Page 2 of Unexpected Shot
Fuck this man. Again, not literally, but how dare he look this good before six a.m.…
The biggest inconvenience I’ve had in my life is that the man I’ve despised for a majority of it is also one of the sexiest men on the planet. And that’s saying something, because my life hasn’t been sunshine and rainbows by any means. Maybe that’s the difference. My life has been a series of crashes after finally thinking I’ve cleared the hill. If I had an autobiography, it would be titledEvery Time The Shoe Has Dropped. And while Beau has been part of some of those crashes—and played a starring role to one of the biggest ones of my life—the most annoying thing about him is that he’s good looking and he knows it.
And so do I.
Why, body? Why can’t I be attracted to a blond nerd who wants to talk to me about the way he organizes his video games or about his favorite spoon? That would be so much more convenient. But no, when God said, “Who should we make Shelby LeBlanc attracted to?” She then went on to reply, “I know! Beau! The man she’ll have fantasies about killing and also eating her out!”
I really thought God was a girl’s girl. Apparently not, if this is what she’s done.
I hate, hate, hate, the reaction my body has to Beau. You’d think I’d be used to it by now considering he started as the cute older brother of my best friend. The one I first noticed after I realized boys weren’t entirely gross. Then, he became my first golf course crush when I was twelve—one I never told anyone about because I was still going with the company line that I hated all boys, they were gross, and I just wanted to beat them at golf. At fourteen, I wanted nothing more than for Beau to be my first kiss—on the eighteenth green, because I might be a golfer, but I’m a girl, and that was my movie moment.
That never happened. And it never will. Because one daytwenty years ago Beau Devereaux broke my faith. Looking back, he also broke my heart. Because he became a person I didn’t think he was. A cheater. That was the day I took off the Beau colored sunglasses that no one knew I wore.
From that moment on, the one constant in my life was that I hated Beau Devereaux. And lately I’ve developed a second stupid constant—how my body reacts to him when he’s near.
I fucking hate it.
Like right now. Prime example of my body’s betrayal. He hasn’t shaved this morning, so his beard is unkempt and a little crazy. Not the close, manicured length he usually keeps it. He’s casually dressed, trading in his signature well-fitted and brightly-colored golf polos for a plain, black, long sleeve T-shirt and a pair of joggers. He’s wearing a hat with one of his sponsor’s logos on it, not because he’s worried about being seen without it, but because he likely didn’t do his hair this morning. Hair that’s long enough to run your fingers through and hold on to if and when?—
“Quit staring, Belle. That is, unless you want to get a closer look? Maybe take a picture. It’ll last longer.”
And there it is. The immediate cold shower Beau always provides every time he opens his damn mouth.
“Fuck you,” I hiss, turning back to my golf bag to pull out the dummy weighted club I use to warm up. “Just go back to whatever you were doing. And next time you leave your house, shave your fucking beard. You can’t pull off the Grizzly Adams look.”
“Aw, do you have a preference for how I wear my beard? So nice of you,” he says.
“I don’t. And I wasn’t staring.”
“Whatever you say, Belle. Whatever you say.”
I take in, and let out, a deep breath. And it does nothing to calm me down. “Quit calling me that.”
“Nah,” he says with a shake of his head. “I’m mad Istoppedcalling you that.”
“I hate it.”
“Exactly,” he says, tapping a golf ball closer to him. “Would you rather me go back to calling you shrew? Or maybe something new? SheDevil has a ring to it.”
I wish I was the SheDevil. I’d have access to hellfire and a pitchfork right now. Yeah, I can’t help smiling at that option. Even if I have to give him credit for it.
“Call me whatever you want.” I shrug, like his venom has no effect on me at all. “I’ll continue to call you a cheater. Because that’s what you are.”
That gets me my daily Beau eye roll. “For fuck’s sake, Shelby. As I’ve told you every day for the past nineteen?—”
“Twenty.”
“Fine. Twenty years. I didn’t cheat. I’ve never cheated at a golf tournament, or while holding a golf club, or while keeping score. Ever.”
“And as I say every day, I know what you did.”
He just shakes his head, exasperation taking over his expression. “Are you ever going to let it go?”
I pretend to think about it. “Absolutely not.”
“Fine,” he says, rolling a ball to get it into position. “You continue being miserable and living in the past over a situation that was fucked up, with neither of us responsible for the outcome. I’m going to finish my morning routine. You know, the one you’re interrupting because I’m here every morning at five thirty.”
I start to come back with some sort of witty retort, but I swallow the comeback. It won’t do any good. I might love to have the last word, but I know Beau well enough to know he’ll never let me have it. If I don’t end this conversation now, I’m not going to get anything done today. And I’m here this early for a reason. I need to loosen up. Warm up. Get my shoulder ready for an intense day of practice.
