Page 39

Two Can Play

Mallory

I emerge from the photo booth, and Vivian steps forward. The easy, playful side of me checks itself. I wish I could have stayed in there with Holland all night.

“Cameras and mics are dead for a second,” she says, and I exhale. Thank goodness. “Let’s see the shots, shall we?” Vivian grabs the photo film as it spits out on the side of the booth. She hums. “Look at how cute you two are. I totally called this, did I not?”

She looks up and over at her assistant. Caroline nods vigorously. “You did. I was there.”

“Gosh, I’m good.” Vivian turns to me and Holland, who fills the space behind me. He’s keeping his hands to himself, and I fight the urge to lean back into him. I want to kiss him, but I don’t want to dive in head first too soon. I hope he understands why I told him “not yet.”

“Let’s move to the other barn for pie.” Vivian wanders forward.

We do as we’re told and cut out the back into the open yard between the two buildings on this property.

Kids are racing around, and different groups sit at the smattering of picnic tables set up on the grounds.

The only way to describe this place is idyllic.

In fact, everything I’ve seen in Cashmere Cove is straight out of a storybook.

“I bet it was incredible growing up here.” I turn to find Holland watching me. I bob my chin in the direction of the kids. “It’s beautiful. All the people are so kind.” I think of Inez and Daisy, of Cy and of Holland’s parents.

“It was. And it is. And they are.” He responds to each of my points, but there’s a wistfulness to his voice.

“But?” I press after a minute.

He blinks and glances at me, shrugging. “No buts. Everyone here is so supportive of me. They’ve always been my biggest fans. When I’m out there on tour, I know that Cashmere Cove has my back. It’s hard not to feel like I let them down when I have a performance like I did at the Grand Masters.”

He offers me a wry smile. His shoulders have sagged ever so slightly, and for the first time in a while—maybe ever—I consider the pressure Holland is under.

I never thought of it that way, mostly because he always seemed so happy and loose, like he didn’t have a care in the world.

But it’s obvious he carries the weight of other people’s thoughts and opinions about him.

I want to dive deeper into this. I want him to tell me exactly what he’s feeling and thinking, because I can tell there’s more he wants to say.

He stopped there for a reason, and I’m guessing that reason is because the cameras are rolling, and whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t want to broadcast it on national TV.

Honestly, fair.

“What about you?” he asks as we pause to let a group of kids run past. “What was growing up like for you?”

I can’t help but smile. “Different than here.”

“Oh?”

“We lived in a small house right outside the city, so there were cool events happening all the time, but there wasn’t this close-knit feel.

That, and we didn’t have a lot of money to do a lot of extra stuff.

My dad runs a small mercantile. He caters mostly to tourists and military members who are passing through the downtown area and need something random.

He works hard, and he loves his store, but he’s never exactly brought in a huge paycheck.

My mom worked for him mostly and would take odd jobs to try to help us make ends meet, but she’s always had chronic pain, so it was hard for her to hold down a job when she’d have to take time off when she physically couldn’t work. ”

I can feel Holland’s gaze on the side of my face. I debate for a moment how much more I want to share right now, but then I decide to go for it. If there’s one thing I’m proud of, it’s my parents. I don’t mind the whole world knowing about them.

“A hurricane ripped through our town when I was in fourth grade, and insurance didn’t cover our losses.

We lived in a shelter for a while, and my dad was out of work.

I didn’t know it at the time, but my parents took out a loan to keep a roof over our head and to get the store back on its feet.

The interest added up over the years. They’ve always been hard workers, but it’s tough to get ahead when you’re starting from way behind, you know? ”

“You come by your work ethic naturally, then,” Holland says quietly.

I offer him a smile. “The biggest compliment you can give me is to tell me that I’m like my parents.

” I think about them now, and there’s a tightness in my chest. “I never knew we were poor back then. I never felt like I was missing out, because my parents’ love and attention filled in the gaps for the material things I didn’t have.

They really love each other. They’re the standard for me.

” Oh gosh, I’m gushing, and I can’t help it.

“If I can’t have a relationship like theirs, I don’t want it.

The last time I saw them, they were dancing around the living room, listening to Frank Sinatra, still with hearts in their eyes for each other after thirty-three years of marriage. ” I laugh softly. “Who does that?”

“Them,” Holland says, a small smile on his face. “I bet you will too someday.”

“Hope so.” I shrug, realizing that the picture that pops into my head is of a gray-haired Holland, holding me in his arms as we twirl around the living room.

Easy, tiger .

“They sound incredible. I know them a little from golf stuff, but wow.” Holland whistles, and I snap myself out of my cart-before-the-horse daydream. “Thanks for sharing that with me.”

I nod, forcing myself to focus on something that isn’t my potential relationship with Holland.

“My dad got me into golf. We didn’t have cable or subscription TV, but he and I would watch tournaments on Saturdays and Sundays, using our antenna to pull in the local channel airing the rounds.

We obviously couldn’t afford to travel to fancy places, but my dad and I would sit in front of the TV, and we’d pretend we were in Hawaii, or Texas, or wherever they were playing.

He’d say, ‘Look at that place, Mal. Isn’t it gorgeous?

Look at how green the grass is! Look at the sky.

’ We’d watch our favorite players and cheer them on together.

When I got to high school and realized I could join the golf team and play eighteen holes regularly for a fraction of what it would cost me or my parents otherwise, I signed up faster than you can even imagine.

My mom hunted down a full set of clubs for me at thrift stores around our town, and I had a great coach in high school who taught me so much.

I was able to get a scholarship to play in college, which changed everything for me and for my family.

The rest, as they say, is history,” I finish with a shrug.

Holland shakes his head slightly. “Incredible.”

“My parents are,” I amend.

“You are too, with that work ethic you got from them,” he says.

“I don’t know about that, but that’s why golf means so much to me. I love it, and it’s the way I can help support them now.”

Holland pulls me to a stop. “I’m sorry I gave you a hard time about being too serious about what we do out on the course.”

“You’re fine.” I shrug. “I’m intense. I get it.”

“Yeah, but as a female coach, you’re trying to prove a point, right?”

I look up at Holland’s tan, handsome face, wondering why he’s echoing our earlier conversation.

I want to tell him there’s no need to rehash it, that we’re good, but then it dawns on me what he’s doing.

He’s saying it again so it has a chance of being broadcast to the entire country.

He’s speaking up for me, and dang it if a ball of emotion doesn’t wedge itself in the back of my throat.

I swallow it down and nod. “Yeah, exactly.”

“You’re so good at your job. I don’t want you to feel like I don’t appreciate you. I’m sorry if I ever made you feel like that.”

“You didn’t.”

When I think about it, I may have gotten huffy about the differences in our styles and about how cocky and sure of himself Holland is, but I’ve never doubted that he respects my work or me as a person.

“I mean, you’re annoying and a little needy, but…” I shrug. “I mostly know how to handle you.”

“Yes.” He holds my gaze. “You absolutely do.”

As that hangs in the air between us, he pushes the door to the second barn open for me to walk through, and the scent of delectable baked goods hits me like a wall. The whole room smells like cherries and flakey crusts. I want to bottle up the scent and use it as perfume.

“Pie,” I say on a sigh.

“Hope you’re hungry,” Holland says into my ear.

“You should know this about me by now. I’m always hungry.”

“Okay, but you’re going to have to work for your pie.”

I arch a brow.

“We’re signed up for the celebrity pie-eating contest that starts in”—he glances up at the large clock that’s affixed to the wall—“five minutes. Come on. We’ve got to get checked in.”

He grabs for my hand, and we walk over to the far side of the barn where Inez from the bakery is standing behind the check-in table.

“I wondered if you two would make it.” She hands us each an apron. “Put these on, and then head over that way. You’re next to each other at the far table, right by Rose and Anton. ”

I glance over my shoulder, and Rose waves at me.

“The Cashmere Cove police force will secure your hands behind your back, not with handcuffs but with a comfy bandana.” Inez grins. “First person to finish their pie wins a free slice of pie a week from the café for the next year.”

“You game?” Holland asks as we take our places.

I slip my apron over my head, my competitive juices flowing. “I feel like I was born for this.”

The table in front of us is covered in a plastic tablecloth. There’s a line of cherry pies topped with whipped cream at even intervals on the table.

“Switch spots with me,” Holland says as he dons his apron.

“Why?”

“Because your pie is smaller.” He reaches for my pie. “Easier to finish.”

“No way. I want to win.” I swat his hand away. “Keep your grubby paws off my pie.”

A police officer comes up behind us and secures our wrists, eliminating Holland’s chance to swap our pies.

“There is so much I could say about this handcuff situation,” Holland mutters out of the corner of his mouth when the cop moves on to tie up Anton and Rose.

“Don’t do it,” I warn.

“What? You can’t deny that, without the use of our hands, we’ll have to be much more agile with other parts of our bodies, like our mouths and our tongues.”

My jaw drops as I turn to look at him. Is he for real right now? His face is neutral, like he’s not thinking about how that all sounds.

He leans toward me. “Because mouths and tongues are really good for eating pie, you know?”

Oh, this man. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Right.” I swallow. A frisson of something sweet spreads over my skin.

I don’t know if I’m anticipating my first bite of pie, or if this has more to do with the mischievous twinkle in deep end of Holland’s eye, but in any case, I’m ready to dive in.

“I always eat my pie with my mouth and my tongue. Lips too,” I add with a shrug.

Because two can play at this game.