Page 11 of Tee the Season
The apartment suddenly feels smaller than it did last night. I’m used to wide-open fairways, endless skies, the ability to walk away when things get too complicated. This place, with its cozy furniture and lived-in comfort, feels like working a course I’ve never seen, where a single sliced shot could turn a round upside down in an instant.
I roll my shoulders, feeling the familiar tightness from years of carrying a forty-pound bag. I twist to stretch my lower back, working the dull ache that never quite goes away.
With one last glance at the gorgeous brunette in bed, I head for the kitchen, needing caffeine and space to think. At least, I can manage coffee.
Except Tabitha’s kitchen setup looks like something from a science lab. An ancient one. No simple push-button machine or pods in sight, just a complicated glass contraption with multiple chambers, a hand grinder, and what appears to be a small scale next to a canister of beans on the counter.
Who weighs coffee beans?
I’m standing there, holding the canister in one hand and about to search online for help, when I notice the cabinet above the sink is hanging crooked. One hinge is completely loose, the door sagging at an angle.
I set down the canister and open drawers until I find what I’m looking for—the junk drawer. Sure enough, I dig through random screws, rubber bands, takeout menus, receipts, a tape measure, and finally find a screwdriver set. I grab a Phillips head and get to work.
The hinge just needs the screws tightened and one replaced. Easy fix. It takes me maybe three minutes to get the doorhanging level again, opening and closing smoothly. I’m testing it one more time when footsteps pad down the hallway.
My pulse kicks up as Tabitha appears in the doorway, wrapped in a thick terrycloth robe that covers way too much of her. Her hair’s messy, and she’s got a soft, drowsy look that makes me want to carry her back to bed and cancel my meeting.
Her gaze land on the cabinet then the screwdriver in my hand. Something shifts in her expression, an emotion I can’t quite read. “You fixed it.”
“Hinge was loose. Just needed tightening.” I return the screwdriver to the drawer, suddenly aware of how domestic this moment is. Me in her kitchen in just jeans, fixing things before coffee, as if I belong here.
She’s running her fingers along the edge of the door, testing the smooth swing. The silence stretches for a beat too long, and I realize this simple gesture means something to her I didn’t intend.
“It’s been broken for three months,” she finally says, her voice quiet. “I kept meaning to fix it, but…” She trails off and shakes her head. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
But she’s still staring at it, so I turn back to the coffee, not wanting to read too much into whatever she’s thinking.
“Having trouble?” she asks after a moment, stepping up beside me as I fiddle with the beans and grinder. I’m grateful for her teasing tone as she gives me a hard time, deliberately lightening the mood.
“Maybe a little.”
“It’s a pour-over, not a sand trap.”
Right. Except I can handle sand traps. This domestic maze of close quarters and morning rituals? I’m completely out of bounds.
“Let me,” she adds, grabbing the canister of beans from the counter. “Unless you want to drink coffee grounds.”
“Is this really how you make coffee?” I gesture at the glass contraption.
She laughs, and hell, if that raspy morning sound doesn’t shoot straight to my groin. “Only because I care what my coffee tastes like.”
“I care. I like it hot and caffeinated.”
“Spoken like a true road warrior.”
She moves past me in the narrow space, her hip brushing mine as she plucks the grinder from my grasp. The brief contact sends heat racing through me. I’m tempted to pull her against me and kiss her senseless. Instead, I watch her measure out beans, every movement efficient and practiced.
“You do this every morning?”
“It’s worth the extra few minutes.” She starts grinding, the sound sharp in the quiet apartment.
An extra few minutes? Right. Because she has the luxury of slow mornings, for perfect coffee. My mornings are bananas, protein bars and paper cups of joe grabbed from the clubhouse station. If I’m lucky.
Chapter six
Tabitha
