Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

“Absolutely nothing until you’re sober and remember every sweet goddamn second of it.”

Oh yeah, that’s right. How could I forget? It’s not like I haven’t been replaying those words every minute of every day since he said them to me behind the Dip and Twist. And it’s not like I haven’t specifically been avoiding any and all alcoholic beverages since that moment like all night long when we played cornhole, and all day yesterday when we worked together, and all night last night when we grabbed a few slices of pizza for dinner at Island Slice. We were with Tess and Bodhi, ignoring the two of them while they made out at the picnic table across from us the entire time we ate, while Palmer and I talked about old times and I filled him in on my mom and Wren. Plenty of time for nuzzling, and growling in the ear, and the grazing of body parts, and a whole shit-ton of sweet goddamn things I could lucidly remember. But no, nothing!

Nothing but being helpful, and considerate, and making sure I got fed, and keeping my spirits up. And making me all tingly with his sarcasm, and dimples, wearing a white T-shirt with the SIG logo, the cotton material stretched tight over his chest and clinging around his upper arms and torso….

Setting the walkie-talkie down on the bar when I get to it, I quickly type up a reply to Palmer.

Birdie: Fuck off.

Hitting Send and setting my phone down on the bar, I don’t feel even a little bit bad about my reply as Tess takes one look at me and then tells the customer she was in the middle of taking an order from that he needs to wait a minute. Mr. Grega, the athletic director for the high school, just waves her off with a smile, content to munch on the bowl of peanuts in front of him and continue watching The Briars Open on the TV hanging above the bar. I look down at my phone and the text I just sent and sigh deeply and guiltily.

“What’s wrong?” Tess asks, pulling the white bar towel off her shoulder, lifting up my phone and the walkie-talkie, and quickly wiping down the sticky, shiny wood top before putting everything back and nodding for me to take a seat on the empty stool behind me.

“I don’t have time for a break. I need you to have someone stack up more beer by the backdoor so I can have Mallory and the girls pull up and refill the carts,” I tell her. “And what’s wrong is that I’m just being a whiny little bitch, the usual.”

I glance up at the TV when Brock Webster makes a killer drive off the 7th tee box, and the crowd cheers.

“He was supposed to be at that tournament, and it’s probably on his mind, and he’s running around like crazy helping me out and being all cute and sweet and sarcastic. And I’m confused and frustrated and taking it out on him, when I should be asking him if he’s okay.”

When I finish rambling, Tess tosses her bar towel over her shoulder and then grabs a bottle of vodka from under the counter, holding it up and swirling the liquid around a little with a raise of one eyebrow.

“No.”

“Because you’re on the clock, or because you still think you need to keep your body pure from the spirits of the devil for Palmer to make a move on you?”

Looking at the time on the screen of the TV, I see I still technically have ten minutes before I need to get out to the 10th hole. Tess tells one of the other bartenders to take care of the cart girls, and when she turns back to look at me, I perch my ass on the edge of the stool. I don’t have both cheeks on it, so it doesn’t really count as taking a break. Shut up, don’t judge me.

“I had to go out and clean up all the kids games after they left, because Donovan got heat stroke and had to go home,” I start explaining quickly. “You know the kids games took place right next to the driving range. Well, Campbell was out there giving a few pro tips to a handful of teachers, showing them the proper way to drive a ball.”

“Oh shit,” Tess mutters, trying to offer me vodka again, and I turn it down again.

I’ve watched Palmer drive a ball off a tee a thousand times over the years, on television and up close and in person. There’s nothing quite like being a few feet away from that man when he swings a club, even when he was younger, thirty-some pounds lighter, and had way less muscle tone. Tess has listened to me describe his body and how hot he looks swinging a club so many times in fifteen years she knows what’s going through my head right now.