Page 2 of Fore Better or Worse (Return to Starlight Bay #16)

Chapter two

Leah

I should extract myself from this man’s clutch.

Put a reasonable amount of space between us, and thank this stranger politely before retreating to the safety of my friends upstairs.

Instead, I’m frozen in place, studying his smile and wondering how often it’s gotten him into trouble versus out of it.

My rescuer is gorgeous in an effortless, sun-kissed way. A man who’s certainly never had to wonder if a woman finds him irresistible, because the answer is always a resounding yes.

My whole body hums with the kind of awareness I try to write into my meet-cutes. Because only in fiction do guys this magnetic date bookstore clerks who consider staying up past ten with a new release a wild Friday night.

“Sea legs take practice. Though, if you’re going to fall for someone tonight, I’m glad it was me.”

Heat floods my cheeks as I scramble to find my footing, hyperaware of how his hands send heat waves through my dress. “I think you meant ‘fall on’ not—”

“Oh, no. I meant ‘for,’” he confirms with a wink that should be illegal in at least twelve states.

I would laugh off the ridiculous suggestion, but instead, I stand frozen, like a deer in headlights, having completely forgotten how to form words.

“You wear that sash well,” he continues, his gaze raking over me in a way that makes my skin tingle. “It’s just my luck to catch a birthday girl.”

The compliment jolts me back to reality. Right. The ridiculous sash. The surprise party. Surely, this gorgeous specimen, who must workout as if it’s his full-time job, is just being polite to the awkward woman who’s celebrating tonight.

I step back, smoothing my dress and adjusting the sash. “Thank you for the catch,” I manage, aiming for polite but distant. “Though, I should clarify my birthday is technically tomorrow, so your luck might be slightly premature.”

“I’ve been accused of a lot of things, but premature isn’t one of them, honey.”

I said his luck was premature, not him. But the way he twisted my words—and delivered them in a voice fit for an audiobook narrator reading for a dirty-talking hero—distracts me enough that I don't point out his mistake. Plus, when I look up, the devil grins as if he knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Is that so?” I offer instead, my tone dry as I glance toward the bartender, calculating how long until my drinks are ready.

But instead of taking the hint, the stranger’s grin widens. “Would I lie to a gorgeous woman who’s practically my birthday buddy?”

Birthday buddy? My eyebrows fly to my hairline. This has to be some kind of routine. A well-practiced approach he uses on unsuspecting women. “Birthday buddy, hmm? That seems awfully convenient .”

“You don’t believe me?”

“I believe it’s a go-to pickup line you’ve used before. Like your birthday is whatever day suits the situation.”

He laughs, loud and genuine and completely unashamed, and suddenly, I’m fighting a smile, too. When he reins in his mirth, there’s something almost conspiratorial in his expression as he leans close.

“A go-to pickup line? Darling, if I was using a pickup line, you’d know it. I’d tell you that your eyes are prettier than a perfect lie on a pristine fairway, which they are. Or that I’d give my left kidney to get you alone and show you my stroke technique, which I would.”

Is anyone else hearing this? I scan the room and spot some interested glances from a table eyeing Mr. Fuchsia Polo.

But they’re too far away to overhear. And all men, so I think it’s fair to assume I’m the only one who thinks this hottie is ridiculous.

Completely over the top. And yet, I can’t help but play along.

“With lines like that,” I say, my voice deadpan, “I’m shocked you’re still single.”

“Who says I’m single?”

I can’t help but glance down at his left hand.

He notices, raising it to wiggle his ring finger. “I’m completely and utterly available. Thanks for asking.”

“I didn’t.”

“True, but now, I’m curious as to why you assumed I was.”

“Call it intuition.” I’m finding my footing in this verbal sparring match and beginning to enjoy it. “Or maybe, it’s the way you’re dispensing golf innuendos to random strangers on boats.”

“Strangers? I wouldn’t go that far, especially with how well you fit in my arms.”

Somehow the reminder of the sensation of being pressed up against him sends a wave of heat through me.

“But since you seem to require proof…” He pulls out his wallet, flipping it open. “Scout’s honor.”

I squint at the license. Hays Granger from Arizona. And, sure enough, his birthday was yesterday. Born the same year I was.

But what’s more fascinating is the picture tucked into the opposite transparent sleeve.

An old, worn photograph of what surely is a little boy version of this man, maybe seven or eight, standing on a golf course with a club half as tall as he is.

Next to him, a man who must be his father, stands with his arm wrapped around the boy’s shoulders, both of them grinning at the camera with identical dimpled smiles.

The image is faded, and the edges frayed, but there’s something about the pure joy on that little boy’s face that catches me off guard. Guilt prickles like static across my skin for doubting his honesty. “So you do tell the truth. At least, occasionally. My apologies.”

“Don’t apologize for keeping me honest,” he murmurs, sliding his wallet back into his pocket. “It’s sexy as hell.” His gaze drops to my dress. “And I have to say, mint green might just be my new favorite color.”