Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

“This is your fault for telling me I couldn’t fit two dozen donuts in that fucking cooler!” I shout to his sprinting form over the howling wind and rain.“We were just going to send someone for you, Putz.”

Thankfully, I’m pretty soaking wet and no one would notice if I pissed my pants a little as Tess glares at me from behind the bar, where she’s tapping her long, red, talon-like fingernails on top of the wood.

Not more than five minutes ago, I was thankful for the storm and the empty course. With the rain smacking against the windows and not one customer in the bar, since they’ve all gone home instead of choosing to wait it out in here, I’m kind of wishing the sun was still shining and there were a few more witnesses to prevent the bloodbath I’m sure is about to happen.

I hear a series of cracks and pops and glance over to the end of the bar, where Murphy is standing with his legs planted wide and a fist in his hand, cracking his knuckles while he stares me down. The sounds are like gunshots in my ears as he switches fists and does it to the other hand.

“It’s nice to see you again, Murph,” I say with a weak smile and an even weaker voice, cursing myself when I have to clear my throat as my words come out squeaky.

“Eat your own shit. Can we get rid of him now?” Murphy sighs and then looks over at Tess.

“Did we just walk into an episode of The Sopranos?” Bodhi whispers in my ear from behind me, where we stand right inside the doorway to the bar.

With the rain coming down and the clouds darkening the already dimly lit room since the light fixtures all have green shades on them to create a soft ambiance, along with the flickering of flameless candles in the center of every table, it feels like we just walked into an Italian restaurant in a mobster show, and the soft ambiance suddenly feels ominous.

Tess and Murphy are the muscle by the bar, waiting for the word to kick my ass and teach me a lesson for defying the family. Wren is an associate of the mob organization, nervously drinking a Coke at the other end of the bar, scared shitless she might get whacked if she doesn’t follow the rules. And right smack in the middle, pacing back and forth in front of the bar, is the boss. The one whose long blonde hair is now down from her ponytail and spilling all around her shoulders, the hair band probably ripped out of it like a woman ripping off her earrings before she fights.

I’d like to spend a minute enjoying how goddamn sexy Birdie looks with anger radiating off of her, chin held high and determined, arms swinging and ready for a fight as she paces. But then she stops and stares me down, and I notice the cooler that still had a half dozen donuts left in it when Birdie curtsied and walked away from me earlier is now empty and overturned on top of the bar behind her.

Yep, I’m about to die.

Quickly crossing the room, I stop right in front of Birdie, surprised she doesn’t immediately move away from me. I also curse myself again when I can smell her skin and realize I probably should have stayed back by the door that leads to the pro shop and tried to talk to her from several feet away to save my sanity. My right hand still tingles from where I wrapped it around the soft, smooth skin of her arm earlier. Just that one little touch, and I had to use every muscle I had to stop myself from wrapping both of my arms completely around her and hauling her against me so I could feel her hot, tight little body pressed up against mine.

“What’s wrong? What the hell happened since I last saw you?” I ask her quietly, momentarily getting caught up in her ocean-blue eyes and long, dark lashes as they blink and stare at me like I’m an idiot.

“Oh, you mean what happened between the time you put me in a bacon and carb coma until now?” Birdie asks with a sweet smile on her face that definitely looks a little more homicidal than sweet, and I take a step back from her. “Clarity! That’s what happened!”

She closes the distance between us until we’re toe-to-toe again, poking her finger into my chest over my sopping-wet golf shirt that’s clinging to my skin and feels disgusting.

Tess lets out a whoop from behind the bar when Birdie yells at me, and Wren smacks her glass of Coke down on the wood top from the other end.

“I thought you told Birdie it was up to her how she handled Palmer?” Wren questions Tess, who is still dancing and shaking her ass behind the bar. “You specifically told me that you told her she could handle it however she saw fit, and you would just be supportive.”