Fore Play Page 4

  “I’m afraid I’m not available this afternoon. We can talk about it at your lesson next week. It’s Tuesday, right?”

  Denise’s eyes narrowed, and it appeared she was trying to decide whether to step up her verbal seduction or give up.

  Before Denise had a chance to make up her mind, one of the men in her group called, “Denise, you’re up. Let’s go.”

  Denise gave Peyton one more long, very obviously interested look before saying, “See you on Tuesday. I’m beside myself with anticipation.”

  “Wow.” Jill stepped next to Peyton after Denise was out of earshot. “I don’t know about you, but if she were looking at me like she was looking at you, I’d need a cold shower or a moment alone.”

  Peyton’s head whipped around, and she glared at Jill. “I don’t do that.”

  Jill, obviously taken aback by Peyton’s sharp rebuttal, lifted her hands, palms out, in front of her. “I didn’t mean anything by that, Peyton. I apologize.”

  Leigh watched the interchange between the two and noticed Peyton exhale and her shoulders relax. “No problem. I apologize for my overreaction. This is my job, not a place to pick up women.”

  “And I bet you have plenty of opportunity. I don’t know if I could resist the temptation, if they look like that,” Jill added.

  “Then aren’t you lucky you work for yourself. You should come work for me,” Hilde said. “I have more women in my office than I know what to do with.”

  “No, thanks. Joyce would kill me,” Jill said, referring to her wife and the mother of their two kids. “Peyton, how did you become a club pro?”

  Peyton appeared to be relieved that the subject had changed. “I played a little golf in college. Marcus, the club manager, knew that, and here I am.”

  “Where did you go to school?” Jill asked.

  “The tee is clear. Jill, you’re up,” Peyton said instead of answering the question.

  “How long have you been here?” Leigh asked, wanting to know more about Peyton.

  “About a year.”

  “Where were you before that? Were you a pro at some other club?”

  “Hilde, you’re up.” Peyton again deftly changed the subject.

  “I get the impression you don’t like to talk about yourself,” Leigh said, voicing her thoughts.

  Peyton didn’t comment on her observation. Instead, she said, “I’m here to teach golf and serve beverages.”

  “And occasionally make a foursome.”

  “And occasionally make a foursome.”

  “I don’t even know your last name.”

  A wary expression crossed Peyton’s face.

  “I don’t know yours either. Has it affected our game?”

  “Marshall,” she said. Peyton didn’t reply. “This is where it’s expected that you tell me yours.”

  “Well, I’ve never been known for doing the expected, Ms. Marshall. I believe I’m up. Excuse me.” Peyton headed to the tee.

  * * *

  “She’s a mysterious one, isn’t she?” Jill commented as the waiter served their drinks. They’d finished their round, stored their clubs, changed out of their golf shoes, and were sitting at a table at the far end of the patio. A light breeze cooled the air, and the sun was far enough in its decline that they were in the shade. The putting green was to their right, the driving range to their left, and the first tee straight in front of them. Peyton had declined their invitation to join them and disappeared into a back room shortly after they came off the eighteenth green.

  “That’s a locked box I’d like to open,” Hilde said, continuing to make known her obvious interest in Peyton.

  “She’s already thrown away the key, as far as you’re concerned,” Jill said, poking Hilde in the side playfully.

  “I’ve picked a lock a time or two. Just makes it more of a challenge.” Hilde lifted her glass of beer to her pouty lips.

  “You were talking to her, Leigh. Did you find out anything?”

  “No. She was pretty tight-lipped.”

  “Did you even get her last name?”

  “No.”

  “Last names are rarely important,” Hilde added.

  “Jesus Christ, Hilde, would you give it up,” Leigh snapped, judging by the reaction on her two friends’ faces, completely out of character.

  “What’s got your panties in a wad?” Hilde asked, quickly recovering. Hilde sat back in her chair, her smile growing. “You’re attracted to her.”

  “Hilde, I am not attracted to her.” Even to Leigh’s ears, her protest sounded way too strong. “Unlike you, I don’t want to fuck every lesbian I see.”

  “That’s not true,” Jill said. “Hilde wants to fuck every woman she sees,” she added, trying to inject some levity to the conversation that had suddenly become very tense. Hilde and Jill high-fived each other.

  “You got that right, girl. I have only so many days until I die.” She turned to Leigh. “You should try it, Leigh.”

  “Why is everyone so concerned about my sex life?” Leigh asked.

  Hilde and Jill looked at each other. “Who else is concerned about your sex life?”

  “Susan,” Leigh replied, sorry she’d opened her mouth.

  “What did Susan say? And don’t lie. I’ve got your sister on speed dial, and I can call her before you even get it out of your mouth,” Hilde said.

  Susan, Leigh’s younger sister, was a frequent guest at Leigh’s house and had met most of her friends. Susan was twenty-three and thought that getting laid was the solution to just about anything. Leigh remembered those days and had to agree.

  “I’ll paraphrase in terms you two can understand. She said I need to get laid.”

  “She’s right,” Jill said.

  “Damn right,” echoed Hilde. “You’re looking a little tight around the edges, and your tongue is a little sharp. In addition, you lost your patience a long time ago. I, however,” Hilde spread her hands in front of her as if to say, look at me, “never display any of those unflattering characteristics. Hence, my point.”

  “I’m busy. I’ve got more important things to do than—”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, girl. Nothing’s more important than a good orgasm. Unless it’s four or five.” Hilde smiled smugly.

  This time Hilde and Jill clinked glasses in solidarity.

  “Look. I get it, and I agree with both of you. I’ve just got a lot on my mind, and I’ve been working my ass off since getting this promotion. My job is important to me. As my friends, you should understand that.”

  Jill laid her perfectly manicured hand on Leigh’s forearm. “You know we do, Leigh. It’s just that we worry about you.”

  “Well, don’t. I’m fine. I’m happy with my life, with where I am. Once my life settles down, then I’ll think about getting a girlfriend.”

  “Honey,” Hilde said, touching Leigh’s shoulder. “You need to do more than think about getting a girlfriend.”

  “I’ll do more than just think about a girlfriend,” Leigh said to end the conversation. Thankfully Jill and Hilde had turned their attention to their food that had just arrived, and they couldn’t see Leigh look around for any sign of Peyton.

  Chapter Seven

  “Peyton, you have Marshall and Stark. John, you have…” Peyton didn’t hear the rest of the caddie assignments, her heart skittering at the familiar name. Today was a charity golf tournament benefitting the county’s foster-care system, and Peyton was pulling caddie duty. They had over thirty pairings today, so it was all hands on deck for anyone requesting a caddie.

  Peyton glanced down at the paper in front of her, locating the tee time of her pair, and noticed the paper in her hands was shaking. She set it on the table, a finger on each corner, and pushed down, applying pressure to steady her hands. She had a little over thirty minutes to find and meet her assignment.

  Marcus finished the instructions regarding the day’s events, including the awards dinner that started at five. Peyton hustled to the employees-only
locker room and sat on one of the benches in front of a bank of twelve floor-to-ceiling lockers. Hers was on the far left, her name laminated in black letters four inches from the top. Her neon-purple combination padlock hung from the handle. After nine years of dull gray and dingy white, Peyton surrounded herself with splashes of color wherever she could.

  Too nervous to sit still, Peyton jumped back up and paced the small room. She didn’t spend a lot of time in here. It was claustrophobically similar to the ones she’d left behind almost a year ago. But that’s where the similarities ended. That room was a dull shade of gray, faded from years of fluorescent light and chipped from the hundreds of women who had occupied its space. This room was a bright shade of yellow with a three-inch blue trim just below the white ceiling.

  The lockers were a contrasting royal blue, the industrial-strength carpet under her feet, gray with a diamond pattern that transitioned to slip-safe tile leading into the showers, toilet, and sink area. The entire locker room was probably a thousand square feet, and nothing about it should have made Peyton feel claustrophobic other than the fact that there was one door in and out and absolutely no windows. She looked at the large clock emblazoned with the Copperwind logo high on the wall across the room. It was time to meet Marshall and Stark and determine if, in fact, Marshall was Leigh.

  Peyton looked at herself in the full-length mirror and saw exactly what she’d seen when she left her apartment this morning. Her pale-blue shirt was tucked neatly into the waistband of shorts that fell just above her knees, the crease still razor sharp. She grabbed her hat, took a deep breath, and walked out.

  * * *

  “Where is our damned caddie?” Peter Stark asked, none too happy.

  Stark was the head of the audit department for Cementic, and Leigh wasn’t his original partner. Her boss, Larry Taylor, had signed up with Stark to play in the tournament, but at the last minute his grandson was hospitalized, and he and his wife had to fly to Omaha. Larry had volunteered or, more appropriately, volun-told Leigh to play in his place. Even though Leigh was happy for the opportunity to connect with a senior member of the executive team and that Larry had thought of her, Stark wouldn’t have been her first, second, or even her fifth choice. He had a Napoleon complex and was at least fifty pounds overweight. He was already sweating profusely, and they hadn’t even started the first hole.

  Leigh looked at her watch and saw that it was twenty-five minutes past the hour, and their caddie still had a few minutes to arrive. A caddie was provided with her registration, if desired, but Leigh preferred to carry her own bag. Stark, however, obviously did not. He was already hot under the collar.

  “I’m sure he’s on his way, Peter. He doesn’t know us any more than we know him,” Leigh said, trying to get him on a positive track.

  “Well, they need to be much better organized than this.”

  Leigh sighed and shook her head, starting to think it was going to be a long day.

  “Mr. Stark? I’m Peyton, your caddie for the day. Welcome to Copperwind. Thank you for joining us, and I hope you enjoy the event.”

  Leigh didn’t know who was more surprised, Stark that his he was, in fact a she, or Leigh, who would be spending the next eighteen holes and several hours in the company of the woman who had provided her several very vivid and arousing dreams.

  “You’re a girl,” Stark commented needlessly.

  “Actually, Mr. Stark, I’m a woman and your caddie. Is there a problem?”

  Stark frowned, his bushy gray eyebrows almost covering his eyes. He started to open his mouth, but Peyton didn’t give him a chance to reply.

  “Mr. Stark, Copperwind is one of the most exclusive golf clubs in the country. I can assure you I am more than qualified. We’re teeing off on the first tee, which is a par five, five hundred and twenty-five yards with a dogleg to the left. I suggest, with your handicap, you should start with your driver, then your 4 iron, give or take twenty-five yards. There are bunkers in front and to the left and right of the green. The pin is in the back of the green today. A nice seventy-five-yard chip, and you can two-putt it in.

  Stark’s mouth dropped open as Peyton recited the statistics of the next few holes before he gathered his composure and waved her off. “Fine. Let’s go. I don’t want to be late.”

  He tossed his putter to Peyton and swiveled on his heel, digging his spikes in so much he kicked up a divot, then stomped off toward the first tee box.

  Peyton lifted Stark’s bag and effortlessly seated the wide strap on her shoulder. The muscles in her forearms and biceps flexed under the heavy bag.

  “Good to see you again, Leigh,” Peyton said after turning to her.

  “He wasn’t my choice to play with.”

  “Well, that being what it is, shall we go? We don’t want to be late.” She mimicked Stark’s statement with a grin.

  “Is there anything in this club you don’t do?” Leigh asked as they walked toward the tee.

  “I don’t cook,” Peyton replied blandly.

  “I’ll have to remember that.” Remembering anything about Peyton had not been difficult. It had been a couple of weeks since Peyton had filled out their foursome, and on more than one occasion, Leigh had relived practically every minute like a silly schoolgirl with her first crush. She recalled the warm timbre of Peyton’s voice, the way she concentrated on her game, the way she smiled, her tanned, long legs, her strong arms, and the way her shirt pulled tight across her breasts when she swung her club.

  “Are any others from your company playing today?”

  “No,” Leigh answered, pulling her mind out of the gutter and back to the green grass in front of her. “My boss signed up and at the last minute couldn’t make it.”

  “Well, I hope you enjoy yourself, and if there’s anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  “I think you’ll have your hands full with Stark,” she said confidently, Stark had already shown he was high maintenance.

  It was their turn on the tee, and Stark ignored the club Peyton offered him and pulled out an alternative one instead. So, that’s the way it’s going to be. What a prick.

  He placed his ball on his tee, stepped back, looked at the fairway once, then hit the ball. His form was awful, and Leigh cringed. He didn’t look to see where his ball landed. Obviously, that was Peyton’s job. He stood where he was, waiting for Peyton to come to him to retrieve his club. Leigh and Stark had been paired up with two men in bright-red polo shirts with a State Farm logo, who teed off after Stark. Leigh was playing off the front tees, twenty-five yards in front of the men’s. Historically, they had been referred to as the men’s and women’s tees, but in today’s climate of political correctness and gender equality, they were simply termed the front and back. More than likely Stark didn’t get that notice.

  Leigh set her ball, stepped back, and took a deep breath. The first hole was always the worst, with everyone watching you before settling into their own games. She had a 1 wood, the grip comfortable in her hands. She lined up to the ball, took another deep breath, exhaled half of it, and swung.

  The thwack of the club hitting the ball was indicative that she’d made good contact and hadn’t embarrassed herself. Her ball sailed into the air and landed a respectable distance down the fairway. She exhaled and picked up her tee.

  Echoes of “nice shot” surrounded Leigh as she replaced her club and shouldered her bag.

  Leigh heard Stark’s labored breathing as he walked down the fairway. If this was the way he sounded on the first hole, she was afraid he might stroke out on the back nine.

  The first three holes were uneventful, and Stark continued his passive-aggressiveness by ignoring whatever club Peyton offered him. Finally, on the fourth hole, and already down by three strokes, he grudgingly accepted her recommendation and parred the hole.

  There was a bottleneck on the eleventh tee, the waiting golfers exchanging money for drinks from the woman driving the beverage cart. This woman looked nothing like Peyton; however, sh
e could have been a cocktail waitress at Hooters.

  Leigh stood next to Peyton and watched six of the nine men in front of her fall all over themselves to chat her up. It was so obvious and so apparent what was going on, Leigh could only shake her head.

  “Do you think it’ll ever change?” she asked Peyton, who stood beside her.

  “As long as there are women like that and men like that, I doubt it,” Peyton replied, not even asking for clarification.

  The other caddies stood huddled under a tree, each holding a can of Coke in their hand, their bags leaning against their hips. Peyton stayed beside Leigh and made no move to join them.

  “You can go be with the others.” Leigh waved in the direction of the other caddies.

  “I’m good right here. I could say the same to you.”

  “I’m good right here,” Leigh said and was rewarded when just the edges of Peyton’s mouth turned up.

  “Since this is our second date, are you going to tell me your last name now?”

  Peyton’s eyebrows rose, but she kept her gaze focused straight ahead. Peyton’s heightened sense of her surroundings was unusual, and Leigh wanted to ask more about that, but this wasn’t the time.

  “Technically, this is our third, and no. Does it matter?”

  Leigh’s stomach tingled that Peyton remembered the first time they’d seen each other and counted that as well.

  “No, but Jill and Hilde were wondering.”

  “Were they?”

  “Yes, they were. They also wanted to know where you went to school, if you’re single,” and where you got that scar on your cheek, Leigh thought but didn’t say.

  “And if I tell you, are you going to report back to them?”

  “Well, they are my friends.” Leigh answered like it was a no-brainer.

  Peyton smiled and nodded. “And that’s what friends do.”

  Leigh wasn’t sure if that was a question or simply a statement. “Of course,” Leigh said playfully. “We tell each other everything.”