“Are you joining us for a drink?” Ethan asked.
“I’d love to, but Brizio is already warming up. We tee off in a few minutes. I just stopped by to say hello. And Mr. DeMille, I must say, it’s quite an honor to meet you in person.”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.
To me, she said, “And a pleasure to meet you as well, Airy.”
“Ari,” I corrected.
“Right. Sorry. Have a great day, everyone!” She gave Ethan and Dane air kisses and then swept off toward the course.
I fought the urge to grind my teeth. Luckily, my father and I had finished our Bloody Marys. I was ready to be on our way, needing a chance to regroup. The intertwining of my dad and Dane—and Mikaela Madsen?—in my life was a complicated predicament. One I needed to untangle as quickly as possible.
A server came by and my dad asked for the check, pulling out his credit card.
“I’d like everything on my account, please,” Dane said to the pretty brunette who had as much trouble tearing her gaze from him as I did.
“Of course, Mr. Bax.”
To my father, he added, “Please, allow me. It’s not every day I get to golf with someone of your skill.”
“Thanks, Bax,” Ethan lamented, albeit factiously.
My dad graciously shook hands with the two men, thanking them for the outing. He invited them for a complimentary round at his club and they both agreed they’d take him up on his offer.
My dad said, “I’ll bring the SUV around and get our bags.”
I handed over the keys. Ethan told Dane he’d have the valet fetch his Mercedes and their clubs. He left with my father.
“You two valet-park here?” I asked Dane.
“Of course.” He leaned in close and said, “See, that didn’t go so badly.”
“My father is onto us. He’ll grill me the entire drive home.”
“Why? Because I couldn’t help watching you walk the fairways?” Desire tinged his emerald eyes. “You have the perfect sway to your hips. Feminine. Sexy. Tempting.”
“You just love keeping that ball in your court, don’t you?”
The corner of his mouth lifted. Devilishly. “Are you wet for me right now?”
I fought the blush. To no avail. “Yes.”
“Good.” He took my hand. I gave a slight tug but he didn’t let go.
Hemming and hawing was a hard habit to break. He tilted his head to the side and scowled.
I heaved an exasperated sigh. “You don’t seem to get that this”—I motioned to our linked hands—“is a big deal for me. You’re moving too fast.”
“What are you so worried about?”
“Everything.”
“I’m not going to hurt you,” he insisted.
“You can’t make that promise. Shit happens.” I shrugged, though this was no nonchalant matter. “There’s nothing you can do about it. When it’s over, it’s over. And someone always gets hurt when the end comes.”
His expression darkened. “I asked you last night if you’d been hurt. I’d meant physically, but now I’m asking about emotionally.”