Total pages in book: 103
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 100523 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 503(@200wpm)___ 402(@250wpm)___ 335(@300wpm)
Oh, burn.
But I take my lumps like a big girl, especially because I don’t care if I win. I turn to Mac. “See? That’s not showboating. That’s just trash talk. Are you allowed to trash talk?”
She taps her chin, considering my question, then nods. “Daddy didn’t say anything about trash talk on the golf course,” she says, and I rein in a snicker. Of course he didn’t. Wilder Blaine probably doesn’t play golf with people who would trash talk.
But when in Rome…
As Carter waggles his hips, getting ready to putt, Mac’s brow knits like she’s thinking hard about what to say, so I whisper a retort to use.
“Oh, that’s funny,” she says.
Carter taps the yellow ball, sending it down the slope, down the hill, and…oh, too bad…it whizzes right past the hole.
“Now,” I urge.
She cups her mouth, then points to the hole. “Hey Carter, the hole is here,” she says in the most innocently helpful tone.
The big, burly football player strides down the green, shaking his head in amusement. When he reaches us, he points his club from me to her. “You are a troublemaker.”
“Me?” I ask, setting a hand on my chest as I flutter my lashes.
“Yeah, you.”
“I don’t think she’s a troublemaker,” Mac says, crossing her arms, and stepping closer to my side. “But whatever you tell yourself to sleep at night.”
Holy shit. Someone is a fast study. I offer her a palm again.
With amusement in his eyes, Carter turns to me. “Did you want to take another swing, Rachel? We probably have time for your usual ten.”
Mac laughs.
I scoff, then pat his shoulder before I turn to my apprentice. “Trash-talking rule number one. It only works on those who care. Me? I’m not competitive with sports. Baking is another story though.”
I stride over to my orange ball, tap it once, then again, then one more time, shrugging like it’s all no big deal, which is true. I officially suck at mini golf, but I don’t care. It’s still fun.
Which reminds me of our original mission today—the Date Night one.
I beckon for Carter’s phone, and he hands it over. I turn on the camera. Keeping it on me and making sure Mac is off-screen, I add to the videos we already shot, saying, “Another big bennie of mini golf? Win or lose, even if you’re terrible like me, the game is still fun.”
Carter, the camera hog, sneaks into the shot, leaning in close, his face next to mine. “And it’s more fun, too, for the other guy. I mean, winning is baller.” He waggles his hand at the screen, showing off those well-earned rings.
“Gee, did you win a couple Big Games or something?” I deadpan.
“Just a few,” he says.
I turn off the camera, nudging him with my elbow. “Show-off.”
“More like suck-up. Mr. Blaine loves the rings. And I know he’s watching the vids.”
The sound of fabric rustling catches my attention, and I turn back to Mac, who’s reaching into her peach-colored T-shirt, tugging on a chain, then pulling it out. “Look! I have one too,” she says, proudly showing us her necklace—one of her father’s rings dangles on the end of it.
Carter whistles. “That is some sweet hardware.”
“Yeah, but it’s heavy,” Mac says, with a shrug, then taps the end of her club on the green. “Also, Carter, it’s still your turn.”
Tick tock.
“Yes. Yes, it is,” he says, then moves behind the yellow ball.
As he lines up, Mac sighs like she’s reminiscing. “I remember my first round of golf too.”
I burst into laughter.
Carter stops mid swing, his gaze snapping to the kid’s. “First you take me on in mini golf, now you’re trying to school me in smack talk?”
“I’m just trying to help you improve your game,” she says, already a master at the droll delivery.
Carter drops his head in his hand and cracks up. When he raises his face, he fights off a smile as he taps the ball. It falls into the hole with a plink.
He fists pumps, then fishes the ball from the hole.
Mac nods thoughtfully. “It must be nice to be excited about second place.”
He growls playfully at her. “We have four holes left, Mac,” he says, pointing as we head to the fifteenth hole.
“Maybe we should make a bet,” Mac says, like she’s musing on the possibilities while we wander down the path to the waterfall up ahead. She brightens, then skips. “How about…ice cream on you if I win?”
The question is delivered to Carter, but it gives me a good idea. “Do you like molten chocolate cake with ice cream?”
Mac’s eyes widen. “I like anything.”
She sounds hypnotized by sweets. That feeds the beast in me—the one that relishes watching her take him apart on the links. “Tell you what—if you can beat Carter, we can make this quick molten cake recipe at my house. It takes thirty-five minutes and is amazing with ice cream.”