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QUINN

What in the absolute fuck is Warren doing here?

No one had the good sense to tell me he’d be back at Sycamore this summer. No one thought they needed to. They either assumed I could handle it or wanted to play a cruel joke on me. I was a last-minute addition to the staff. Someone must’ve figured the overlap was unlikely or just didn’t care enough to check.

I spent the first half of the summer traveling around South America. Bouncing between hostels, chasing sunsets like they were answers, pretending I had life figured out. It was meant to be my last hurrah before senior year. But those plans disintegrated halfway through, along with my savings and any sense of direction I thought I had.

So, I came home. And when you’re home, you need a reason to stay.

Four weeks. That’s all I needed. Not just to keep busy but to stay afloat. The job at Sycamore had never been some throwaway gig. It was money for groceries when the meal plan didn’t stretch far enough. For tampons, for hair products, for textbooks I couldn’t ask my parents to cover. For everything small that adds up until you’re drowning in it.

I told myself I’d work hard, keep my head down, save what I could before term started again. And of all the things I prepared myself to deal with this summer—low tips, drunk customers, the occasional grabby hand—my terminally grumpy ex-boyfriend wasn’t one of them.

I keep walking, my pace even, my posture poised, like I don’t have a storm brewing under my ribs. Like my pulse didn’t just trip over itself. Like the sight of him doesn’t rip open old wounds I never bothered stitching up.

I’m only on the pool deck because I need the starter kit from the storage closet. A pack of new scorecards, fresh tees, the clipboard they keep locked up because some asshole keeps stealing pens. Normally, I’d cut across the side lot to the caddy shack instead, but I was already passing through. It made sense to grab everything now. Efficient. Practical.

Unavoidable.

I feel his gaze before I even look at him. A slow, heavy drag across my skin, like a hand pressing against the center of my back.

I stare right back at him. Not a glance. Not a flicker. A full-bodied, unflinching stare as I walk, daring him not to look away first.

Warren sits on his guard stand, elbows on his knees, sunglasses covering those sharp, cutting eyes. But the moment he lifts them, pushing the frames up onto his head, the breath leaves my lungs.

He’s cold, emotionless, shuttered. It’s as if every piece of warmth he used to offer me—every glance, every smirk, every breathless whisper in the dark—has been scrubbed clean.

But my body? My traitorous, foolish, still-remembering body? It reacts anyway. To him. To all of it. There’s a flash of heat, then something far more dangerous.

The rough slide of his hands gripping my hips. The low, filthy words against my ear as he pounded into me. The heat of him, the weight of him, the way we used to fit together like it was inevitable.

Nights spent tangled up in each other’s bodies, our minds just as wrecked, just as ruined.

He watches me. I feel him watching me.

But then, just as easily as he lifted them, he lowers his sunglasses back into place. Settles back into his chair. Looks away from me like he didn’t feel anything at all.

Something inside me goes rigid, and I keep walking. Straighten my spine, tighten my grip on my bag. Trudge forward like it doesn’t matter. Like it doesn’t send sharp, slicing disappointment through me.

By the time I reach the storage closet, my chest is a mess of tangled wires. Frustration, embarrassment, something else I refuse to name. Something hot and bitter, lodged deep inside my chest. One of the new guys is already there, sorting through sunscreen bins like he’s afraid to mess anything up. So, I do what I do best. I bury it. Freeze it. Cover it up with something easier to swallow.

I flash a slow, lazy smirk at him. The guy is cute, in a forgettable kind of way. Dark hair, lean build, eager smile that says he’d absolutely let me ruin his day if I wanted to.

“You gonna get that for me?” I ask, nodding toward the closet door.

He straightens instantly, fumbling for the key and rushing to unlock it.

Too easy.

I pluck the supplies off the shelf, tossing a breezy “Thanks, sweetheart” over my shoulder before strutting back across the deck.

Head high. Shoulders back. Not looking at Warren. Not letting myself think about the way he looked right through me.

I make my way across the club grounds, cutting a direct path toward the caddy shack with my supplies in hand. My fingers tighten around the clipboard, my nails pressing against the smooth plastic. I won’t let this shake me.

It’s only four weeks. I’ve worked here every other summer since I was sixteen. I know this place. The shortcuts, the schedules, the way the smell of freshly mowed grass mixes with sunscreen and overpriced cologne.

The caddy shack is the same as always. It’s dim, slightly musty, the faint scent of sweat and sunscreen clinging to the walls. The long wooden bench against the back wall is already half-occupied, a few guys lounging around, checking the tee sheet, waiting for assignments.

I step inside, drop my bag in the corner, and take a slow breath.

“Rose.”

I glance up. Mikey, one of the older caddies, leans against the lockers, arms crossed. He’s been here longer than I have. He’s in his late twenties, permanently tanned, smirks like he knows more than he lets on.

“You’re back,” he says, giving me a slow once-over.

I grab a fresh pencil from the supply bin, arching a brow. “Observant as ever.”

He grins, unbothered. “Didn’t think you’d be working this summer.”

I shrug. Neither did I.

One of the newer guys—skinny, nervous energy, fresh out of high school—glances between us. “You guys know each other?”

Mikey snorts. “Kid, everyone here knows Quinn.”

I roll my eyes, grab my name tag from the cubby, and clip it onto my polo. “Tee sheet updated yet?”

Mikey nods toward the whiteboard. “You’re with some of the regulars. Davis, Mancini, and Beckett.”

I barely suppress a groan. Businessmen in their forties who like to talk more than they play. The type who tip well enough but spend half the round trying to flirt.

I take my caddy bib from the wall hook, slide it over my head, and check the time. It’s barely past eight, which means I’ve got a long shift ahead. Four hours in the sun with a trio of windbags and no real escape. Perfect.

The sun is brutal by midmorning, bearing down in thick, unrelenting waves as I trail behind my assigned golfers. The course is sprawling, impossibly green, stretching out under the kind of summer heat that makes the air feel heavy, sticky, suffocating.

“Damn,” Beckett mutters as we approach the next hole, swiping his sleeve across his forehead. “Hot as hell out here today.”

It’s been hot every day. But sure.

I pull a bottle of water from my bag, take a sip, and keep walking.

Davis lines up his shot, adjusting his stance, shifting his weight. Takes too long. Swings too hard. Sends the ball slicing off into the rough.

Mancini claps him on the back. “Tough break, man.”

Davis exhales sharply, irritated. “Quinn, be honest with me. That was a shit swing, right?”

I fight the urge to sigh. “My job isn’t to comment on your form,” I say, keeping my tone even, professional.

Beckett chuckles. “That’s a yes.”

Davis shakes his head, laughing to himself. “You’re too sharp for this job, Rose.”

Yeah, well. Sharp doesn’t pay my bills.

We move on, the game stretching out in long, slow intervals. Their conversation shifts from business deals to vacation homes, to their stock portfolios, to a poker game one of them lost big in last week.

I tune most of it out. I’ve spent years perfecting the art of appearing engaged while caring about absolutely nothing. That is, until Davis turns his attention back to me.

“So, just summers here?” he asks, casually adjusting his glove. “Why don’t you work during the school year, too?”

“Busy saving the world up at Dayton,” I say lightly.

Mancini nods. “Smart girl. Focus on your studies. What’s your major again?”

“Business,” I lie.

Beckett whistles. “Damn. You’re gonna have half the country club hiring you once you graduate.”

“Sure,” I say, forcing a polite smile. “If they pay well.”

They laugh, and Davis shakes his head. “You know, I like you, Rose. You remind me of my daughter—sharp as a whip, doesn’t take shit from anyone.”

“Must run in the family,” I deadpan.

He grins.

We keep moving. I check the time. Only two more hours.

I keep my steps measured, my grip firm on the handle of the golf bag slung over my shoulder. The heat presses down, thick and unrelenting, the kind that settles deep in your bones and makes the air itself feel too heavy to breathe. I fight the urge to shake my hands out, to press a palm against my chest to make sure my lungs haven’t shrunk in the past five minutes. Not now. Not here.

I exhale through my nose, slow and steady.

I’m tight and buzzed with strain, but this isn’t anything new. It’s the heat. Just the damn heat.

Davis swings again. This time, the ball arcs clean, landing just shy of the green. He grins, pleased with himself, and they all start moving again, talking about some real estate deal or stock dip or whatever the hell else rich men like to complain about.

I don’t listen. I keep my head down, count the holes left in my shift, roll my shoulders like that’ll loosen the slow, breathless pressure that’s begun creeping in.

The fairway curves around the edge of the pool deck, and I catch a glimpse of white chairs, striped umbrellas, the glint of water sparkling under the midafternoon sun. And there’s Warren again. Still on his lifeguard stand, still watching the water like it’s the only thing in the world worth looking at.

But the moment my gaze snags on him, his head tilts, just slightly, like he knows. Like he always knows.

I snap my attention forward, jaw clenching.

No . No way in hell am I going to let him think he still has that kind of pull over me. The kind that sees through every defense, every carefully constructed wall. The kind that never really left, no matter how much I told myself it did.

Sure, I’m the one who fucked up. Who made the wrong choice. Who ruined everything. And I spent so many nights wishing I could just apologize, explain, fix it. That I could go back and undo it.

But it doesn’t work like that. Grudges like that root deep, make a home in your bones. It would have been foolish to think he’d ever want to hear me out.

So, if he wants to pretend I don’t exist, then by all means, let him.

I adjust my grip on the golf bag and keep walking forward.

By the time the round ends and I finally make it back to the clubhouse, my muscles are aching, my shirt sticking to the small of my back, and my patience is wearing thinner by the second. Somehow, I managed to keep my chest from tightening past the point of no return, so I’d consider that a win.

The blast of cold air-conditioning hits like a shock, and I shudder, sweat cooling against my skin too fast. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake the sensation as I make my way toward the staff area.

The break room is mostly empty, just a couple of other workers scrolling their phones or gulping down bottles of water. I head straight for the counter, grab a plastic cup, and fill it to the brim with ice water.

The first sip burns in the best way. I brace my hands against the counter, exhaling slowly.

I sense him before I see him.

Something shifts behind me. A presence I’d know anywhere. The sound of footsteps—steady, familiar, and frustratingly calm.

Warren doesn’t say anything right away. He moves to the sink, fills a cup of his own, takes a slow drink like we’re not standing three feet apart for the first time in two and a half years.

I stare ahead, eyes fixed on the ice melting in my glass, counting each drop like it might keep me steady. My jaw tightens. My shoulders stay stiff.

The silence stretches too long, and eventually, his voice cuts through it. Low, flat. “Didn’t think you’d be here this summer.”

I don’t turn my head to face him. I can’t. “Didn’t think you cared.”

A beat of silence, then, “I don’t.”

Without another word, he turns and walks away. Like I mean nothing. Like I never did.

I stand there, jaw clenched, gripping my cup so hard it crinkles in my hand. A sharp pulse of anger, regret, and something dangerously close to heartbreak lodges itself in my throat. It’s all I can do to swallow it down. Bury it deep. Keep on moving.

But I know better. I know him. And if Warren really didn’t care, he wouldn’t have said anything at all.