Page 37

Cherry Blossoms or Bust

Mallory

H olland helps me out of the back of the SUV that the Most Eligible Mister people used to cart us to the site of our date. They filmed the entire drive, which Holland and I spent talking about golf. Nothing too exciting, and I’m sure it’ll all be cut before the show airs.

Fine by me.

When Holland turns me around, my breath catches in my throat.

“What is this place?” I ask as he leads me forward.

“Cashmere Cove Cherry Blossom Park. Home to the Cherry Blossom Festival, which is happening this week on the grounds and in the barn.” He points ahead to the bright-red building. “That’s where we’re headed. But first, we can enjoy this view.” He sweeps his hand up toward the trees.

“It’s so beautiful.”

“Yeah.”

I turn and find Holland staring at me. He’s got a soft look in his eyes, and my cheeks are warm with what I’m sure is a bright-pink flush. This amount of attention from him is dangerous.

“Yeah, it is,” he repeats himself, holding my gaze for an extra beat before leading me forward. “I should have said this earlier, but you look beautiful too. I mean, you do all the time, but since this is a date, I’m saying it out loud. ”

Cliched? Maybe. But it doesn’t stop me from feeling those words in every corner of my body. They cause my heart to stumble around like a baby giraffe learning to walk.

I force myself to meet his gaze and keep my tone light. “How long have you been planning that line?”

“All morning,” he says without hesitation.

I hum. “Thought so.”

“Did it charm you?”

I scrunch up my nose at him and tip my head side to side. “Tough to say. Points for delivery, not so much for originality.”

“I’ll keep trying.” He winks at me. “We both know I get better with practice.”

I fear I won’t be able to handle him if he turns the laser focus he brings to golf onto me. I’m going to choose not to overthink that right at the moment.

We walk through neat lines of cherry blossom trees.

The pale-pinkish blooms flutter overhead, and the sun shines through the branches, dappling the grassy path to the barn.

Holland doesn’t grab for my hand, but our fingers keep brushing as we walk side by side.

There’s something about the ebb and flow of the skin-to-skin contact that is driving my heart rate up.

The baby giraffe is finding its footing and trotting faster around its enclosure.

There are other people strolling around, and they smile at us.

Some wave to the cameras. Some wave at Holland.

He dips his head in acknowledgement. When a little boy runs up and asks for his autograph, he obliges and stops to let the kid’s parents snap a photo.

I’m reminded of how he went out of his way at the Grand Masters tournament to reach out to the little guys, the people who may have been overlooked. Attentive is a good look for him.

We follow a stream of people into the barn, and it’s louder in here. Vendor booths are lined up on either side of the space. Poppy Kasper is standing inside the door with a clipboard. She beams at us. “Welcome to the Cashmere Cove Cherry Blossom Festival!”

Holland gives her a high five. “How’s the turnout? ”

“Better than ever.” She grins before slipping back into hostess mode. “We’ve got something for everyone: locally sourced honey, candles, greeting cards and stationery, crafts, books, and of course, food vendors. Hope you’re both hungry.”

“I’m always hungry,” I say.

“Me too,” Holland echoes.

“I’d highly recommend the cherry pie. Samples are available in the next barn over.” Poppy hooks a thumb over her shoulder. “That’s where the pie-eating contest will be held as well.”

“Sounds good. Thanks, Pops,” Holland says. He puts his hand on the small of my back, steering me forward. I jump at the contact but tell myself to relax. It’s actually kind of nice, and when he drops his palm, I miss the warmth immediately.

We step up to a booth where a middle-aged guy is tossing pizza dough and doing all sorts of tricks with it.

“Holland! Hey, man!”

“Kenny, quit being such a showoff.” Holland points toward me. “I’m trying to be the one to impress her.”

Kenny keeps up the rotation of his dough and smiles at me around the side of his widening crust. “Mallory, right? Nice to officially meet you. Holland, step on up. Here’s your chance to show off your skills.”

“Mallory knows all about my skills.”

“That’s debatable,” I say with an eye roll.

Kenny laughs. “Golf skills and pizza skills are very different, my friend. Come show us what you got.”

Holland moves to where Kenny has another ball of dough, and he starts tossing it while Kenny offers instructions.

“Keep your movements constant. It’s all about the wrist action,” Kenny says as Holland tries and fails to get his dough tossing. “Then you can add some hip action if you’re feeling it,” Kenny says as he starts gyrating around in a circle.

The look on Holland’s face is priceless. He’s got his tongue between his teeth as he focuses on trying to mimic Kenny’s movements. He swivels his hips like he’s doing a hula hoop, and I let loose a bark of laughter. I clamp my hand over my mouth.

Holland tosses his dough higher in the air.

It’s not looking at all like pizza crust, but I can’t argue that he’s committed.

He swivels his hips and tosses his dough up in the air, but he has to lunge to catch it.

He shakes his head and drops the dough back to the work surface, miming wiping his brow.

“I think I’ll leave the pizza making to the professionals.” He comes out from around the counter.

I click my tongue. “Such a shame. Would have liked to see some more hip action from you.”

Holland narrows his eyes at me. “Don’t tempt me like that, Walsh.” He stares at me for a second before looking up at Kenny. “Thanks for the lesson, man.”

“Come see me real soon,” Kenny says, eyes on his dough. “I’ve been working on a new protein crust recipe.”

“Save me a slice,” Holland says with a grin. We walk farther into the barn.

“Protein pizza?” I can’t help it. I scrunch up my nose.

“Here I thought, as my coach, you’d be thrilled I was trying to take care of my body.” He points at himself, and I take the opportunity to look at him again.

“Looks like you’ve got that covered.”

Holland’s grin widens. “You think I look good?”

He’s like a golden retriever puppy dog right now, hopping around my feet, waiting for me to pet him.

I huff. “Desperate much?”

“For a compliment from you? Always.”

I tip my chin to the side, pretending to study him.

Looking at Holland, it’s hard for me to believe that I’ve been his coach for two years and haven’t acknowledged how handsome he is.

Holland has got eyelashes for days. It’s unfair.

His stubble lines his jaw in a perfect layer.

It’s grown since early this morning, when we were on the golf course.

The five o’clock shadow is a good look for him, gives him a little edge.

His hair is styled in a way that doesn’t look like he’s trying too hard.

It’s golden with darker roots, and it’s mussed in just the right way.

My fingers itch to feel it, but I squeeze them into balls.

No need to get ahead of myself. This is our first real date, if you can even call it that with the cameras and producers tailing us, and if I suggested giving him a scalp massage, that would make things weird, fast.

Moving on!

“Come on, Bradley. You know you look good.”

“I do know that.”

I snort. “So modest too.”

He dips his chin in acknowledgment. “It’s a whole different thing to know that you think so too—if, in fact, you do?” He raises his voice in question.

There’s a large part of me that wants to retreat.

That wants to shove him and tell him to shut up and stop being so cocky.

But there’s another large part of me that recognizes that Holland put himself out there when he told me how he felt this morning.

I respect his honesty, and if I’m serious about having a relationship with him, it has to be a two-way street.

I want him to know that yeah, there’s something here between us that I recognize too.

In the grand scheme of things, admitting that I find him attractive isn’t that big of a deal.

It’s something I can do on camera that’s pretty harmless.

I let out an overdrawn sigh and meet his stare. “Well, guilty.”

I’m expecting his smile to widen into a cocky, flashy grin. Instead, it softens at the edges, and his eyes hold mine in their chocolatey depths. He’s not saying anything, but if his face was a word, it would be thanks .