The Reality of You (6 page)

Chapter 7

I
hadn’t golfed much in my short life, just a few benefit scrambles. I liked the
sport, especially the idea that paired it well with beer, but at twenty-four,
who has time, much less money, for
golf? I probably wouldn’t be enjoying any brewskis over the next couple of
hours. As long as he didn’t start spouting secretarial demands, I planned on
enjoying the tropical views
and
the
view of Mr. Jordon.

A girl’s gotta take
what she can, and it was a well-known fact that I liked—was obsessed—with the
view of his pants.

My golf lesson went
fairly well. After the debacle during Pilates, Reese not only changed our tee
time from tomorrow morning for eighteen holes to nine this afternoon, but he
was adamant that I take lessons. Yet I wasn’t too shabby. Even the instructor
commented on my skill. That might have been because I was basically a beginner,
but I wasn’t above letting the golf pro’s compliments go to my head. And
sporting a cute golf skirt and matching top—compliments of Jules— pumped my ego.

After my lesson, I
waited on a bench next to the clubhouse until Reese showed up looking hot in a
white golf shirt and blue plaid golf shorts. I never would have imagined golf
attire as sexy. Reese changed my opinion. The man had a nice set of legs, really
quite lickable.

 
He said, “Hello, Ms. Porter,” as he strode
past me onto the driving range, and I became quite aware of the fact that the
plaid shorts hugged his butt rather nicely. He showed me up, hitting the ball
much farther and more accurately than I could with a year of lessons.

Sitting on the
bench, I watched him—and his butt. My inner Fangirl had me nervous, and I
didn’t want to put my new golf skills to the test until I had to. Plus, the
view of his muscles straining and rippling with each swing beat practicing my
swing.

Done hitting a
bucketful of range balls, he picked up the five clubs he’d brought out and came
over to me. His regard roamed over me, making my temperature go from warm to
hot.

“Your lesson go
well?”

“Great,” I said,
standing with a wobble.

For a moment, his
eyes seemed to rest on my legs. He gestured toward a waiting golf cart already
stocked with clubs, balls, and water. “Then let’s go,” he said, moving past me
toward the cart.

Feeling strange
after his perusal, I slowly followed. Sitting next to Mr. Reese Jordon for nine
holes was going to put my keeping-it-cool endurance to the test. As soon as I
sat down, he hit the accelerator and I grabbed the rail next to me, grasping it
with an obvious nervous tension.

Driving toward hole
one and without glancing at me, he said, “Relax, I don’t expect you to be a
pro.” He hit the brakes and the swoosh of dark hair on his forehead blew back.
“Just don’t demolish anything.”

I winced at his
words. Though after this morning, I could understand his worry. I tried to
soften the moment with corny witticism. “I’ll try not to destroy much, but it
may take a lot of lady balls for me to get through nine holes.”
 

After giving my wit
and me a wry look, he stepped out of the cart, tugging on a glove. “Have fun.”
He went around the cart and hauled out a club. “Golf is supposed to be
fun.”
 

I watched him walk
toward the tee box. Observing him proved fun at least. Reese hit the dang ball
so far down the fairway that I couldn’t see where it landed. Then we moved up
to the ladies’ tees.

“Just relax,” Reese
reminded me as I moved out of the cart.

Even with his kind
words, my pulse hammered with nervousness. I didn’t want to make an ass of
myself twice in one day. But my nerves might destroy the golf pro’s
instructions, and I’d be whacking the ball all over the course for the next two
hours, with Reese growing more agitated with each whack.

After teeing up my
ball, I took a couple of practice swings. Then I addressed—instructor’s
definition—the ball. While Reese sat in the cart waiting, I took a deep, deep
breath, forced my body to concentrate, and let it rip. I hit it solidly, and my
ball flew in an arc like it was supposed to, landing down on the fairway. It
landed nowhere as far as Reese’s, but the drive wasn’t too shabby.
 

I almost let out a
whoop. Instead, I went back to the cart with a smile on my face.

As I rounded the
front, Reese grinned. “Nice ball,” he said, and my heart stopped. Holy hell, he
was charming, hot, and irresistible with that triangular grin on his face.

The rest of the
afternoon stayed grinless but somewhat enjoyable, if a bit nerve-racking. I put
a few balls in sand traps and one in a small pond. Reese usually parred or
birdied holes. I usually went two or three over, which was better than I’d
expected sitting next to him.

Other than asking
things like, “Do you want me to pull the flag?” or “Did you see where that
went?” we didn’t talk much, just sat inches apart. Mere inches and I could
brush my leg against his. The wonder of it. The nervousness of it. Fangirl
continued in high gear the whole time, fanning her face and jumping up and
down. Beyond my over-induced Reese hormones, the day was sunny and the course
beautiful. On top of the lush, green fairways and the tropical flowers around
each tee box, the blue, rolling ocean was a backdrop to over half of the nine
holes. Everything went quite splendidly until the last hole.

Of course, I had to
screw up.

Big, big, BIG time.

Reese’s last drive
was perfect. Mine landed to the left, deep in a grove of palm trees. Once he
drove the cart over to the edge of the trees, I grabbed three different clubs
and marched inside. It took several minutes to find the little white golf ball.
I finally spotted it in the back of the grove. Luckily, after checking out
several angles, I noticed an opening of wide, green fairway between two palm
trees.

Since the opening
seemed large enough, I chose a three wood and let it rip.

Perhaps the opening
wasn’t as big as I’d originally determined. Perhaps I didn’t have enough skill
to undertake such a shot. Or perhaps, and most likely, I was beyond
nervous—even after golfing eight holes—anywhere near Reese.

Because the ball hit
the center of a palm tree’s trunk and flew backwards.

Toward the cart.

Toward Reese sitting
in the cart.

I watched in horror
as my golf ball slammed into Reese.
 

It hit him in the
side of the throat and plopped to the ground. Reese instantly had his hands
around his throat. Then he plopped from the side of the cart to the ground too.

Holy shit!

Shocked, I dropped
my club and ran to him lying on the ground and gasping for breath. His face
gleamed red with exertion
as he
tried to draw in air. I fell to my knees next to him.

Shit! Shit! Shit!

Leaning over him, I
quickly considered a variety of procedures. CPR? An emergency tracheostomy? The
Heimlich? Chest compressions? Though I had some first aid emergency skills,
classes never covered a golf ball slam to the throat.

Desperate to do
something, anything, at that point and fearing he would die from lack of air, I
quickly straddled him, hoping to push the caught air out of him by chest
compressions. But before I placed my hands on his chest, he hacked out a cough
and wheezed in a breath.

Above him, I felt
relief come over me as he gulped in air.

He drew in another
long breath and let go of his throat. His eyes widened on me—or rather my
crotch inches from his face.

“Get off me,” he
barked.

Yeah, I was
straddling him. In a skirt.

Pushing off the hard
curve of his chest, I scrambled away from him.

He sat up, coughing
a few times. “What the hell were you planning to do?”

“Chest
compressions?” I said weakly, turning red.

Holding his chest,
he coughed from an incredulous expression. “Don’t you perform those from the
side?”

Ah, yeah, right. I
would have realized that if I had gotten to do one.

“I panicked.”
Majorly embarrassed, I stretched out a hand to help him up.

He waved it away and
pushed himself from the ground.

The angry red welt
on his neck stared at me.

He rubbed the mark.
“Get your clubs. I think we’ve had enough golf for one day.”

The more he rubbed,
the worse I felt. “I’m sorry. It was an accident,” I said in a tone that
bordered on whiney.
 

“Ms. Porter, I’m
aware that you do not have the skill to purposely hit me.” He bent and picked
up my ball lying on the ground. “Get your clubs,” he repeated, sliding back
into the golf cart.

I marched back into
the grove, cursing under my breath.

No one. Absolutely
no one had worse luck than I did.

****

The
restaurant for our business dinner was located on the side of the pool. A light
breeze rolled over us from the dark ocean visible beyond a row of palm trees,
causing the candles on the table to flicker every few seconds. But muted,
rectangular lanterns on strings that hung above the tables were the main source
of light. There were a few other occupied tables, yet they were far away. We
were in our own little corner of the patio behind potted plants. It was a
delightful setting.

Too bad I wasn’t
enjoying it very much.

Reese skewered a piece
of sushi, adding a touch of wasabi and a dash of soy sauce. Mr. Dario, one of
the owners, sat next to me and across from Reese, droning on about the resort,
twirling his wine glass, and studying the red liquid in the weak light. I took
notes on my iPad.

Straightening the
cuff of his gray dress shirt, Reese asked, “What activities does the resort
offer if the weather is inclement?”

Who the hell said
inclement?

“We have a variety of
indoor activities,” Mr. Dario stated before he proceeded into a long spiel.

 
I kept taking notes, glancing at the last
piece of sushi longingly. So far, I’d gotten in about two bites of heavily
buttered bread. After a light lunch, golfing lessons, golfing, and the
excitement of pelting Reese, I was starving. Between the two men consistently
talking and my having to take notes, I couldn’t seem to snag a bite of our al
fresco feast. Eating on this trip sucked. Each time I sat down at a table,
getting food in my mouth, much less in my stomach, became a challenge.

The plates of
appetizers—Asian crab cakes, Caribbean tuna sushi rolls, and watermelon bass
ceviche—were gone except for one lone piece of sushi. So much for commenting on
the taste and the wine pairings. But I
could
comment on how good they looked.

Mr. Dario snagged
the last piece of sushi, and I swear my mouth watered as he chewed. The older
man conveyed a laid-back, rich, island vibe in his white linen suit and Rolex
watch. I hadn’t liked him after Reese had introduced me as his secretary and
Island Man had essentially dismissed me. Now that he’d taken the last piece of
sushi, I
really
didn’t like him.

Reese kept asking
questions, Mr. Dario gave long-winded answers, and I took notes.

I got in another
nibble of bread when they each paused to sip their wine. I hadn’t touched mine.
Our server came and cleared the empty plates in the middle of the table and the
dirty plates in front of us. Mine shined crystal clean.

Another bottle of
wine was shown, opened, and poured. I now had three glasses of wine in front of
me. All untouched. The discussion had turned to the oceanfront, the nearby
coral reefs, diving, fishing, and boating. I became rather good at one-fingered
typing on my iPad. And between Mr. Dario’s endless droning and the fact that I
cringed every time I glanced at Reese with the red welt above his collar, this
evening was the least I’d ever gawked at him.

The chef and two
servers came out. Platters were laid before us in the middle of the table. With
each description from the chef, my mouthed watered more. Sliced filet dribbled
with lobster oil and served with caramelized shallots. Clam, mushroom, and
parmesan risotto. Swordfish over snow-pea-and-cauliflower puree. And sofrito
rack of lamb on grilled eggplant. A piece of filet stared at me. Done perfectly
medium rare, it glistened, nearly sparkled with lobster oil in the shadows of
candlelight.

Reese and Mr. Dario
kept talking, each serving themselves a morsel of the delicacies. I kept taking
notes, but I wanted to smash my iPod on the table then devour food by the
handfuls.

I scooped up a small
amount of mushroom risotto on my plate since the rice sat the closest to me.
Mr. Dario explained how the resort wanted to cater to the rich and famous. I
snuck a few bites of rice in. They were delicious, yet I
wanted
that last piece of filet.

Badly.

One-finger typing, I
kept glancing at that plate, my other hand inches from my fork.