music surrounding us.

I step up behind her. “I’ll show you how to hold the club and how to swing, then I’ll walk you through it.”

Is it wrong that the thought of wrapping my arms around her again, holding her hands in mine as I show her how to swing, has the blood rushing to my dick? Yeah, probably. Do I care? Not as much as I should.

She steps aside so I can demonstrate what to do, then she tosses me a ball. “Show me.”

I bend to set up the ball on the tee, plant my feet in the slightly wide stance I prefer, wind up, and bring my club down to meet the ball. The satisfying ping of the golf ball leaving my club has me grinning at her with a cocky smile.

“Show off.” She rolls her eyes, but she’s smiling.

“You want to try?” I know she doesn’t want to do this, but I need her to do it willingly, not because I’m forcing her to.

She shakes her head, but the way she’s biting her lip as she looks at me has me thinking she’s more willing than she’s letting on. “C’mere.”

Stepping across the turf, she says, “We have a little problem.”

“And what’s that?”

“I’m not left-handed.”

I bark out a laugh. “Yeah, I should have thought of that. I’m sure I can figure out how to swing right-handed.”

“This feels a little like the blind leading the blind,” shesays as I step up behind her, lining us up at the right distance from the tee.

“We’ll take a few practice swings before you try with the ball.”

I line myself up, hyper-aware of how my quads are pressing against her hamstrings and ass, and I bring my arms around her to adjust her grip. Then I clasp my hands over hers and explain the mechanics of the swing. She glances to her left, where my head is dipped beside hers.

“Eyes on the tee, Jules.”

She looks down, but presses her ass back into me in a way that has to be intentional. The way this woman doesn’t back down does strange things to me—like making me want to spend more time with her.

---