Page 60 of Unexpected Shot
“I skinned my knee so bad,” I say with a smile, remembering that day in third grade. “I bet the next words out of her mouth would be ‘if you love her so much, why don’t you marry her?’”
“Right? Like a dare.”
“Or a double-dog dare.”
We share a smile, knowing each other well enough to know that neither of us, in our entire lives, have been able to turn down a dare. It’s how I ended up in a coordinated neon yellow outfit for a tournament when I was fifteen. And how she one time had to play an entire round with only her seven iron.
“I’ve got a dare for you, Shelby Lynn,” I say, pulling her closer.
“What’s that, Big Boy?”
I lean down, our foreheads touching. “I dare you to kiss me.”
I hold my breath as a fire lights in Shelby’s eyes, and it’s then that I know she’s going to do it. The woman can’t turn down a dare, but I really thought she might. And until her lips hit mine, my drunk brain still thinks she’ll pull back at the last second.
She doesn’t. She does the opposite. Shelby kisses me with every fiber of her being. Her hands cup my face, taking control of the kiss. But I don’t care. She can take control. She can take my soul. Because the feeling of Shelby’s lips against mine, her tongue sweeping my mouth, is a feeling I’m never going to forget.
Hopefully. I mean, I am completely hammered. I might not remember this kiss tomorrow. Or this night. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I’ll always know what Shelby’s lips taste like.
Cinnamon. Sugar. Sin.
I’m stunned as she pulls away, wondering what just happened and how we got here. It’s why I’m not ready for the words Shelby says next.
“My turn,” she whispers in my ear.
“What’s that?”
“Marry me. I double-dog dare you.”
CHAPTER 14
SHELBY
“By the power vested in me by the state of Nevada and from all of us here at the Ring and Bling Chapel, I now pronounce you, husband and wife… You may kiss your bride.”
A full body shiver runs from the top of my head all the way down to my toes as the scene plays in my mind right in the middle of my practice swing. I shank my shot, which isn’t surprising considering I feel like I’ve been run over by a semi-truck. Even with my sunglasses and a visor, the outside is too bright. My stomach is revolting. I’ve puked twice this morning. All I want is a greasy breakfast, one thousand bottles of Gatorade, six times the recommended dosage of Advil, and the darkest room I can find.
But no, I have to play golf. With Beau. Who I dreamt about marrying last night.
Dreams are so fucked up when you’re drunk…
I never drink that much before the start of a tournament. Maybe a drink with dinner or a few glasses of wine if I have alater tee time, but I’ve never actually blacked out the night before a round.
The last thing I remember is admitting to Beau what Michael did. I don’t know if it was getting that off my chest, or the shot I took to get me through it, but that sent me over the edge.
Next thing I know, I’m waking up in my hotel room, the bed way more disheveled than it should’ve been for just me sleeping in it, and a cheap gold ring on my right hand that looks like it’ll make my skin turn green.
“Get it together, Shelby,” I scold myself as I tap a ball to where I’m standing at the driving range, doing my best to warm up for our tee time that’s sooner than I’d like it to be. “You can’t fuck this day up.”
If those self-words of encouragement don’t get my act together, I don’t know what will. Because it’s the truth. If I can just figure out my equilibrium—because I might still be drunk—and hit the ball just average, I’ll be able to get through today.
Now Beau, on the other hand? That’s a whole other story.
I look around the driving range to see if I can spot one of his ridiculous colored shirts, but he’s nowhere to be found. I think he was with me the whole night. I have the vaguest memory of riding in a taxi back to the hotel with him, but then I also have a vague memory of kissing him, so clearly, I can’t trust my memories. Because there isn’t an amount of liquor in the world that would lower my inhibitions so much that I’d kiss Beau Devereaux.
“Shelby Lynn Devereaux. It has a nice ring to it.”
“It’s a lot of syllables,” I say, but I don’t think Beau can hear me. Or cares. He’s too busy kissing my neck. And I’m too busy liking it to care that he’s not listening to me. “Six. Sex syllables.”
