Page 16 of Fore Better or Worse (Return to Starlight Bay #16)

Chapter sixteen

Leah

H ays’s T-shirt falls to my midthigh and smells like expensive cologne and pure temptation. He’s shirtless, moving around my kitchen as if he belongs there, reheating our forgotten Thai food with the kind of easy confidence that makes my stomach flutter.

The atmosphere between us has shifted. Not that I’m surprised after the mind-blowing sex only minutes ago. The anxious edge from earlier has mellowed into something that feels dangerously close to domestic bliss.

Which should terrify any rational person, but here I am, practically purring in his oversized T-shirt like some romance novel heroine.

“You know…” I say, resting a hip against the counter. “Most people would consider cold pad thai a tragic waste.”

“Most people haven’t just had the best sex of their lives,” he replies, without missing a beat, flashing me a devastating grin over his shoulder. “I could eat cardboard right now, and it would taste like gourmet cuisine.”

“The best sex of your life? That’s quite a claim for someone with your…experience.”

He abandons the food entirely, turning to face me with an expression that’s suddenly serious.

“Leah, what just happened between us?” He steps closer, his hands coming to rest on either side of my hips. “That wasn’t just sex. That was…everything.”

My breath catches at the raw honesty in his voice, but then again, he’s always been straightforward. Thankfully, before I can respond, his gaze shifts.

“You’ve been busy,” he observes.

I follow his line of sight to my refrigerator, covered in photos held up by a random collection of magnets.

“Oh.” I push off from the counter. “Those are just…”

But he’s studying them with genuine interest. There’s the shot of me on Mount Marcy, windblown and grinning despite the grueling hike.

Another where I’m rocking a welding helmet and protective gear, blowtorch in hand.

And my personal favorite, me on the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset during my solo trip to New York for a writing conference.

“Adventure shots,” he says, his voice filled with something that sounds like admiration. “You’ve been busy while I’ve been grinding on tour.”

I lift a shoulder. “I vowed to be more adventurous.”

“After that night?”

“Actually, before that. A few months before. After my ex dumped me. But it wasn’t until I met you that I really started.”

He turns back to me, and there’s something in his expression that makes my pulse skip. “The woman I met on that boat was incredible, but this?” He gestures toward the photos. “You’ve gone out there and lived.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not still logical. And rational.”

“Not yet crazy enough to marry a man you barely know.”

I hold his gaze, thinking of the ring sitting in the box on my dresser. I wonder if he saw it sitting there. If so, he didn’t mention it. “I’m working on it.”

“Good.”

“You’re different, too,” I point out, studying his face. “You’re mature in a way you weren’t before. More quiet confidence than cocky swagger.”

His lips quirk. “Cocky swagger?”

I throw a dishtowel at him. “You know what I mean.”

“Three years of learning patience will do that to a man,” he scoffs. “Though my willpower apparently has a very specific expiration date that coincides with being in the same room as you.”

The microwave beeps, and he turns to retrieve our food. “Come on; let’s eat before I forget about dinner entirely and carry you back to bed.”

We settle at my small dining table with the Thai spread between us. It’s surreal, having Hays Granger, the ninth-ranked golfer in the world, sitting at my thrift store table, using my mismatched plates as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

I take a bite of what I thought was mild pad thai and immediately regret every life choice that led me to this moment. Fire explodes across my tongue, and tears spring to my eyes as I try to maintain some semblance of dignity while my mouth feels like an inferno.

“You okay there, sweetheart?” Hays asks, pausing midchew with obvious amusement dancing in his eyes.

I nod vigorously, which is a mistake because it makes my eyes water more. I reach for my water glass and drain half of it in one gulp.

“Perfectly fine,” I croak, my voice about three octaves higher than normal.

“Uh-huh.” He leans back in his chair, clearly trying not to laugh. “You know, most people start with the mild dishes when they’re not sure about spice levels.”

“I can handle spice,” I insist, trying to double down even though my entire mouth seems to be swelling.

“Jesus, Leah.” He’s up in a flash, disappearing into my kitchen to return with a glass of milk, which he presses into my hands. “Here, drink this.”

I take a grateful sip, and the cooling relief is immediate. “How did you know that?”

“I live in Arizona, remember? Plus, I’ve eaten my way through half of Asia on tour.” He sits down, sliding his own milder curry toward me. “Try this instead. And next time, I’ll be sure not to order the ‘Thai hot’ level.”

“You ordered Thai hot?” I stare at him in horror. “At Harbor Thai ? Are you trying to kill me?”

His grin is pure mischief. “Weren’t you claiming, not half an hour ago, that you like everything from one to five chili peppers?”

Heat that has nothing to do with the food floods my cheeks. “That was about books!”

“Was it?” He takes a deliberate bite of the nuclear pad thai without even flinching. “Because I’m starting to think, maybe, you’re all talk when it comes to handling heat.”

The challenge in his voice flares something competitive in my chest. “Oh, really?”

“Really.” He leans forward, his voice dropping to that velvet tone that makes my stomach flip. “Though I have to say, watching you get all flustered and pink is pretty entertaining. Makes me wonder what other kinds of heat will make you react like that.”

I nearly choke on the milk. “You’re terrible.”

“And you’re adorable when you’re trying to prove a point.” He reaches over to brush a tear from my cheek with his thumb. “But maybe, stick to the mild curry, for now. I need you to be able to taste things properly this week.”

The gentle praise combined with his protective tone does something to me I don’t want to examine too closely.

Because when he takes charge, but in a way that shows he genuinely cares about my wellbeing, that makes me want to…

What? Please him? The thought should alarm me, but instead, it just warms me all over.

I snatch up my fork. “Are we doing dinner again this week?”

His smile turns wicked. “Among other things.”

I tuck into the milder curry, filing away that hint in the back of my mind.

“So…” he says, twirling pad thai. “Tell me about your writing. Last time we talked, you said you’d been feeling less than inspired.”

I nearly choke on a bite of chicken. He remembers that? I clear my throat. “It’s been going better lately.”

“I read your debut novel. Cover to cover in one sitting.”

My heart stops.

“You did?” I mean, I’d figured he’d read the parts I flagged for him, but the whole thing?

“It was incredible. The way you write emotion, the chemistry between your characters…” He leans closer. “It wasn’t as good as the scene you sent me for my birthday, but I’m glad that was for my eyes only.”

“But that scene was just…raw fantasy. No plot structure, no character development, no—” I pause, realizing I’m basically admitting it was straight erotica.

“It had a happy ending.”

Oh my god, did he just—

“What are you working on now?”

I freeze, hesitating, because the truth is my second manuscript features a pro golf hero and a small-town girl.

The story was easy to write because despite the conflict, there was no doubt it would end in an actual happily ever after.

Unlike real life, where my ending—our ending—is still not guaranteed, despite the pact.

“Just some ideas. Nothing concrete yet.”

He studies my face as if he’s trying to read between the lines, but thankfully, he doesn’t push.

“Speaking of projects,” I say, grateful for the chance to redirect, “I caught part of that press conference where you mentioned starting a foundation. Something about helping young golfers?”

His expression shifts, the playful teasing replaced by something more serious. “You were watching my press conferences?”

Heat creeps up my neck. “I may have kept tabs on your career. You know, just to see how the whole ‘winning a major’ thing was progressing.”

“Just professional interest, huh?” His smile is knowing, but he lets me off the hook.

“The foundation is… It’s something I’ve been working on for a while.

Kids from single-parent homes, foster families, kids being raised by grandparents or other relatives.

Golf gave me everything after my dad died, but not everyone has the support system I had. ”

The passion in his voice makes my chest tight. “That’s incredible, Hays.”

“We launched six months ago. Already have twelve kids lined up for the first round of scholarships.” He runs a hand through his hair, and I can see how much this means to him.

“Your foundation is named after your dad, isn’t it?”

He nods, his voice quieter now. “The Michael Granger Foundation.”

“He’d be proud of what you’re doing.”

“I hope so.” He reaches across the table to cover my hand with his. “It’s funny, when I was starting the foundation, it made me think about the future. About what kind of legacy I want to leave behind.”

The weight of his gaze makes my pulse skip. There’s an unspoken question about the kind of future we might build together. I breathe a sigh of relief when, rather than continue, his gaze shifts to the hutch against the wall.