Knowing You (Cursed 2)

There's a slight flush to Grant's cheeks, probably from lifting the huge bags of ice. He has the ruddy Scandinavian complexion that tans easily, but flushes easily too. He's at the beginning stages of the tan. His blond hair has sun-bleached streaks mixed in with shades of gold and honey.

Heat spreads across my cheeks, and I have to look away because I never blush, and the sensation is making my head feel light. Fine. He's beautiful. But why the hell am I acting like a star-struck lunatic?

"Tablet's all charged up. There's cash in the box. You're all stocked and ready to serve the course," he tells Ashton. He addresses both of us. "Have fun out there."

"I'll be seeing you at the ninth," the shithead says with an eyebrow waggle that makes me outwardly cringe. Grant laughs at my reaction. I smile at him before looking down again. I swear a giddy thirteen-year-old has possessed my body.

"Lay-off creeper. You don't want her to file a restraining order on her first day," Ashton throws at him.

Ashton climbs in the front and I sit next to her on the passenger side. When she turns the key, it sounds like a damn lawnmower. I thought it would be much quieter.

The cart beeps when she backs out of the spot and jerks when we move forward. I have to grab onto the sidebar to keep from falling out.

"You'll get used to it," she assures me as we drive along a paved path toward the golf course.

"So ... you like the good guys. I never would have guessed it," she says with a goofy smile.

"What?" I scoff.

"Grant. I saw."

I roll my eyes dismissively. Only because I can't seem to find the right words to describe what happened. I'm not quite sure myself since I've only been an idiot around one other guy, and that didn't end so well.

"It's okay. I mean, if you were to gush over anyone, Prince Philip is worthy."

"You call him Prince Philip? As in Sleeping Beauty?"

"Yes!" she laughs. "Not many get that reference. His last name is Philips. And well, he's a fricken prince, in all the ways that fairytales get it right."

"Are you kidding me?" I snort, disbelieving.

"Not at all. He's a good guy. Again, I would never have guessed you go for that type."

"I don't even know him!" I say in a weak defense. "Besides, how do you know he's really a good guy?"

The corner of Ashton's lip twitches in a devious smirk. "Because he's not my type."

One day, as Thaylina was gathering herbs and berries in the forest, she heard the most beautiful voice singing. The enchanting voice lured her deep into the woods until she came upon a shadowed figure dressed in a deep green cloak.

"Why are you alone in the woods?" the deep, smooth voice asked the girl.

"What are you doing alone in the woo

ds?" she asked in return.

"Waiting for you." A tall handsome man came into view. A sly smile on his lips. A shine in his eye. And sharp point to his teeth. "And now, here you are."

By four o'clock, I've learned that golfers have an easier time parting with their fives and tens after the ninth hole, than most patrons at Stella's were at releasing singles. And even though I'll never see a paycheck for every hour I work, no one can take the cash I make as co-bev cart girl from my pocket. I have no idea what I'll need the money for, but it's nice to know I have it--just in case I need to send some home.

I also learned that, unlike Stella's, the country club is law-abiding regarding its alcohol service. Since I'm under eighteen, I can only dole out waters, sodas and sports drinks, along with any snacks. Ashton turned eighteen two months ago and was recently promoted to head bev cart girl for the summer. Thankfully, she doesn't care about the law and topped our Cokes with rum while we waited for golfers to hit the fricken ball.

Which is the last thing I learned today ... golf is boring! Because our cart is diesel and loud, we weren't permitted to pass through the course if someone was getting ready to swing or putt. It was torture having to wait for the players, mostly men, to line up their shots and swing.

One of the highlights of the afternoon was when we reached the shack at the ninth hole and were able to cool off in the air-conditioned bathroom while waiting for the cart to be restocked. This is also where I met Stefan, the head bartender. Not in the bathroom, but tending the Ninth Bar. He has this peculiar intellectual, man-of-mystery kind of vibe going on. Ashton told me he's a grad student at Columbia and has worked at the club every summer since he was sixteen. He throws parties at his family's summer cabin regularly and doesn't care who attends, meaning all ages welcome. He's all about good energy.

"I think he's kissed half the girls on staff, and a few members' wives too," Ashton gossiped while we balanced with one foot on the toilet, leaning against the counter to allow the cool air from the air conditioner direct access to our underarms. "But he can get away with it. For some reason, he doesn't come across as skeevy. It's like everyone likes him. Everyone. There's this crazy magnetic field around him that attracts people to him, and if some of those people end up kissing him, so be it. It's like it's no big deal."

Even after only meeting him for maybe two minutes, I totally understood what she meant.