Page 35 of Faking It
Talk
about overthinking something, Harlow.
And yet . . . he said it. He left it open to interpretation.
Definitely a chink in that grumpy armor.
Isn’t that an unexpected surprise?
I WATCH HER.
I shouldn’t because with each passing second I just become more irate. More irritated. More everything when he puts his hands on her hips to show her how she needs to shift them to transfer her weight when she swings the club.
Fucking professional golfer my ass. More like professional asshole so he can play grab ass with all the clubhouse regulars. The lonely wives who frequent the country club to get a little added attention while their husbands spend hours occupied on the links.
But Harlow isn’t married and she isn’t hurting for attention. Dozens of pairs of eyes are watching her, elbows being nudged from one man to another.
She stands there in her pristine white shorts that display those mile long legs and a daisy yellow T-shirt that hugs every other part of her. She’s stunning in every way. But it’s her smile, her laugh, her carefree everything that makes people stare.
Like I am.
What I can’t figure out is if this whole innocent thing is genuine or just an act to make men like me think about her and bring out that side in us that makes us want to be the first to conquer and claim.
“What I wouldn’t give to have her play with my nine iron,” the man next to me says with a nudge of his elbow.
My fists clench but I don’t respond.
How can I when my mind has been in the same exact place more times than I care to count?
The pro’s hands are on her again. His chest is to her back as he reaches around and flanks her so that he can help her swing the club. They sway their bodies backwards, then forward. When they connect with the ball, it soars.
Harlow lets out a yelp of excitement and does a little dance to celebrate it. Her hips sway and arms go above her head. Her laugh carries so that even more people stop to appreciate the sight in front of them.
The only thing I hate more than the pro’s hands on her is how every man standing here is watching her.
Christ, if they only knew they could look up photos of her wearing lingerie online . . .
The pro—preppy in his white polo shirt and perfect hair and goofy smile—makes an awkward attempt to give her a high five and then pull her into a celebratory hug.
Fuck this. That’s enough.
“Harlow? Honey . . . ” I call her name and stride from the bar into the range.
Harlow’s head startles and when she spots me, her smile spreads wide. “Zane! Did you see my drive?”
That’s right fuckers. She’s with me.
I stop just inside the platform. “Great shot.” I look over at the pro and fire off a warning shot with a glare to back the hell off before turning back to her. “You ready to go over everything?”
“Everything?”
What in the hell am I talking about?
“Yes. For tonight.”
“Oh. Okay.” Confusion fills her eyes before she glances over at the clock on the wall and then lifts her brow. “You want to take the last few shots left in my hour?”
“No thanks. I have a seat for us at the bar.”
