Page 3 of Tee’d Up For Trouble

She was fucking adorable.

Paddy chuckled softly. “Ah, Dee. Play nice. Poor fella’s stranded.” He then turned to me. “You a resort builder?”

“No.”

“What do you do for a living?” Paddy asked, bored.

“I am a professional golfer.”

“See,” Dee accused.

“Hold it, lass.” Paddy raised his hands. “What does that mean? You spend your days playing golf?”

I grinned. It was a humbling to be in a place where no one would give a fuck that I was a two-time PGA golf champion.

“Yeah, you can say that. I play golf professionally…you know, like people who play soccer professionally.” I faced Dee and put on my panty-melting smile that had worked time and again.

“Golf isn’t even a sport, and there’s a professional league?” Paddy was both disgusted and surprised. “You any good?”

This was the kind of place where there was no chance of me getting a big, arrogant head.

“I am.”

“How would you know?” Dee challenged.

“I may have won a championship or two.”

Fuck me! Could she at least get me a beer while she drilled my ass?

She saw my eyes go to the taps, and she sighed. “You want a pint?”

“Yes, ma’am. Whatever you have on tap?”

“The name is Dee. Ma’am is the feckin’ Queen.”

She drew a pint for Paddy and me. “It’s a local—Clare’s Own Lager from Western Herd Brewery. Brewed just down the road in Kilmaley. You won’t find anything fresher.”

“Thanks,” I said gratefully, taking a sip. It tasted like crisp, golden sunshine with just the right bite of bitterness. Damn near perfect. They might have shit weather here, but they made good beer.

“Thanks, love.” Paddy downed about half his glass and grinned at me. “It’s like mother’s milk to me. You know, babies in Ireland are given beer?”

I raised both eyebrows. That sounded like child abuse.

“Ah, Jesus, would you stop scarin’ the Yank,” Dee muttered, glancing at her watch. “Right then, what does your man here need, Paddy? I open in a half hour.”

“My car broke down, and Paddy here was kind enough to help me.” I pulled out my phone from my pocket. “And this thing stopped working. I have no clue why, so I couldn’t call for help.”

“Is it charged?” Dee asked.

I rolled my eyes. “Yeah, it’s charged.”

Dee sighed and yanked the phone away from me and, before I could protest, stuck a charger into it. A moment later, the white Apple logo showed up on the screen.

“It wasn’t charged.”

“I was charging it in the car,” I explained.

“The same one that broke down?” Dee said drolly.

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