Page 17 of Fore Better or Worse (Return to Starlight Bay #16)

Chapter seventeen

Hays

I study the framed photo in the hutch. “Is that your mom? You have her smile.”

“She would have liked to hear that. Even to this day, I can hear her saying, ‘Smiles are contagious.’”

Something in her tone makes my chest tighten. “Is she—”

“Gone. Five years now. Cancer.”

Fuck. The quiet way she says it, as if she’s practiced delivering this news without falling apart, makes me want to pull her into my arms.

“I’m sorry.” I keep my voice gentle, recognizing the careful control in her expression.

“She was… Everything good about me comes from her.”

I glance over the other photos, noticing what’s not there as much as what is. “And your dad?”

“Walked out when I was six.”

The words hit me like a sucker punch. Six years old. The same age I was when I still believed my dad would live forever, when I thought he’d be there for every tournament, every milestone. But while my father was ripped away by a heart attack, hers made a choice to walk out. The bastard.

“I see why you were so hesitant to say yes to my proposal.”

Her spine straightens. “Because I have daddy issues?”

I hold up both hands, not wanting her to think I’m judging her. Hell, we’ve both got our damage. “I’m not saying it’s a bad thing. It was a smart play, really. Makes sense you’d want to see my scorecard before backing me.”

Despite the serious turn our conversation has taken, her lips quirk upward. “You’re comparing our marriage pact to a golf game?”

“You wanted to see if I had staying power. If I could go the distance for eighteen holes.”

“And you think you can?”

“Sweetheart, I’ve been obsessed with you since the night we met. If that’s not staying power, I don’t know what is.”

No matter how much I reassure her, doubt lingers in those dark eyes. And suddenly, I’m wondering if my absolute certainty about us is exactly what scares her. Maybe, my confidence feels like pressure. Maybe, she needs me to acknowledge that forever is terrifying, not just inevitable.

Before I can dig myself deeper into serious territory, she glances toward the corner where a putter leans against the wall. “Want to see how good your short game really is?”

I follow her gaze to an area near the fireplace, where she’s set up what looks like a makeshift putting green with a drinking glass at the end, and burst out laughing. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“My neighbor loaned me a putter and some balls.”

“I could’ve supplied you with some.”

She rolls her eyes as she retrieves two Titleists from under the couch. “I figured if I’m going to date a professional golfer, I should at least understand the basics.”

The word ‘date’ stops me cold. I take the putter from her, letting my fingers brush hers. “Date? Is that what we’re doing?”

She looks off. “Let’s call it that for now.”

“I’ll take what I can get. As long as this…dating ends with a ring on your finger and you by my side. Forever.”

She takes a shaky breath, and I watch her struggle with the concept of forever. Can’t blame her, given what I know now.

“Not all stories get happy endings, hotshot.”

There’s that nickname again. And the doubt I’ll erase from her mind, no matter how long it takes, but for now, I let it pass. “Ladies first.”

She sets up a ball and grasps the putter lining up for the shot. “Let me try the full Hays Granger routine.” She takes exactly three practice swings, adjusts her grip twice, then goes completely still for a beat—nailing my timing to the second—before putting.

My jaw drops. The impression is so spot on it’s almost unsettling.

The ball rolls wide, hitting the wall with a soft thud.

“Jesus Christ, Leah.” I stare at her, my chest tight. “How long have you been watching me play?”

She fiddles with the putter. “I may have caught a tournament or two over the years.”

“A tournament or two?” I step closer, studying her face. “You just mimicked my pre-shot routine like you’ve memorized it frame by frame.”

“Maybe, I have,” she admits quietly, and the admission hits me hard.

“Well, you’ve got the routine down, but your execution needs work.” I move behind her, covering her hands with mine on the club, unable to resist the excuse to touch her. “Like this.”

I press my chest against her back, breathing in the intoxicating floral scent that’s been driving me crazy, now mixed with my own cologne from my shirt she’s wearing. The combination does something dangerous to my self control.

Her body relaxes into mine.

“I can’t concentrate when you’re touching me like that.”

“Then my strategy is working perfectly.”

She elbows me playfully, and I step back with a laugh. She lines up another putt, and I watch her concentrate. This time, when she swings, her ball rolls straight but stops just short of the glass.

“Close,” I say, trying to keep the pride out of my voice and failing.

“That was sabotage on your part,” she accuses, pointing the putter at me.

“That was poor concentration under pressure. Very telling about your mental game.”

“My mental game is fine, thank you very much. Unlike some people, I don’t need to grip my shaft in front of an audience to prove my skills.”

My eyebrows shoot up. Did she just—? The guileless expression on her face while delivering that line is going to be the death of me. “Did you just—”

“Make an innocent golf observation? Absolutely.” She bats her eyelashes with fake innocence that fools absolutely no one. “Why, what did you think I meant?”

I open my mouth then close it again. She’s playing with me, and I’m torn between calling her bluff and letting her think she’s gotten away with it.

“That’s what I thought.” Her grin is pure triumph. “You know, most guys try to play it cool. Keep some mystery.”

“Why would I want to be mysterious when being direct got me this far?” I step closer, unable to resist the pull of her energy.

“This far being what, exactly?”

I let my gaze rake over her, taking in the way my T-shirt falls to her midthigh, the way her hair is still mussed from earlier. “Half-dressed in your living room while you’re wearing my shirt and trying to pretend you don’t want me to kiss you again.”

“You’re insufferable.”

“Maybe, but I’ve got excellent follow-through.” I flash her my most devastating grin. “And I always finish what I start.”

Even as I say it, doubt creeps in. Is that what she needs to hear? Or am I pushing too hard, too fast? Maybe, she needs to know I can be patient, not just persistent.

“Do you practice those lines in the mirror?”

The question makes me laugh. “Sweetheart, with you, I don’t need to practice anything. It all comes naturally.”

And it’s true. Every word, every touch, every moment with her feels like the most natural thing in the world. Like I’ve been waiting my whole life to find someone who brings out this side of me—not the media-trained golfer, but whoever the hell I am underneath all that.

My gaze drifts around her living room, taking in the cozy space, and lands on the vintage typewriter sitting on a small desk in the corner. The mint green Olympia I sent for her birthday, with a sheet of paper still rolled into it.

“You’re actually using it,” I say, nodding toward the typewriter.

She follows my gaze, and her cheeks flush. “Every day, though not usually anything as…inspired as what I sent you.”

Too bad.

She settles onto her couch, tucking her legs under her in a way that makes my T-shirt ride up dangerously high on her thighs. “So, what’s the plan for this week? Besides convincing me to marry you, I mean.”

I join her on the couch, resting a hand on her bare thigh. “Tomorrow night, I’ve got a sponsor event. Callaway’s schmoozing their biggest clients. I’ll spend three hours pretending to care about their latest driver technology.”

“Sounds thrilling. I have book club anyway.”

I arch a brow, and she rushes to add, “Nothing spicy. It’s a crime thriller this month.”

“Any good?”

“Not bad.”

I move my thumb back and forth across her skin, gearing up for what I’ll say next. “Wednesday is the Pro-Am and a cocktail party. I’m hoping you’ll be my date.”

She tenses beneath my hand. Her eyes go wide, and I practically see her mind racing through all the reasons this is a bad idea.

Sure enough, she says, “I don’t know if that’s a good idea…”

“Why not?”

“I wouldn’t know what to say to people.”

The insecurity in her voice hits me like a blade between the ribs. I knew it was asking a lot, requesting this brilliant, private woman to step into a world where she’ll be scrutinized and judged by people who don’t know the first thing about her.

But I also know she’s stronger than she gives herself credit for. “You’d say whatever brilliant thing comes to your mind, same as always.”

I reach for her hand, threading our fingers together. “Besides, I’d like you to meet some of my friends.”

“I don’t have anything to wear to a golf cocktail party.”

I pull out my wallet and extract my black AmEx, holding it out to her. But as I watch her stare at it as if it might bite, I realize this moment isn’t just about a dress.

This is about the gulf between our worlds. My credit card probably has a higher limit than she makes in a year, and we both know it. I remember how she insisted on paying for her own drinks that first night, how she rattled off our differences like evidence in a case against us.

“I can’t take that.”

“Why not?” I keep my voice gentle.

“Because…” She struggles for words, and I see the internal war playing out across her features. But she doesn’t finish the thought.

I lean forward, my voice softening. “You think I care about money? About what you can or can’t afford?

” I pause, letting that sink in. “I fell for a birthday girl on a boat who paid for her own drinks and called me out on my bullshit. That woman doesn’t disappear just because she’s wearing designer clothes. ”

Her breath catches, and I see the exact moment she decides to take the leap.

Her fingers close around the card, and I feel as if I’ve won something infinitely more important than any golf tournament.

“Okay. I’ll take it. But I’m not getting anything ridiculous.”

“Deal.”