Page 115 of Small Town Firsts

I walk over to him, and he moves behind me. He brings his arms around me, guiding them just below my own. “You want to start with your left hand.” His voice is a husky murmur in my ear.

“Place it toward the top, almost like you’re shaking hands with the club.” He shows me what he means, holding his hand over mine.

“Then you’re gonna wrap your right hand just below it, sliding your pinky into the space between your middle and pointer finger.” He once again guides my movements, and I swear to God, his proximity has his words going in one ear and out the other. Seriously, how did we ever get any studying done at the start? It’s like he bathes in pheromones fine-tuned for my libido. Even when he made me want to stab him, he was sexy as fuck.

“Abby Jane?” he says my name in a mildly exasperated tone, cluing me into the fact that he’s probably had to say it more than once.

“Yes?” I bat my lashes, making myself the picture of innocence, which he promptly calls me on.

“You can take those fluttery lashes and shove ’em. We both know you’re far too naughty to pull off the whole good girl act. And before you get offended, I fucking love it and wouldn’t have you any other way.” He swats my ass and carries on. “Now, as I was saying. We need to talk about posture and stance. Move your feet so they’re shoulder-width apart and square your hips.”

I try my best to do as he says, but my brain and my body arenoton the same wavelength. Maybe my brain has become a hussy and is in cahoots with my body, and this uncoordinated rebellion is all a ploy to get Brock’s hands back on me.

“Here, let me show you.” He trots over to his bag and grabs two more clubs, laying one at my feet with the head facing the range and the second parallel to it. “Okay Abby Jane, this first one is your target line.” He kicks at my feet until they’re properly spaced. “Remember your grip?” he asks, and I move my hands into the position he taught me.

“Good girl. Now we’re gonna square these sexy hips of yours parallel to the target line.” He wraps his hands around my hips and pulls them into the proper position.

“What next?” I ask breathlessly. Who knew golf could be so erotic?

“Now you’re gonna address the ball.” I let out a giggle.

“Not that ball, firecracker. Imagine there’s a golf ball in front of your club. I want you to bend forward at the hips with your knees flexed a little—almost like you’re holding a beach ball between them.”

He runs a hand over my spine and my skin breaks out into gooseflesh. “Keep your back flat.” I straighten my posture, rubbing my ass into his groin as I do. His voice is strained when he praises me. “Fuck. Just like that.”

Once Brock is satisfied with my stance, he moves into working on my swing. He starts me with a small quarter swing, slowly working me up to a full one.

Watching his muscles flex and bulge, I can’t take my eyes off of him as he demonstrates how to shift my weight for my backswing and my downswing. After a small eternity of practicing without a ball, Brockfinallygraduates me to the big leagues. We spend an hour driving balls down the range. Well, Brock drives them.

Most of mine flop and roll, and on the off chance I manage to get one airborne, it either slices to the right or cuts to the left.

Eventually, I give up and decide to enjoy the view., a.k.a. Brock in the stance he worked so hard to teach me, swinging that club like he’s fucking Arnold Palmer. After experiencing the viewing pleasure of Brock working through half of my basket and all of his, I can say with one-hundred percent certainty if all golfers looked like him, golf would totally be a spectator sport.

We’re walking back to the clubhouse when I ask him, “What do you plan to do after you graduate?” And then it hits me—holy shit. We’ve never talked about our majors. Not once.

CHAPTER 20

BROCK

Her question causesmy steps to falter. We’ve talked about this, right?Right?I dip my head and cup the back of my neck. “Uh. I’m poli-sci.”

Abby Jane blinks at me a few times. “Oh. Yeah. I guess that makes sense…” She trails off and nibbles her lip.

“What?” I can tell she wants to ask me something. Her wide eyes and fidgeting are a dead giveaway.

“It’s just…is that what you want? To be a lawyer? To work for your dad?”

It’s crazy how even after all these years she still knows me so well. “Why do you ask?” I keep my voice neutral, not wanting to give way to the emotion clogging my throat.

“I remember as a kid how much you hated the fact that your dad helped the bad guys escape jail time. And how sad his long hours made you and how upset you were when he missed birthdays, and…” She trails off again, and I’m struck speechless—because even though we drifted apart, my girl remembers almost everything about me.

“The all-out dream? The PGA Pro Tour. The sensible dream? I’d teach and run a golf camp for kids that can’t afford a promentor. There’s just something about giving back that feels good—about making a difference.”

Abby Jane lets out this soft little sigh and steps closer to me, running her palm reverently over my jaw. “There’s so much good in you, and my God, it’s a turn on.”

I’m tempted to lay my lips on hers and show her just how muchsheturns me on, but we’re in public, in the middle of the clubhouse parking lot, so I rein it in.Down boy.“What about you, firecracker? You majoring in ass-kicking or what?”

“Actually, I have a double major: business and education with a concentration in literacy.” She blushes when she says it, as if she’s embarrassed by how fucking smart and dedicated, she is.

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