Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

“I’m doing my job. What does it look like?” I shout back over the wind and rain, taking a second to swipe my matted hair off my face so I can see what I’m doing, as I finally yank the last marker out of the ground that has the finalist’s name on it who wins the two grand.

Definitely should have left my hair up in a ponytail instead of yanking the holder out and throwing it God knows where on the way out here.

“Have you failed to notice a tropical storm blowing through here? What is wrong with you? Those stupid pin markers are not worth your life!” Palmer yells, making my blood boil as I whirl around to face him, clutching the plastic stakes in my hand.

And momentarily forget what the hell I’m doing when I see him standing six feet away from me, next to his obnoxious blue-flame golf cart, sopping wet from his head to his feet, rain dripping down his angry face and into his eyes, his gray T-shirt molded to his muscular chest and torso. He’s so beautiful it takes my breath away. And of course we’re out here on our hole, the one we always snuck out to for long talks on quiet nights, racing into the maintenance shed a hundred yards away to hide whenever a course employee drove out here so we wouldn’t get in trouble. It makes it even harder for me to breathe that we’re out here again after all this time, and everything is so confusing… for about two seconds until I remember he was just dry as could be back up at the restaurant, getting all snuggly with Lizzy Bradford.

“You’re what’s wrong with me, you stupid nuzzler!”

Taking my eyes off him, I zero in on my own golf cart parked not too far from his and march off in that direction, stomping through the wet grass with the pin markers hugged to my wet chest. I ignore how my own clothing is now soaked and stuck to me like a second skin and the decision to wear a white tank top today was probably not the brightest. The white lace bra underneath is doing absolutely nothing for coverage either, but it’s too late to worry about that now.

“I don’t know what the hell that’s supposed to mean or why you’re suddenly pissed off at me, but being out here in the middle of a thunderstorm is not the brightest decision you’ve ever made, Roberta!”

That does it. His use of my full name like I’m a little girl who needs to be scolded and not a thirty-year-old grown-ass woman has me tossing the markers into my cart, not even caring where they land. I whirl around to face him, since of course he had to follow me, keeping my eyes on his instead of his wet body, now that he looks like he just stepped out of the shower after cleaning off fully clothed. But his eyes leave mine and go right down to the girls who look like they just won first place in a wet T-shirt contest in the frigid waters of Alaska. I swear I hear him mutter something like, “Sweet mother of God, help me,” but the wind kicks up even louder, the rain comes down harder, and I don’t give a shit what he’s muttering under his breath.

“Fuck you!” I scream, over the wind and rain, water dripping down my bare arms and falling off my clenched fists at my sides as we stare each other down from a few feet away. “It’s just a little rain!”

Since mother nature’s got jokes, a flash of lightning bolts down from the sky out over the water, a crack of thunder pierces the air right at that moment, and a crumpled up piece of trash blows by.

“Christ! There’s no way we’ll make it back to the clubhouse without getting electrocuted.”

All of a sudden, Palmer’s wet hand is grabbing mine and he’s tugging me toward the small wooden shed right off the green where the grounds crew store the extra set of lawn tools and equipment. Another loud crack of thunder overhead wakes me up, and I dig my feet into the wet grass and yank my hand out of his hold.

“Stop trying to drag me around! I’m perfectly capable of taking cover without your help. Go back up to the clubhouse and give Lizzy another neck nuzzle.”

I’m turned and halfway back to my golf cart when my feet suddenly leave the ground, my body is flopped around like I’m a damn sack of potatoes, and I’m thrown over Palmer’s shoulder and staring down at his full, round, hot, wet ass with his athletic shorts plastered to it and his muscular thighs as he starts carrying me back to the shed, muttering something about putting me where he wants me like Bodhi told him to.