Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

“Well, Palmer Campbell, you look even better than you do on television, and even better than I remembered from the last time you were home.” Miss Abigail smiles as she stands next to us, looking him up and down like he’s an expensive jar of caviar in one of her signature, colorful, breezy caftan dresses paired with hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of jewelry. “Kelly at Just Teasin’ Salon told Mable at The Book Attic who told me that Bradley cheated on her with his secretary and took that home wrecker on Birdie’s dream vacation to Hawaii.”

“It was his intern!” Jeff, a custodian at the high school, shouts to her as he straps his golf bag onto his cart a few feet away.

“What was an intern?” Miss Abigail yells back to him, while I watch Palmer’s head bounce back and forth like he’s at a tennis match, and his smile gets bigger and bigger while the donut vomit in my throat gets thicker and thicker.

“Bradley cheated on Birdie with his intern, not his secretary!” Some guy I don’t even know who’s sitting in Jeff’s cart kindly shouts back.

“Well, excuse me for making an honest mistake! Mable was quite clear when she said secretary, and—”

“Okay, well, this has been fun, but it’s time for your lesson, Miss Abigail. I’m sure you’ll be in great hands with Mr. Campbell,” I interrupt, my face feeling so hot I’m pretty sure it’s the same color as Tess’s vibrant red hair.

When I hear Palmer groan softly from somewhere next to me, because I absolutely refuse to look at his face and see how much fun he’s having at my expense, a tiny bit of my mortification goes away.

Miss Abigail is somewhere in her seventies—no one actually knows—her husband owns a fleet of luxury yachts, and she’s been taking golf lessons here at SIG every day since the day it opened yet has learned absolutely nothing but the size and shape of every golf pro’s ass.

Palmer suddenly lets out a yelp, and I have no choice but to glance over and see Miss Abigail has already tested out the merchandise and deemed it acceptable, judging by her red-lipstick-covered smile and Palmer rubbing his ass cheeks soothingly with his hands.

“Oh, Palmer and I are going to have such a wonderful time!” Miss Abigail purrs, the bracelets on her wrists jingling as she slides a hand through the crook of Palmer’s elbow and bats her eyelashes up at him.

His face resembles the grimace emoji as he looks down at her, and since my work here is done and I need to go lock myself in a closet, shove a towel in my mouth, and scream at the top of my lungs, I quickly turn and hoof it toward the clubhouse.

I’m smiling and waving at a few regulars and locals as I make my way up onto the sidewalk, my heart slowing down the farther I get away from Palmer, when all of a sudden, a hand wraps around my upper arm and I’m tugged to a stop.

Palmer is suddenly right in my personal space again, standing toe-to-toe with me, the warm, gentle grip he still has on my arm making it feel like he’s touching every part of me and I can’t breathe.

“Sorry about Backpack Brad,” he says softly, his warm, minty breath floating over me, so close all I’d have to do is push up on my toes and my mouth would be on his.

Since I’m busy staring at Palmer’s mouth, I see one corner of it tip up and realize what he just said, finally remembering how to breathe and speak.

“No, you’re not,” I reply, the words coming out raspy and weak, because God this man makes me feel so weak, even when I want to strangle him and even when I don’t know what the hell is going on.

“You’re right.” He full-on smirks as he looks down at me, his green eyes sparkling. “I’m really not. I might send him a fruit basket.”

I sigh heavily, and I want to cross my arms in front of me, but he’s too damn close. If I try to cross my arms, they’ll brush against his stomach, and I cannot touch any part of this man or I’ll want to touch all of him. It’s bad enough his hand is still burning through the flesh of my bicep.

Friends, friends, friends, remember? That’s all you’re going to let this be if you can forgive him for whatever the hell excuse he’s going to give you… “in time.”

Friends. The end.

“I am sorry about Hawaii though,” he says quietly, seriously, honestly, and I know I need to move away so I can think straight, but I don’t budge.

We stay inches apart, the golf course bustling around us, but it feels like we’re in a bubble and it’s just us, blocking out the world like we always used to when we were together.