Page 89 of Pros Don't

I can feel Holland’s gaze on the side of my face. I debate for a moment how much more I want to share right now, but then I decide to go for it. If there’s one thing I’m proud of, it’s my parents. I don’t mind the whole world knowing about them.

“A hurricane ripped through our town when I was in fourth grade, and insurance didn’t cover our losses. We lived in a shelter for a while, and my dad was out of work. I didn’t know it at the time, but my parents took out a loan to keep a roof over our head and to get the store back on its feet. The interest added up over the years. They’ve always been hard workers, but it’s tough to get ahead when you’re starting from way behind, you know?”

“You come by your work ethic naturally, then,” Holland says quietly.

I offer him a smile. “The biggest compliment you can give me is to tell me that I’m like my parents.” I think about them now, and there’s a tightness in my chest. “I never knew we were poor back then. I never felt like I was missing out, because my parents’ love and attention filled in the gaps for the material things I didn’t have. They really love each other. They’re the standard for me.” Oh gosh, I’m gushing, and I can’t help it. “If I can’t have a relationship like theirs, I don’t want it. The last time I saw them, they were dancing around the living room, listening to Frank Sinatra, still with hearts in their eyes for each other after thirty-three years of marriage.” I laugh softly. “Who does that?”

“Them,” Holland says, a small smile on his face. “I bet you will too someday.”

“Hope so.” I shrug, realizing that the picture that pops into my head is of a gray-haired Holland, holding me in his arms as we twirl around the living room.

Easy, tiger.

“They sound incredible. I know them a little from golf stuff, but wow.” Holland whistles, and I snap myself out of my cart-before-the-horse daydream. “Thanks for sharing that with me.”

I nod, forcing myself to focus on something that isn’t my potential relationship with Holland. “My dad got me into golf. We didn’t have cable or subscription TV, but he and I would watch tournaments on Saturdays and Sundays, using our antenna to pull in the local channel airing the rounds. We obviously couldn’t afford to travel to fancy places, but my dad and I would sit in front of the TV, and we’d pretend we were in Hawaii, or Texas, or wherever they were playing. He’d say, ‘Look at that place, Mal. Isn’t it gorgeous? Look at how green the grass is! Look at the sky.’ We’d watch our favorite players and cheer them on together. When I got to high school and realized I could join the golf team and play eighteen holes regularly for a fraction of what it would cost me or my parents otherwise, I signed up faster than you can even imagine. My mom hunted down a full set of clubs for me at thrift stores around our town, and I had a great coach in high school who taught me so much. I was able to get a scholarship to play in college, which changed everything for me and for my family. The rest, as they say, is history,” I finish with a shrug.

Holland shakes his head slightly. “Incredible.”

“My parents are,” I amend.

“You are too, with that work ethic you got from them,” he says.

“I don’t know about that, but that’s why golf means so much to me. I love it, and it’s the way I can help support them now.”

Holland pulls me to a stop. “I’m sorry I gave you a hard time about being too serious about what we do out on the course.”

“You’re fine.” I shrug. “I’m intense. I get it.”

“Yeah, but as a female coach, you’re trying to prove a point, right?”

I look up at Holland’s tan, handsome face, wondering why he’s echoing our earlier conversation. I want to tell him there’s no need to rehash it, that we’re good, but then it dawns on mewhat he’s doing. He’s saying it again so it has a chance of being broadcast to the entire country. He’s speaking up for me, and dang it if a ball of emotion doesn’t wedge itself in the back of my throat.

I swallow it down and nod. “Yeah, exactly.”

“You’re so good at your job. I don’t want you to feel like I don’t appreciate you. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like that.”

“You didn’t.”

When I think about it, I may have gotten huffy about the differences in our styles and about how cocky and sure of himself Holland is, but I’ve never doubted that he respects my work or me as a person.

“I mean, you’re annoying and a little needy, but…” I shrug. “I mostly know how to handle you.”

“Yes.” He holds my gaze. “You absolutely do.”

Asthathangs in the air between us, he pushes the door to the second barn open for me to walk through, and the scent of delectable baked goods hits me like a wall. The whole room smells like cherries and flakey crusts. I want to bottle up the scent and use it as perfume.

“Pie,” I say on a sigh.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Holland says into my ear.

“You should know this about me by now. I’m always hungry.”

“Okay, but you’re going to have to work for your pie.”

I arch a brow.

“We’re signed up for the celebrity pie-eating contest that starts in”—he glances up at the large clock that’s affixed to the wall—“five minutes. Come on. We’ve got to get checked in.”

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