Page 5 of Good Graces

Davis shakes his head, laughing to himself. “You’re too sharp for this job, Rose.”

Yeah, well. Sharp doesn’t pay my bills.

We move on, the game stretching out in long, slow intervals. Their conversation shifts from business deals to vacation homes, to their stock portfolios, to a poker game one of them lost big in last week.

I tune most of it out. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of appearing engaged while caring about absolutely nothing. That is, until Davis turns his attention back to me.

“So, just summers here?” he asks, casually adjusting his glove. “Why don’t you work during the school year, too?”

“Busy saving the world up at Dayton,” I say lightly.

Mancini nods. “Smart girl. Focus on your studies. What’s your major again?”

“Business,” I lie.

Beckett whistles. “Damn. You’re gonna have half the country club hiring you once you graduate.”

“Sure,” I say, forcing a polite smile. “If they pay well.”

They laugh, and Davis shakes his head. “You know, I like you, Rose. You remind me of my daughter—sharp as a whip, doesn’t take shit from anyone.”

“Must run in the family,” I deadpan.

He grins.

We keep moving. I check the time. Only two more hours.

I keep my steps measured, my grip firm on the handle of the golf bag slung over my shoulder. The heat presses down, thick and unrelenting, the kind that settles deep in your bones and makes the air itself feel too heavy to breathe. I fight the urge to shake my hands out, to press a palm against my chest to make sure my lungs haven’t shrunk in the past five minutes. Not now. Not here.

I exhale through my nose, slow and steady.

I’m tight and buzzed with strain, but this isn’t anything new. It’s the heat. Just the damn heat.

Davis swings again. This time, the ball arcs clean, landing just shy of the green. He grins, pleased with himself, and they all start moving again, talking about some real estate deal or stock dip or whatever the hell else rich men like to complain about.

I don’t listen. I keep my head down, count the holes left in my shift, roll my shoulders like that’ll loosen the slow, breathless pressure that’s begun creeping in.

The fairway curves around the edge of the pool deck, and I catch a glimpse of white chairs, striped umbrellas, the glint of water sparkling under the midafternoon sun. And there’s Warren again. Still on his lifeguard stand, still watching the water like it’s the only thing in the world worth looking at.

But the moment my gaze snags on him, his head tilts, just slightly, like he knows. Like he always knows.

I snap my attention forward, jaw clenching.

No. No way in hell am I going to let him think he still has that kind of pull over me. The kind that sees through every defense, every carefully constructed wall. The kind that never really left, no matter how much I told myself it did.

Sure, I’m the one who fucked up. Who made the wrong choice. Who ruined everything. And I spent so many nights wishing I could just apologize, explain, fix it. That I could go back and undo it.

But it doesn’t work like that. Grudges like that root deep, make a home in your bones. It would have been foolish to think he’d ever want to hear me out.

So, if he wants to pretend I don’t exist, then by all means, let him.

I adjust my grip on the golf bag and keep walking forward.

By the time the round ends and I finally make it back to the clubhouse, my muscles are aching, my shirt sticking to the small of my back, and my patience is wearing thinner by the second. Somehow, I managed to keep my chest from tightening past the point of no return, so I’d consider that a win.

The blast of cold air-conditioning hits like a shock, and I shudder, sweat cooling against my skin too fast. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake the sensation as I make my way toward the staff area.

The break room is mostly empty, just a couple of other workers scrolling their phones or gulping down bottles of water. I head straight for the counter, grab a plastic cup, and fill it to the brim with ice water.

---