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I turn, catching him watching me. He makes no pretense otherwise. He checks out my ass, and it feels exhilarating. I never imagined feeling this desirable. I almost want to accentuate my movements. His attention intoxicates me. In this moment, forgetting everything else, highlighting this shade of ruby red desire, sparkling, tempting, begging us to surrender.

“There's always an advantage to going second."

"Really?" I ask, lining up my shot.

"I can potentially hit your ball," he explains. "Ruining your score. Or we can do it the boring way—you complete your putt, then I begin."

"No, let's do it the fun way," I decide. “It won’t matter, anyway. You can't hit my ball if I get a hole-in-one." When he laughs, I challenge, "You don’t believe me?"

"I admire your confidence,piccola pittrice."

Shivers cascade over me like delicate finishing strokes. "What does that mean?"

"Little painter," he translates.

"Little. Not exactly. But I understand what you mean. You're the impressive hedge fund magnate..." Not to mention mob boss. No, focus, have fun, forget about that. I'm being selfish. "And I'm merely a humble artist."

"You enjoy teasing me, don't you,piccola pittrice? Fortunately, I appreciate your playfulness."

My cheeks flush crimson before I turn away, taking aim. "You won't appreciate this."

I strike the ball. It rolls up the slope, then curves into the depression at precisely the right angle. I gasp as it glides effortlessly into the hole. Then I turn, feigning indifference, shrugging nonchalantly. "See?"

He grins, approaching. "When you gasp like that, you rather undermine the pretense that this wasn't entirely planned."

I playfully slap his chest, then leave my hand there. We go from laughter to intense eye contact. Like flipping a switch.One night, I told him and meant it. Can't I simply enjoy myself just this once? Not even dinner. Just miniature golf, and this: the undercurrent. Like how a line curves when you let your hand guide you instead of logic.

I press against his firm muscles. He reaches out, grasping my hip. Draws me closer. I have ample opportunity to prevent what's happening. Yet I melt effortlessly into his embrace, still making no attempt to stop it.One night. Burgundy visions cloud my mind as I recall Mom, then push her away.

Because I want this moment with him, beneath the amber sky melting into azure, yielding to inky darkness. I want my perfect mature man, the one I sketched, forgetting everything else.

He leans down, his lips inching closer. Time moves agonizingly slowly, offering countless opportunities to pull away. I don’t take any of them.

He kisses me passionately.Hekissesme—as if I wish to deflect responsibility—but we kiss each other. I glide my hands up his arms, feeling his strength, his power, the experience, and a mature sense of security I've always craved.

When his hand slides across my back toward my ass, I pull away slightly. He repositions his hand on my back, steadying me. His eyes gleam with excitement. Gianna mentioned its rarity; perhaps he only has cause for it around me.

"I shouldn't push my vignette too hard."

"Vignette works better," I whisper. "A short snippet of something. Brief yet indelible. A moment or series of moments which matter... but which must inevitably end."

He looks momentarily annoyed but then captures my lips again. "Indelible is right," he groans, drawing me closer against his body. I pull back when I hear snickering and detect teenagers entering the course.

He makes the putt in two strokes. I cast him a look of pure triumph, the lingering kiss still electrifying my lips. We refrain from further embraces throughout the remainder of the course. Two families have joined our group, compelling us to maintain decorum.

But the way he gazes at me... I could paint an entire collection just of his eyes, the hunger, the glimmers of intelligence and wit. He fascinates me. Sue me. Is that truly so bad?

"Is that your good luck charm?" he inquires at hole twelve, featuring a rotating windmill. I drop the pendant, suddenly conscious that I've been fidgeting with it.

I position myself for the next shot. "It was my mom’s," I reveal.

"Ah," he murmurs.

"Ah," I echo, tilting my head inquisitively. I raise a single finger.

"Another hole in one?" He smiles – then frowns. Then looks almost irate. "Oh, one night."

"If we break theone-nightrule, the live-in-the-moment principle, I'll start asking uncomfortable questions. That would shatter the mood, wouldn't it?"