Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)
“Good to see I’m not too late for Sip and Bitch and dangly bits,” comes from somewhere behind me.
Every. Fucking. Time.
Wren and Tess’s drunk asses scream at the top of their lungs when they’re startled by Putz’s deep voice filled with humor from close by. I slowly turn my head, the straw in my mouth sticking to my suddenly dry bottom lip and coming right up out of my cup as my head moves, to hang there off my lip as I stare at the man standing a few feet away in the middle of the aisle where Wren had been laying and making cement angels a few minutes ago.
He’s changed out of all that wet clothing, even the tight, long-sleeved shirt that clung to every single contour and dip and muscle in his chest, arms, and washboard abs that were highlighted through the sopping material that almost made it hard for me to form words when we were back at SIG and he stood right in front of me… wet… dripping… and muscly….
Even though he’s standing not far from my table, dry as a bone in a pair of gray cotton athletic shorts and a white T-shirt with a signature gray swoosh across the wide expanse of his chest, thoughts of what he looked like earlier after coming in from the rain make my breath hitch, along with the fact that he’s standing right in front of me when I’m not ready for him to be standing right in front of me.
That nervous intake of air makes the damn straw still dangling from my bottom lip suck back up into my mouth and fly to the back of my throat, making me choke and cough until I finally manage to dislodge the plastic tube, where it goes sailing out of me to hit the front of Putz’s shirt and flutter to the ground.
Putz chuckles, because of course he does, and then bends down to pick up my straw, because of course he does. God forbid he leave any litter on the ground for more than two seconds, the hot do-gooder.
“It’s about time you come say hello to me,” my mom says to Putz, not even caring about my mortification level right now as she walks around Wren and right past me, spreading her arms wide as she goes.
Putz leans over and tosses my straw into the garbage can on the other side of him before scooping my mom up in his strong, muscly arms when she gets to him, making her squeal. And making me suddenly jealous of my own mother and want to kick her legs out from under her when Putz puts her back on her feet.
I am never drinking again.
Just like my sister, my mom has always had a soft spot for the guy, since his mom died when he was a baby and his dad sucked balls and never gave him any kind of love or affection. His quiet, lonely, shy personality tugged at her motherly heartstrings from the first moment she met him, when I brought him here for a treat after his first day of training at SIG. He immediately put on an apron and got behind the counter when he saw how busy she was. I clutch my Styrofoam cup tightly in my hands as I watch the two of them share a few minutes of whispered words with their heads close together, until I feel my fingers start to squeeze right through the foam, and I quickly set my almost-empty cup down on the table next to me.
Calm down, Birdie. He’s talking to your mother!
The two of them finally split apart, but not before my mom gives him a soft, loving pat on the cheek. Walking back over to the picnic table where Wren took her seat next to Tess again at some point, my mom gives each of us a kiss on the top of our heads, pulling her golf cart keys out of her apron pocket as she heads toward the back of the building, lifting her hand with the keys and jingling them in the air above her head in a wave goodbye.
“Make good choices that do not include drunk-dialing me at three in the morning!”
“We can’t make that kind of promise this early in the evening, Laura!” Tess shouts after her, the smile on her face dying and her eyes widening when she turns back around and looks over my shoulder.
I turn to see what she’s looking at, and I’m stunned stupid, because all I see is Putz’s chest a few inches from my face, since he walked right up to the edge of the picnic table, and I’m sitting on top of it. His firm, well-built, delicious-smelling chest that is right in front of my face, my eyes taking entirely too long to make their way up to his face. He’s smiling down at me, and my heart flutters as I open and close my mouth like a fish with my neck slightly bent while I look at him. I try to find the straw to my damn drink for some much-needed vodka, when I realize I spit that stupid straw to my damn drink at his hot chest just moments ago, and my cup is not even in my hands.