Page 90 of A Little Crush
“Oh, come on, don’t act like you never have any fun.”
I squeeze the back of my neck, playing shy. “I mean, since it’s been so long and all…”
Her grin widens as she swirls the straw in her glass. “Care if I take a stab at it?”
“Go ahead.”
“When I was young, you’d take me miniature golfing, like, all the time. Are you still a fan?”
Miniature golf? I search my memory for the last time I went to the local putt-putt course before realizing the truth, no matter how pathetic it is. “Damn, I’m pretty sure I haven’t been golfing since I was with you.”
“Really?” She sits a little taller and rests her chin in her hands, though I don’t miss the slight tinge of pink in her cheeks.
Does she like that? Knowing my last experience of something—no matter how many years it’s been—was with her? Fuck, if the roles were reversed, I’d be happy as hell.
“Yeah, really,” I confirm, sobering. “Didn’t feel like going after how everything ended. What about you?”
She shakes her head. “Haven’t been since then, either.”
My brows raise, and my chest puffs up with satisfaction. “No shit?”
She nods. “One guy tried to take me my freshman year of college, but I couldn’t pick the right putter without feeling like I was going to have a panic attack, so he dropped it and took me home.”
Ignoring my unfounded jealousy at the idea of a guy taking her out years ago, I force a laugh and ask, “What was wrong with all the putters?”
“I don’t know?” She laughs. “That’s the funny part. They didn’t feel…right.” She grimaces. “They were either too long or the grip was torn or the color was wrong or…”
“Still got a thing for colors, huh?” I conclude.
Gaze narrowing, she flicks the straw wrapper at me. “Maybe.”
“You know all putters are the same size if you’re using the miniature-golf owned ones,” I point out, unable to help myself as I pour more salt in the wound. It’s only because I know she’d rather put up with my teasing than pretend like her OCD doesn’t exist at all.
“Whatever.” Flipping her long, ash-blonde hair over her shoulder, she rolls her eyes. “They were different, and I stand by that.”
“Of course you do,” I chuckle again. “So, what do you say? Wanna play nine holes?”
“Of miniature golf?”
“Yeah.”
Taking a sip of her fruity cocktail, she eyes me over the rim before licking her lips and setting it down. “All right. I’m in,” she decides.
“Really?”
“Yeah? What’s the worst that can happen?”
“The putters are too long or the grips have holes or the color is wrong?” I offer.
She reaches across the table, smacking my shoulder. “Keep it up, and I’ll shove my putter up your ass.”
“Ouch.” My amusement reaches a new pitch, and I settle back into my side of the booth. “I thought I was the one filling your holes, not the other way around.”
“Jax!” Her hand connects with my shoulder again, though the mirth dancing in her eyes, only eggs me on even more.
And honestly, it’s refreshing. Being able to joke with someone who understands my sense of humor. Hell, it’s freeing. And addictive. So much so I can’t help but add, “Unless you’re a fan of filling other men’s holes. And hey, I’m not one to judge. Guess I just figured that since you’re a…”
My mouth snaps closed as I realize exactly what I was about to let slip before searching for a way to backpedal. The last thing I would ever want is for someone to feel stupid about their experience, or lack thereof.
