Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

“You’ve proven your point. You’re still the master of this dumb game, and I still hate it,” I tell Birdie as she gets into position next to the board, facing the one we just vacated.

“Now you know how every single person feels when they play golf with you,” Birdie says, swinging her arm behind her and then bringing it right back forward, the red bean bag in her hand sailing out and up in a perfect arc before smacking down in the middle of the board, teetering right on the edge of the hole.

“Oh, come on!” I complain, throwing my hands up in the air with my bean bags clutched tightly in them. “You know I’m just going to knock your stupid bag in before mine sails off the end of the board and into the sand. Just take the three points.”

She just laughs at my misery, shaking her head at me and pointing down the beach to the fucking wooden torture device taunting me in the distance.

“I should have bet you money and made this really worth my while. Oh wait, you’re poor because no one will let you play fancy, big boy golf anymore.” Birdie giggles, making me roll my eyes through my laughter as I move up to stand right next to her, take a deep breath, and really focus on my shot.

“You only have one lesson scheduled tomorrow, and don’t worry, Miss Abigail is going to the mainland to shop, so your sensitive little tushy will get a break. And I’ll need your help with the Closest to the Pin competition in the afternoon. Do you think we should get balloons? I think we should get balloons. Balloons are so festive and fun. And maybe I’ll even pull out a box of those confetti poppers we use on New Year’s. What do you think?”

I chuckle as Birdie rambles on and on right by my ear, trying to break my concentration.

“Are you forgetting who my caddie is?” I ask her, my eyes zeroing in on the hole in the other board and how this should be a piece of cake. “You can talk all you want, and it doesn’t bother me. Bodhi never shuts up when I’m training, and it’s actually helped me block out all the annoying little noises, like fans whispering, camera shutters clicking, and people talking about balloons.”

When I chuck the bag into the air, feel good about it, and think it might just land on the board and stay there, it slides right up the wood, smacking into Birdie’s and knocking hers in the hole before sliding off the end, just like I knew it would.

“Gotcha. So you just really suck at this.”

I can’t even be annoyed by Birdie’s exuberance, because watching her cheer and dance all around me in the sand while she taunts me is just so damn funny and so perfectly Birdie.

Playing this game with her out on the beach under the clear dark sky with hundreds of stars above and the waves crashing to shore, joking and talking just like old times, has made this one of the best nights of my life in a long time, even if my dick has been trying to Hulk his way out of my shorts all night. It’s also something I didn’t even realize I desperately needed. I’ve been high-strung about what I did to my career, I’ve been on edge about what happened with my dad, and I’ve been going insane trying to figure out how to fix things between me and Birdie, when we just needed this. Just the two of us alone, without any outside influences, or blame about the past, or friends with opinions. And I needed this. A night without having to worry about anything but enjoying the company of the woman standing next to me that I’ve missed so goddamn much.

“It’s getting late. I should probably head home and stop embarrassing you,” Birdie says, tossing her bean bag without really paying attention to where it’s going, since she’s calling the game and turning toward me, and the damn thing still sinks right down into the hole.

Shaking my head at her, I shove my hands into the pockets of my black athletic shorts, since there’s suddenly an awkward silence between us and I want to fill it by sliding my hands around her waist and hauling her against me.

“What time do you have to be at SIG tomorrow?” I ask, just to stall for time, because I know damn well when she has to be there.

“The usual, 6:00 a.m.,” she says as I pull my left hand out of my pocket long enough to glance down at my watch and realize it’s almost midnight.

“Shit,” I mutter. “I shouldn’t have kept you this long. I’ll meet you there tomorrow and help out.”