Kiss My Putt (Summersweet Island 1)

But not before he has the nerve to swat my ass over my skirt before clutching tightly to the backs of my bare thighs so I don’t fall. I immediately start flailing my legs, squirming my body, and beating the shit out of his back upside down with my fists until Palmer has no choice but to stop and let me down before he drops me.

I’m still swinging when I’m back on my feet until Palmer finally gets ahold of both my hands and holds them tightly between us, jerking me closer to him, the rain coming down on us in buckets as he breathes heavily and a muscle tics in his jaw. He adjusts and holds my hands still with one of his as he takes the other one and swipes his wet hair back off his forehead and then wipes some of the dripping water off his face. Since I’m fighting the urge to push up on my tiptoes and lick all that water off his face for him, I decide to shout at him in the middle of the pouring rain instead, jerking my arms out of his hold and taking a few stumbling steps back in the wet grass.

“Listen here, buddy! You can’t just drag me around, and toss me over your shoulder, and smack my ass when you were just up in that clubhouse getting nice and cozy with Lizzy! Did she smell good? Wanna take her on a date, do ya? She sure got the shivers when you whispered sweet nothings in her ear, and you just thought she was so funny, ha ha, look at how funny Lizzy is!”

My voice is screechy, and it hurts my ears, but it doesn’t matter. I’m so fucking tired. I’m tired of being afraid, and I’m tired of analyzing everything, and I’m tired of just not being honest. With myself and with the man a few feet in front of me, standing out on a golf course in the middle of a storm. Keeping everything bottled up never made me any happier anyway.

I should have dated more. Then maybe I’d understand signs and clues and know what the hell I’m doing.

A laugh suddenly barks out of Palmer, and when I blink the rain out of my eyes and stare at him with murder in them, he holds his wet palms up in the air.

“I’m sorry! I don’t mean to laugh, I swear. It’s just… Elizabeth Bradford? She’s kind of… school-marmy, bookish, and shy. Which is great—don’t get me wrong—but not my type.”

Okay, so maybe Lizzy Bradford isn’t a hot porno teacher, and she always wears ankle-length jean skirts even when it’s eight-hundred degrees out. And while she does have big boobs, you really can’t tell, since she always wears oversized shirts, and her thick, frizzy red hair is always in a French braid down the center of her head and hangs down to her ass. And now that I think about it, she might actually be a sister wife. Son of a bitch, what is wrong with me?

“Her fiancé was late for dinner, and she felt weird going in and sitting at the table without him, so I was keeping her company. It was loud as hell, even out on the deck, so I had to keep leaning in so she could hear me and so I could hear her, since everything she says is in a whisper. It’s really weird. I honestly don’t think she has a voice box. I left to find you as soon as Bill got here.”

Riiight. Bill Ambers, 9th grade biology teacher. Their engagement party was here at SIG, and I organized it and was invited to it. Well, isn’t this fun?

“Are you… jealous?” He can barely get the word out. There’s a mixture of humor and shock on his face as the rain drips down it, and beads of water are clinging to his dark lashes as he blinks at me in complete confusion. Another boom of thunder echoes all around us, but we ignore it.

Palmer wipes a hand down his face again, looking at me like maybe if he wipes the water off his face enough times, it will wipe away his confusion and make sense of the fact that I was jealous, lost my shit, and came out here in the middle of a storm over a woman who Palmer was just being sweet and considerate to and looks like Anne of Green Gables, though a very lovely young woman. But I’m thinking it wouldn’t matter who it was. The fact that I’m jealous at all speaks volumes; although, it looks like Palmer currently has earplugs in, and I’m clearly not shouting loud enough.

Palmer laughs in confusion again, and although the sound is small over the noise of the storm coming down all around us, it starts something brewing that suddenly feels like someone is shaking the bottle inside me of truths and feelings I’ve kept a lid on around him for all these years, swirling it up and building the pressure.