Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

I was in the process of scooping up a bunch of big plastic Wiffle balls that went with the children’s golf set we used during the games, when I heard a small thwack of a ball being hit, an embarrassed chuckle, and then Palmer’s quiet, understanding voice.

I stood up and turned around just in time to watch Palmer take the club from the vice principal of the elementary school who just hit the ball, get into position, shaking his hips a little and loosening up his shoulders before lining his club up to the tee, and explain the mechanics of everything he was doing to the men watching avidly from behind him. Maybe it’s the added muscle on him, or maybe it’s the fact that I’ve been wet since the first time he pressed his face into the side of my neck. Either way, I’m pretty sure I had a small orgasm when he pulled his club back and then brought down all that power to attack the ball. When Palmer hits a ball, it’s nothing like the little thwack that came from Mr. Arnold’s attempt at a drive, or like when I or any other average person hit a golf ball. It’s a loud, powerful crack that hangs in the air and rings in your ears long after the ball is gone. I didn’t even turn to see how far he hit it. The plastic balls all fell out of my arms, and I stared at his finishing stance with his legs crossed, hips turned, torso twisted, and his thick, corded biceps flexing and tensing as he held the club suspended back and up over his left shoulder, still gripping tightly to the shaft.

“Whose shaft did she grip?” Mr. Grega asks from down the bar, pulling me out of my thoughts.

I turn and look at him with wide eyes and then slowly look back at Tess.

“You kept muttering gripping his shaft,” Tess informs me, shutting up Mr. Grega by quickly refilling his Jack and Coke and then coming right back to me.

“I just had to think the word shaft, didn’t I?” I mutter as she reaches over the bar and pats my arm in sympathy. “Let me live vicariously through you before I have to get back to work. Did you sleep with Bodhi last night after you guys went on your second date?”

“A lady never tells.” We stare at each other for a few beats. “So anyway, totally fucked him on my couch, where I guess he’s now living. His dick is massive, and he must study romance novels, because his dirty talk is A-plus. I don’t know what it is about pot smokers, but they are exceptionally good with their tongues,” she muses, and I’m not in any way jealous at all.

My forehead thumping against the bar in front of me says that’s a lie.

Tess wedges her fingers between the wood and my forehead and lifts my head up for me.

“You know it’s okay to just reach out and grab what you want, right?”

A sigh is my only answer as I pick up the walkie-talkie and then grab my phone as I step off the bar stool.

“I’m referring to Putz’s dick, in case you didn’t catch that,” Tess adds, making Mr. Grega snort and then choke on a peanut.

“If it were that easy, I would have done it fifteen years ago,” I tell her quietly as I lean closer to her over the bar.

“Yeah, well, the difference is you know your feelings are reciprocated this time.” She shrugs.

“But do I? Do I really?” I ask, trying to keep my low voice from coming out high-pitched and hysterical. “He didn’t like it that I dated Bradley and stopped talking to me. Two years ago. A lot can change in two years. It doesn’t mean he still feels that way. We’re friends again. Isn’t that fun? Friends!”

This time, my voice does come out high-pitched and a little hysterical.

My phone buzzes against the bar, and I see another text from Palmer telling me to hurry up. I refrain from telling him to fuck off this time. Looking up at the TV as I say goodbye to Tess, I let the tournament remind me I need to cut him a little slack, even if my body highly disagrees.“Have a nice nap? Get all your dillydallying out of your system?”

“Dillydallying? What are you, ninety?” I ask Palmer, shading my eyes from the sun as I look up at him, since I forgot my hat back in my office.

A bunch of course workers and onlookers who aren’t competing have started to gather around us, half down here by the cup to watch where the balls land, and half up at the tee box to watch the competitors tee off. One of the SIG workers is holding onto the pin markers that we’ll use to mark the balls when they land. They’re essentially plastic stakes that stand about three-feet tall with a wide enough area at the top for us to write someone’s name on them with Sharpie.