Page 4 of Good Graces

“You gonna get that for me?” I ask, nodding toward the closet door.

He straightens instantly, fumbling for the key and rushing to unlock it.

Too easy.

I pluck the supplies off the shelf, tossing a breezy “Thanks, sweetheart” over my shoulder before strutting back across the deck.

Head high. Shoulders back. Not looking at Warren. Not letting myself think about the way he looked right through me.

I make my way across the club grounds, cutting a direct path toward the caddy shack with my supplies in hand. My fingers tighten around the clipboard, my nails pressing against the smooth plastic. I won’t let this shake me.

It’s only four weeks. I’ve worked here every other summer since I was sixteen. I know this place. The shortcuts, the schedules, the way the smell of freshly mowed grass mixes with sunscreen and overpriced cologne.

The caddy shack is the same as always. It’s dim, slightly musty, the faint scent of sweat and sunscreen clinging to the walls. The long wooden bench against the back wall is already half-occupied, a few guys lounging around, checking the tee sheet, waiting for assignments.

I step inside, drop my bag in the corner, and take a slow breath.

“Rose.”

I glance up. Mikey, one of the older caddies, leans against the lockers, arms crossed. He’s been here longer than I have. He’s in his late twenties, permanently tanned, smirks like he knows more than he lets on.

“You’re back,” he says, giving me a slow once-over.

I grab a fresh pencil from the supply bin, arching a brow. “Observant as ever.”

He grins, unbothered. “Didn’t think you’d be working this summer.”

I shrug. Neither did I.

One of the newer guys—skinny, nervous energy, fresh out of high school—glances between us. “You guys know each other?”

Mikey snorts. “Kid, everyone here knows Quinn.”

I roll my eyes, grab my name tag from the cubby, and clip it onto my polo. “Tee sheet updated yet?”

Mikey nods toward the whiteboard. “You’re with some of the regulars. Davis, Mancini, and Beckett.”

I barely suppress a groan. Businessmen in their forties who like to talk more than they play. The type who tip well enough but spend half the round trying to flirt.

I take my caddy bib from the wall hook, slide it over my head, and check the time. It’s barely past eight, which means I’ve got a long shift ahead. Four hours in the sun with a trio of windbags and no real escape. Perfect.

The sun is brutal by midmorning, bearing down in thick, unrelenting waves as I trail behind my assigned golfers. The course is sprawling, impossibly green, stretching out under the kind of summer heat that makes the air feel heavy, sticky, suffocating.

“Damn,” Beckett mutters as we approach the next hole, swiping his sleeve across his forehead. “Hot as hell out here today.”

It’s been hot every day. But sure.

I pull a bottle of water from my bag, take a sip, and keep walking.

Davis lines up his shot, adjusting his stance, shifting his weight. Takes too long. Swings too hard. Sends the ball slicing off into the rough.

Mancini claps him on the back. “Tough break, man.”

Davis exhales sharply, irritated. “Quinn, be honest with me. That was a shit swing, right?”

I fight the urge to sigh. “My job isn’t to comment on your form,” I say, keeping my tone even, professional.

Beckett chuckles. “That’s a yes.”

---