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He hurries to the counter. I thrust my hands into my pockets and examine the wall of pictures. I'm attempting nonchalance, but memories of our near kiss, that tantalizing brush of lips, resonate through me. It's desire versus rationality. Integrity versus artistry. Far more complex than my typically straightforward existence.

Hard to be alone? Yes. But uncomplicated.

I suppress it all. The boy in the picture beneath the prominent "Record" sign is unmistakably Nico. Now I understand what Gianna meant. His smile mirrors the one I sketched.

"Look at him," Nico says, chuckling. “He doesn’t know how lucky he is."

"That's my reaction whenever I look at pictures from before, Mom..."

He raises his hand, then lowers it. Tension crackles between us. His gaze suggests he wants to paint me with his tongue. He wants to caress me. He desires me. No one has ever looked at me this way before, and I've never wanted them to.

He turns away, seemingly frustrated by his lust overshadowing sympathy. But I think it's the opposite. Pretending we're merely primal creatures simplifies everything.

"I love this song," I murmur into the silence.

Leon Bridges plays through the speaker system.

"Yeah?"

"Mom was old school. She had a record player with his complete collection. Well... everything released before she?—"

I can’t complete the thought.

"Perhaps we could listen together sometime."

"I had to sell both the player and records," I confess. "After Mom's passing, I needed to focus on surviving. I'm not proud of that."

He leans in closer. "You don’t need to feel guilty about it, either."

I retreat before surrendering to his enticing embrace. "Shall we get started?"

He frowns. "Certainly."

We carry our clubs through the door onto the open-air course. The first hole features a gentle slope leading to a cup nestled within a depression. He hands me a paper and a pencil. "You should keep the score. Just resist your artistic impulses. When you lose, I don't want you claiming distraction by creative inspiration."

His compliment brightens my mood. Our hands touch as I accept the pencil, reminding me of his earlier statement. We should kiss to dissolve this tension.

"I'll try not to."

He positions his ball.

"Whoa, Mr. Millionaire, step back."

He chuckles. "Have I missed something?"

"Why did you automatically assume you’re going first?"

"Ah."

"Precisely... ah. I believe you should forfeit going first for thinking you could butt in like that. Or should I say,puttin…" I quip with a grin.

He approaches, laughing. "And I believe you should forfeit for that atrocious wordplay."

"I almost agree," I admit. "I simply couldn't resist."

"Honestly, I liked it, Sienna. Just don't tell anyone."

"Wouldn't want to tarnish your reputation," I remark, bending to place my ball.