Page 18 of Tee the Season
The storm rattles the windows, and I glance up to see the snow falling even heavier now. We’re completely cut off from the rest of the world, just the two of us in this small bookstore that smells like Christmas.
“So you’re all set?” she asks, not looking up from the graphic novel she’s examining. “For the season?”
“Tournament schedule’s locked. Hays wants to focus on majors this year, which means—” I stop, because suddenly I’m unsure what it means. The words should come easily. I’ve been doing this for years. But sitting here on the floor of her bookstore, talking about flying to Hawaii in three weeks for the first event, it all feels…flat.
“Which means?” she prompts.
“Strategic rest periods. Targeted prep. The usual.” I set down a book, Hays’s voice echoing in my head.That head pro position at the country club is still open. Just saying.I’d brushed it off. I mean, after over a decade as his caddy, why would I leave nowwhen he’s nowhere close to stopping? “It’ll be good,” I finish, circling back to the conversation. “A strong year.”
She’s quiet, and I realize I don’t sound convincing, even to myself.
I continue, wanting to fill the silence. “The grind doesn’t have the same draw it used to. When we were young and hungry, chasing that first win, it felt like everything. Now…” I trail off, picking up another book without really seeing it.
“Now?” Her voice is careful.
“Now, Hays has Leah. That changes the dynamic. He’s got someone to be with at tournaments. A wife to go home with on breaks. Something to care about more than the next win.”
The words hang there between us.
Tabitha reaches for a book from my pile at the same moment I do, and our fingers tangle. Neither of us pulls back immediately. Her skin is warm, and I feel her pulse racing in her wrist.
Her eyes search mine, and I can see her putting the pieces together. Understanding what I’m not saying. Hays’s suggestion about the country club job flashes through my mind again. He mentioned an open invitation from the GM to stop by for an interview anytime while I’m in town. I’d dismissed it, of course, but now, looking at Tabitha…
Her breath catches, and suddenly, the already small space feels even smaller. We’re leaning toward each other without meaning to, the books forgotten between us. Her eyes slip south to my lips then back up.
“Rory—” she starts, but whatever she was going to say dies as I cup her cheek.
“Tell me to stop,” I murmur, giving her every chance to pull back.
She doesn’t. Instead, she sways closer, her hand coming up to rest against my chest. I can feel my heart hammering under her palm. Can see the pulse jumping in her throat.
The first brush of her lips is tentative, testing, despite the fact my face was buried between her legs last night. Then she makes a small sound in the back of her throat, and I’m lost. My hand slides into her hair, scattering the knot she’d twisted it into, and I deepen the kiss. She tastes of coffee, and something else. Something I crave.
Her fingers curl into my shirt, holding me close as the kiss turns hungry. Real. As if we’re both starving for something we can’t quite name.
Then she jerks back, breaking contact so suddenly I almost fall forward.
“We can’t—” She scrambles to her feet, breathing hard. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed. “I need to check on Aunt Mae.”
Right. Aunt Mae. The storm. The real world that exists beyond this bubble we’ve been living in.
I stand too, trying to ignore the way my jeans are entirely too tight in the crotch. “Give me five minutes to grab my coat.”
She laughs, but it’s a quiet, hesitant sound. “You’re going to need a lot more than that thin coat to survive out there.” She tucks her hair behind her ear as if she can put herself back together as easily as she puts books in order.
But as I head for the stairs, I catch her reflection in the window. She’s standing perfectly still among the stacks of books, blowing out a long, slow breath.
Chapter nine
Tabitha
The walkway from the sidewalk up to Aunt Mae’s front porch looks like a tunnel cut through the snowbanks on either side. It’s been cleared thanks to the man in a neon orange knit hat, who’s still struggling with the shovel.
I watch from the kitchen window while Rory attacks clearing the path with the same focused intensity he brings to everything. The hat—complete with a pom-pom the size of a softball—bobs with each thrust of the shovel. The matching scarf is wrapped around his neck at least three times, and the extra gloves I dug out of my winter bin have cartoon snowmen on them.
He looks ridiculous.
He looks adorable.
