Page 68 of Sweet Spot
He smirks before his lips twist into a regretful frown. “I have to send feedback to a client and then hop onto another call.”
“I know. I don’t want to get in the way. I should head back soon anyway.”
He tugs me down onto his lap, and his thumb holds my chin steady as he brings his beautiful, full lips to mine. His touch is soft, but his kiss is demanding. No warm up or interlude, just greedy desire to take what he can with the moments he has.
I don’t know how we get there so fast, but I’m grinding into him and he’s got both hands under my shirt when he mutters a string of curses. I’m breathless when he pulls back. It’s only then I realize his phone is ringing.
He answers, sounding totally normal while I can barely form a thought in my lust-addled head. I start to stand to give him privacy, but he holds me in place.
“Sorry about that,” he says when he hangs up a minute later.
“Is that a yo-yo?” I point to the open shoebox on his desk. His long fingers splay out over my ribs and he nods as his mouth covers mine.
His phone rings again, and he hums an annoyed sound as he inches back. His expression is apologetic but also resolved like he wants—or maybe needs—to answer it. I stand and step away. He doesn’t let go of my hand like I expect him to, and I’m stuck an arms-length away. “Thanks for yesterday. Go be awesome, Coach.”
* * *
“Your swings from the driving range looked pretty good. You still aren’t releasing your hands at impact, though.”
I nod and slowly rotate through my swing, focusing on keeping my right side from overpowering my left. Practice tonight has been beyond frustrating, and the tension, even through the screen, fills my room.
“I’m not seeing it with the foam balls. You have it here, but you gotta translate it to the range and course. There are more distractions out there, more pressure during a tournament.” His serious tone and the furrow of his brow make me want to work harder, but I’m already working hard, and I still can’t seem to get it.
I blow out a breath of irritation.
“Take a break. You have to give your brain time to piece it all together. We’ve thrown a lot at it. It’s just time and reps.”
“Time I don’t have,” I say and take another swing.
He lets me swing a dozen more times before saying, “Show me some of your fancy club work.”
“Why?”
He shrugs and leans back in his chair. “I think it’s cool. Come on, show off for me.”
I think for a moment before I go into one.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
I fall into the rhythm easily and allow my breaths to even out as everything else falls away.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
On the last bounce, I push the ball higher into the air and then catch it, pause with it on the face of the club, and turn a quick circle, arm straight. I end with bouncing it a few more times on the clubface and then catching it behind my back.
I do a mock curtsy at the end, a little annoyed but not exactly at him. I can do tricks all day, but it won’t fix my swing issues.
“That was awesome.” The proud smile on his lips erases some of my frustration. “Wanna see one of mine?”
When I nod, he grabs the yo-yo that was on his desk last weekend. He stands and adjusts the screen so I can see him. With a wink in my direction, he loops his finger through the slipknot and begins. He’s laser focused as he gets into it like he’s remembering the feel.
After a few times up and down, he looks at me. “This one is called the sleeper.” He tosses the yo-yo to the ground and keeps it there, allowing it to spin for several long seconds before snapping it back up to his hand.
“Walk the dog.” He throws it back down and somehow moves it along the floor. “Around the corner. And . . . take the elevator.” He finishes with some fancy handwork and a big, boyish grin.
“Wow. That is the nerdiest thing I’ve ever seen.” Also, the hottest. Who knew yo-yoing was hot?
“Don’t pretend you aren’t impressed.”
