Total pages in book: 152
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147051 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 735(@200wpm)___ 588(@250wpm)___ 490(@300wpm)
“It would be sexist if you said I was born to be a kept housewife. And I love that I get to do that for you.” I pick up my ball, and we move to the next hole.
“My energy levels have been way up, and I know you’re the reason.” He sets up his ball for the putt.
“They’d be even better if you spent more nights actually sleeping,” I mutter.
“I’ll slow down during the season.” His phone pings, and he checks the message. “Uh, you okay if Tristan joins us?”
“Sure. That’s fine.” I roll the ball around between my fingers.
“It’s okay if you’d rather he didn’t,” Flip says.
“Do you not want him to come?”
“Sometimes you two get under each other’s skin.”
He doesn’t know the half of it. How upset would he be? How betrayed would he feel? I don’t want to risk telling him to find out. “It’s seriously fine.”
“If you’re sure…” He sounds unsure.
“Really. I promise not to bludgeon him to death with a putter.” I give Flip two thumbs-up.
“That’s not super reassuring.”
I roll my eyes. “Just tell him to come. We can be civil.”
“Okay.” He still looks skeptical as he fires off another message. “Looks like he’ll be here in ten minutes. Should we step aside and wait for him?”
“We could go back to the beginning and start over? Or he could skip the first few holes?”
“Tristan won’t want to skip holes.”
I cover a snicker by coughing into my arm. “So we wait here or we go back to the beginning. Up to you.” We step aside for a birthday party of seven-year-olds and supervising parents who are trying to keep the boys from using their putters as swords. Someone ends up getting hit in the shin and starts crying. That makes our decision to go back to the beginning easy.
Tristan arrives a minute later.
“It smells like the inside of a sneaker in here,” he complains.
“That should not be a surprise.” I inspect my nails so I don’t eye-fuck him. He’s wearing a pair of dark wash distressed jeans and a black T-shirt with his brother’s hockey team logo. He’s also wearing black running shoes and a black belt. He looks delicious and entirely too fuckable for his own good. “If I remember correctly, your running shoes used to smell like something died in them.”
“If you two could not bicker for the next hour, that would be awesome,” Flip grouses.
“She’s not wrong. My running shoes had a funk when I was a teenager. I learned later it was because my asshole cat took a dump in them.”
“Oh, shit! I remember that!” Flip laughs.
A mom gives him the stink-eye.
“Sorry. My bad.” He motions for them to pass. “You go ahead of us.”
We step off to the side so the mom and her two kids can putt putt their way to happiness. “How did you figure that out?” I ask.
“We watched the cat go into the closet and cop a squat over his shoe.” Flip chuckles.
“I guess my brother accidentally locked the cat in the closet once, and he did his business in my shoe while he was in there. My brother dumped out the mess, but the damage was done. And he kept doing it every time the closet was left open.”
“Why didn’t your brother just fess up in the first place?” I ask.
“They were Tristan’s lucky shoes. He wore them to every game,” Flip replies.
“Ah.” I nod knowingly. “Superstition shoes.”
Tristan rubs his bottom lip. “I tried everything to get the smell out, but eventually I had to get a new pair. I swear it was the reason we lost our chance in the playoffs that year. And to the second worst team in the freaking league.”
“Or it was because our team captain broke his ankle on the ski hill the week before and our number one goalie got mono and couldn’t stay awake for more than fifteen minutes at a time,” Flip counters. “But yeah, it totally could’ve been because your cat took dumps in your shoes and you had to replace them.”
I tip my head. “I didn’t know you were superstitious.”
“Just about certain things.” He swings his club. “Who’s ready to get their as—paragus handed to them?” He amends his swear on account of the family behind us.
The tween girl giggles.
We start again. With Tristan added to the mix, Flip’s competitive side comes out. He still keeps overshooting. And I keep hitting the balls within inches of the hole.
Tristan steps up and gives Flip a chin tip. “Watch and learn, Madden.” He takes a golfer’s stance, and I try not to ogle his butt. “You’re not trying to slam the balls into submission. Caress the balls. Be firm but gentle.” He smirks as he taps the ball. It rolls along the turf and circles the hole, dropping in on one shot. “That’s how it’s done.”