Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)
He trails off, and for the first time in my life, I really want to know what it feels like to break someone’s nose.
“Okay, not so funny after all, it turns out,” he continues quickly when he sees the rage in my eyes and probably how I started reaching for the putter he tossed to the ground. “Long story short, my dad hired a publicist who was a little skanky and a lot jealous, even though I wanted nothing to do with her. You got caught up in that, because she thought you were just a regular fan, and she sent about fifty of those exact same messages to other female fans. My dad sent explanations and apologies to all of them, but since he’s an asshole and didn’t like how distracted he thought I was when I came here, he never sent you one. I had absolutely no idea until this morning. I swear to God; you can even ask Bodhi.”
Some of my anger deflates, and as ridiculous as it sounds, I believe what he’s telling me. Not just because I can see the honesty in his eyes, but because clearly I’m going to ask Bodhi about this the first chance I get, and Palmer knows it. I’m no dummy.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry about that, Birdie. I can’t even imagine how pissed and hurt you must have been,” he tells me softly, and there I go, right back to being mad again.
“Good to know you’re only sorry about that,” I reply sarcastically like a total bitch and not even caring.
“Birdie, please,” he begs, his voice wavering, his cockiness disappearing in an instant, taking some of my hurt with it, along with the breath from my lungs.
Suddenly, I’m thrown back in time, and he’s that sweet, adorable teenager standing in front of me with a lock of dark hair falling down into his eyes, begging me to be serious even through his laughter while I try to distract him during training. He’s that heartbreakingly quiet and shy boy who eagerly sucked up all the love and attention my family showered on him that he never had before. He’s the twenty-something guy who awoke every sexual fantasy inside me just by grabbing my hand to tug me somewhere or wrapping his arms around me from behind to show me how to properly make a putt whenever we played together. He’s the guy I’d call at two in the morning when I got home from Wren’s house after she had a particularly trying night as a single mother and needed a shoulder to cry on, and he’d give me his shoulder from thousands of miles away.
He’s my best friend, and he’s my everything, and he broke me in half and then walked away. But he’s here. He’s standing in front of me, begging me, and what the hell am I supposed to do? I’ve never been able to deny him anything.
“I know you don’t owe me a damn thing, but please, just give me some time,” he continues, running his hand through his hair nervously again. “I promise I will tell you everything. I will explain everything, but please, Birdie, just… give me a little more time.”
Closing my eyes, I take a few deep breaths before opening them again, wondering if I’m making a mistake. There’s not a serious, shy teenage boy standing in front of me, or a twenty-something man who never swore out loud and would only let his guard down a little if I begged him. But he still makes me just as weak, and I still want to take care of him just as much as I did fifteen years ago, no matter what’s happened since then.
“Fine. But the clock’s ticking, and you’re gonna have to pony up on a shit-ton more donuts if you want me to remain agreeable. One dozen, that’s it?” I scoff, ignoring how my heart flutters when his lips twitch and he starts to smile down at me. I step away to retrieve the bag I tossed to the side. “Oh, sorry. I forgot you were poor now since no one wants you to play professional golf. Do you need to borrow money?”
Palmer laughs and shakes his head at me instead of getting annoyed like I hoped, the jerk.
“Do you need to make sure Backpack Brad doesn’t mind your devastatingly good-looking best friend is back?”
My hand itches with the need to grab another donut, but I resist. Two pounds in an hour is probably enough for one day. Instead, I laugh uncomfortably, since I have nothing to shove in my mouth.
“Bradley? Oh, they aren’t together anymore!”
As soon as I hear the cultured, southern voice from Palmer’s first lesson I scheduled, two pounds of donuts make their reappearance in my throat as I watch his head whip away from me.