Total pages in book: 108
Estimated words: 101736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101736 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 509(@200wpm)___ 407(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
The idea took shape and her tone suddenly went friendly. Maybe overly excited. “Let’s make a bet.”
“Yeah?” Intrigue pulled one of my eyebrows up. “I’m listening.”
“If I win the game,” her smile was wicked, “you have to give me another lesson.”
I chuckled. This was the best she could come up with? Sure, I didn’t want her to get too attached to me, but one more lesson wasn’t that bad. It certainly wasn’t the end of the world, and besides—with my newest hole-in-one, I was several strokes ahead. “And what do I get when I win?”
Her shoulders lifted with a deep breath. “I’ll tell you why I’m still a”—she glanced around—“virgin.”
Shit, even if I wasn’t competitive, there was no way I was going to turn down this offer. I grinned. “All right. You’re on.”
The corner of her mouth lifted in a sexy smirk.
It should have been a warning, but I didn’t heed it. I was too dumb to think that maybe this had been a ploy. A hustle.
I spent the rest of the game doing my best to keep her off guard. I’d stand too close to her or make comments when she had a long putt to make—but it was useless.
She fed off my attempts.
Every gleeful smile she gave me when she gained a stroke on me filled my head with static. When I invaded her personal space, rather than get flustered, she leaned into me. It made it so I would smell whatever fruity product she’d used in her hair, and I didn’t like how appealing it was.
It was irritating that the better she got at her golf game, the worse mine became. Nerves, for the first time in my fucking life, became an issue. I missed an easy putt, using too much force and sending it wide of the hole, which made my next attempt that much harder.
The air conditioning was pumping, making my sweat cold when we made it to the final round. Shit, I was down by two strokes.
“Take your time,” she said as I lined up on the tee. Maybe she only meant it to be helpful, but it felt patronizing, like she knew I was about to lose. It pissed me off. She’d probably argue I deserved to lose because I’d underestimated her. Plus, I’d been so confident I had the game in the bag.
What if this was my only chance to know why this sexy girl hadn’t let anyone have her the way she wanted me to have her?
I tried to block it out and focus, and I did what she said she did—I pictured the outcome I wanted.
The fairway led to a big ramp that would send my ball up onto a board with a bullseye painted on it. If I hit the spot in the center, my ball would go down a tube, come out the other side, and roll directly into the hole.
But anything outside of the center? It would drain down the board into one of the other tubes, and who the fuck knew where it would be spat out? I needed a hole-in-one, plus a miracle.
So, I blew out a breath and swung my club.
My ball took off, launching up the ramp, and made a loud thud as it hit just above the bullseye’s center. It chattered down the board before being caught by one of the other tubes and disappeared down it.
“Son of a bitch,” I groaned.
We watched as my green ball shot out the other side, bounced off the rock edging and came to a stop a good six feet from the hole. Worse, there was a hump in my path to the hole, and I’d been misjudging how to play them all afternoon.
Of course she got her ball into the center tube, scoring her yet another hole-in-one. She pushed a section of her dark brown hair back over her shoulder and delivered a fucking epic smile. Victory banners waved in her eyes.
“I think maybe,” her voice was teasing, “you wanted me to win.”
I forced out a smile, but it was only to mask the unease her statement caused. Was that true? I’d played so poorly, it was sort of comforting to think I might have done it on purpose. Like, subconsciously. An extra lesson with her wasn’t a hardship. But I wasn’t thrilled with losing.
I meant it to be a demand, but it rang out like a plea. “We’ll play again.”
“Yeah, I don’t think so.” She spun her putter in her grip. “I figure you can give me the lesson after dinner.”
“Dinner?” My heart thudded.
We hadn’t made any plans other than the golf game, and this fake date already felt enough like a real one. Adding in dinner was a bad idea, and I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea. Our arrangement needed to stay ‘friends with benefits,’ with no feelings involved. That was the only way to make sure she didn’t get hurt when this thing came to an end.