Page 77 of Tee’d Up For Trouble

“No, I’m your slingshot.” I loved the way her lips twitched like she was fighting a smile, and that pleased me because it meant she wasn’t scared anymore.

I had approved several social media posts to go out from my account and reached out to friends with bigger followings than mine—like Nikolai, a soccer superstar—who had agreed to amplify my posts and add their own. Brad’s social media team was handling the logistics, and according to him, they were getting invested in the fight. They saw this for what it was—another case of rich white assholes trying to bulldoze a historic village for profit—and if they felt that strongly about it, I knew their audience would, too. My goal was simple: put enough public pressure on the county council that they had no choice but to change their vote.

I was in myoldbedroom, which I had been using as an office since I’d moved into Dee’s room, when Brad texted me with a link:Ask your Irish lass not to freak out.

I frowned as I opened the link and saw the headline on some site called The Irish Star stare back at me like a bad dream.

“Golf Star Jax Caldwell Caught in Scandalous Love Affair!”

Beneath the headline was a grainy photo of Francia and me from that damned event in Dublin, taken at just the right angle to make it look like we were cozying up to each other. Never mind that I’d been standing full feet away from her, and the only thing on my mind had been how quickly I could leave without causing a scene.

Jesus Fucking Christ! This was not what I needed.

Of course, the article didn’t stop there. It rehashed every detail of my so-called breakup with Francia, spun a few wild theories about why I was “hiding out in Ireland,” and, for good measure, tossed in a couple of recycled rumors about my so-called bad boy reputation—because God forbid the tabloids ever let that one die.

I texted Brad:Get someone to write a detailed response to this shit. I’m shutting Francia down.

Brad replied:Really?Hallelujah! Christmas is here early.

I slammed my phone down on the table, my heart sinking. It wasn’t the article itself that bothered me—I’d been dealing with this kind of crap for years, and Brad would take care of making sure Francia would be shut down.

No, what worried me was how Dee would react when she saw it.

I didn’t need another reason for her to question me, to doubt what we had. Things had just started to feel solid between us, and the last thing I wanted was for some stupid tabloid story to mess that up.

I found Saoirse stacking whiskey bottles under the bar.

“Do you read The Irish Star?”

She gave me a quizzical look. “Aye.”

“Does everybody in Ballybeg read the feckin’ thing?”

“Not everybody, but…sure, many do.”

Damn it!“Where’s Dee?”

“In the kitchen.” She stood up and put her hands on her hips quite like Dee did. “What did you do, Jax Caldwell?”

“I didn’tdoanything but tabloid journalism is fucking with my life.”

Saoirse grinned. “Is this about you with that fancy supermodel?”

I sighed. “You saw it.”

“Aye, I did.”

“Dee?”

She scoffed. “Like Dee would sully her eyes with that kind of gobshite.”

Okay, that was something.

Dee came into the bar then, a bright smile on her face.

I froze, my heart pounding. “Hey.”

She raised an eyebrow. “What’s with you? You look like you’ve spotted a banshee wailin’.”

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