Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

That arrogant asshole…

Shit! This is so much worse than me just not talking to her the last two years. I’m surprised she didn’t pull a knife out of her pocket and stab me when I showed up here.

“Fuuuck me.”

“No thanks, I’m good,” Bodhi quips before quickly sobering. “But yeah, you’re even more screwed than I thought. What time are you supposed to meet her for work today?”

I glance down at my watch.

“In about twenty minutes. If she even shows up.”

I wanted to get in a few holes to warm up before work, since according to another note from Birdie, I have my first lesson scheduled for later today. I came out at my favorite time—the break of day, when it first starts getting light out, the ground is wet with dew, and you have to wear long-sleeves because there’s still a slight chill in the air without the sun being high above to warm everything up just yet. It’s all quiet and new, and you feel like you can do anything. Even get a stubborn, beautiful woman to stay in one place long enough to talk to you.

“Will you at least give me the scoop on… Brad.”

I actually choke a little when I say his name. I guess that’s progress. I usually outright vomit. The lack of a ring on Birdie’s left hand was the only thing keeping me going at this point and gave me hope. Just because I blocked her from social media doesn’t mean I wasn’t a sick bastard who spied on Brad whenever I was feeling particularly sorry for myself and was left alone after having one too many cocktails. His vain ass shared more selfies on a weekly basis than any teenage girl in the world, but he’d drop the douchebag mask every once in a while over the last two years to share a picture of him with Birdie. Proof they were still together and karma telling me to stop fucking spying on him, because it’s never going to feel warm and fuzzy.

I knew I should have left the cottage the last few nights like Bodhi did. Instead of sitting around, hiding away, and having a pity party for myself, I could have been out chatting it up with locals and getting all the Summersweet gossip. What a rookie mistake.

“Surprisingly, I didn’t hear anything about our favorite hedge fund manager. But even if I had, I wouldn’t tell you. Take a peace offering this time. Something to butter her up that will work like a stun gun and keep her in place long enough for you to word vomit some shit,” Bodhi suggests, starting the cart back up and turning us completely around so we’re heading back toward the clubhouse. “We’ve got twenty minutes. What kind of Birdie weapon can you find in twenty minutes?”

Smiling and grabbing onto the roll bar as he flies down the cart path, I know exactly what I can grab in twenty minutes or less, because I packed them in a cooler and brought them with me this morning.“You were groomed by a father who put a golf club in your hands at the age of three. Has that always made you bitter toward him?”

I roll my eyes, thankful the interviewer on the other end of this phone call can’t see me as I pace back and forth on the sidewalk in front of the clubhouse.

“I… I don’t know. I just liked to play golf.” I roll my eyes again at how stupid I sound, wondering why in the hell I decided to answer a call from an unknown number. Birdie was late, which I expected, and I had nothing better to do while I waited for her. When I realized the guy on the phone was from a major news source who interviewed me several times before and never once misquoted me or took things out of context, I decided to break my silence with him, since I had time to kill. Probably all day, since I’m assuming Birdie is avoiding me again.

I knew I shouldn’t have agreed to this interview. I don’t have the first fucking idea what to say to these people.

“Have you spoken to your dad since Bermuda? How did it go? Did you apologize? Any chance you’ll share with us where you’ve been hiding out?”

“He hasn’t…. I don’t…. I’m not…. Can we talk about something other than my dad?”

All of a sudden, my cell phone is ripped out of my hand.

“No comment. Thanks so much for calling,” Birdie says sweetly into my phone before ending the call and handing it back to me. “Do not, under any circumstances, talk to anyone without discussing it with me first.”

It takes me a minute for my brain to catch up and realize Birdie is standing a foot away from me, looking me right in the eyes, and actually having a conversation with me. Well, at me, since I’m in a state of shock. She’s wearing a pink long-sleeved fitted shirt that molds to her curves and a super-short pink, white, and green golf skirt, her toned legs on full display from her ankles all the way to the tops of her bare thighs. Sweet mother of God, I think I’m going to pass out. She shoves a spiral planner at me, and I have just enough time to grab it before it drops to the ground.