Page 67 of Sweet Spot
As he talks, I take a few practice swings, stretching out my sore muscles. I get in position and then feel his body press up against me. Even after being in his arms all night, the feel of him this close is exhilarating.
His hands guide me slowly through the swing twice before he says, “But when it gave back, they were some of the happiest times of my life.” He kisses my shoulder and his hands fall to my waist. “You’ll see.”
“How can you be so sure I have what it takes to make it?” I turn so I can face him. No one has ever believed in me the way he does, except maybe my dad, and that’s mostly parental love bias.
“I’ve been watching people swing golf clubs my entire life, and you remind me a lot of myself when I was starting out. Hot headed and passionate with an incredible work ethic. Very few people are willing to do everything that’s asked of them.” He brushes my hair away from my face. “And you do it and then ask for more.”
“Maybe it’s just you who I’m good at pleasing.”
His mouth pulls up into a smile. “That you are.”
“You’ve never said why you gave it up.”
“Not a lot to tell. I quit so I could coach and build my own business.”
“Do you miss it?”
“I miss the pursuit, working toward a goal and then moving the bar higher. But, no, I don’t miss touring. Getting hurt was a blessing. It made me realize it wasn’t being out on the course that made me happy, it was the work I put in to get there. I spent an entire year training so hard to get back and then when it was time.” He shrugs. “It didn’t sound as appealing as what I’d been doing in the gym. And giving that to other people, the same way my Pop did, it’s like I can feel him smiling down at me.”
I’m nuzzling into him, enjoying the heat of his skin and the touch of his body, thinking about his words and how amazing he is, when he steps away. “I gotta hop in the shower before a call. I made oatmeal, and there’s fruit in the fridge.”
The grimace that turns my lips down makes him chuckle. “There are also Pop-Tarts. I couldn’t remember if you said you preferred s’mores or brown sugar cinnamon.” Now it’s his turn to make a face. “I got both.”
“Oh my God, you do listen when I talk.”
He smacks my ass as he starts to the door. “Hmm? What’d you say?”
I’m still half-dressed and still playing with his toys when Lincoln returns, smelling of soap and dressed in slacks and a green polo. The ends of his black hair are wet, and he runs a hand through it. I’m not sure why I expected him to spend the day lounging in gym shorts and a ratty T-shirt since he’s worked every Saturday since I’ve known him, and I’m disappointed as he takes a seat behind his desk like he’s ready to settle in for the day.
“This thing is amazing. If they had these in arcades while I was growing up, I never would have left.”
He smirks and opens his laptop.
“What do you have today? Jetting off to an NFL game? Calling up your Stanley Cup winner friends?”
“Lots of emails, checking in with my other clients, phone calls with . . .” He stops and raises his brows. “You really want to hear the details?”
I scrunch my nose and shake my head. “All day?”
He must read the disappointment on my face. “Yeah. I figured you’d need to head back to Valley this morning. You’re welcome to stay as long as you want. I can take calls in the living room so you can hit balls in here or you can take the cart to the course.”
I fake a smile as he goes back to his laptop. I leave the spare room, grab a Pop-Tart from the kitchen, and wander around his apartment while I eat.
His office is the only room that looks lived in. The living room is sparse—coffee table, couch, and television. He’s tidier than I am, which isn’t exactly a large feat, and there are no water rings on the coffee table or stacks of papers.
In his bedroom, I close my eyes and inhale his scent. It lingers from the open bathroom. He’s made the bed, which earns a chuckle from me. Of course, he makes his bed every morning. I shower and get dressed, pack up the few things I brought, and then head back into his office.
He’s on the phone, leaned back in his chair, brows furrowed, and the end of a pen between his teeth. I hang back until he sees me and motions me in.
I grab his club again and take a few swings in front of the simulator without a ball. His eyes track my swing, always dissecting and coaching. I half expect him to pass me a notebook filled with critiques, but he only watches until I give up and go to him.
Facing him, I sit on the edge of the desk. I don’t touch him or speak; I just want to be near him.
His free hand palms my thigh, and his long fingers run absently across my skin. He doesn’t look at me or acknowledge me in any way but with his touch. And he doesn’t freaking skip a beat on the phone. He’s all tech talk about maintenance times and backups. Still, it’s pretty hot watching him be the boss man.
When he’s finally done with his call, he blows out a breath, drops his phone onto the desk, and then puts a hand on either side of my legs. “I thought you were practicing.”
“I am. I’m visualizing.”
