Chapter 33
There are a few things in life I never thought I’d see.
One, a cow in sunglasses. Two, a man in a flamingo shirt talking passionately about “hole difficulty tiers‘.
And three, Thane Draeven, Mr. Platinum Credit Card, CEO of Glowering, standing on a fake grass carpet under a paper–mâché volcano, holding a glow–in–the–dark lightning bolt putter like it’s personally offended him.
And yet…here we
we are.
*Is it supposed to vibrate like this?” he asks, frowning down at the putter like it’s cursed.
“It’s not vibrating,” I snort, my hands leaning on the top of my putter as I watch him, “You’re just tense.”
He straightens slowly, looking at me like I’ve just dared him to take over a small country, “I’m not tense.
“Sure. And this putter isn’t the most phallic object you’ve ever held,” I say with a wicked smirk.
His mouth twitches. Just slightly. But it does twitch. And honestly, I deserve a medal. An Olympic medal.
Because earlier, I came to the staggering realization that this man has, not once, in my presence, well and truly smiled.
Smirked, yes. The corner of his mouth tipped up in a semblance of a smile, yes. Grinning maniacally, most definitely. But a full–blown, joyous smile, not so much.
So I’ve made it my personal mission to get him to smile. Not necessarily at me. But at least at something. A bad joke. Or a child’s ice–cream falling
the ground, making them cry. You know, standard stuff that would make a broody, emotionless, billionaire tyrant crack a smile.
We’re standing at the second hole: a miniature pirate ship surrounded by rubber ducks in a shallow most. A plastic parrot squawks overhead every ten seconds, saying, “Ahoy, matey!” like it’s being tortured.
I go first, and royally fuck it up. My ball bounces off a rock, ricochets off the third duck from the left, and lands in the water with a sad little
Thane lifts one perfect brow at me before deadpanning, “Impressive.”
was going for bold and unpredictable,” I sniff at him as I grab the pole–net thing to fish it out. “Your turn, Mr. Fancy Pants.”
He steps up like it’s a business meeting that he’s about to dominate. He lines up and then swings.
And…nothing.
The ball rolls exactly three inches and stops, as if mocking him.
I gasp dramatically, clutching my imaginary pearls, saying, “Oh no. Is this how the mighty fall?”
He narrows his eyes at the ball like he’s going to set it on fire with sheer willpower. “I wasn’t warmed up enough.”
“Eight. Next hole, we’ll have your butler bring the stretching mats,” I say as I roll my eyes at him.
We keep going. And as much as I want to mock him into oblivion, I can’t help noticing something weird.
He’s actually. Joosening up.
By the time we reach the seventh hole (a windmill with suspiciously low clearance), he’s no longer holding the putter like it’s contaminated. His shirt sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, and when I joke about the animatronic squirrel being his long–lost cousin, he does something I never saw coming. He actually laughs.
Not the scary businessman’s “T’ll ruin your life sort of laugh.
No, this one is real. It’s warm. It’s unfiltered. And hot. So fucking hot. Because life isn’t fair, and the hot, fuckable, billionaire has to have a laugh that sounds like molten chocolate and runs through your veins like molasses,
Chapter 33
But I’m not going to think about that.
Nope. Not me.
We get to the ninth hole (this ridiculous loop–de–loop contraption with a tiny bridge and fake lava rocks), and I feel him walk up behind me. Slowly, methodically, like a predator stalking its prey.
Close. Way too close.
Like ‘his chest brushing my back and his breath stirring my baby hairs at the back of my neck kind of close.
“You’re standing in my aura,” I mutter, voice a little too breathy.
“I’m helping,” he says, low and smug, wrapping his arms around me, his hands enveloping mine on the grip of the putter, “You’re clearly struggling.”
“I’m about to struggle your face into the…”
And then he swings. Or should I say, we swing. Together.
The ball sails through the loop and into the hole in one smooth, perfect shot.
I freeze.
He’s still behind me, his hands still over mine, and I swear the temperature just spiked by ten degrees.
“That was…” I start.
“Effective?” he offers softly, his lips brushing against the shell of my car, causing goosebumps to pebble down the column of my neck.
I twist around to look at him. He’s already too close, of course, because boundaries are a myth to him. His lips are parted slightly, and his eyes God, those eyes are a darker blue than they should be.
Not normal dark. Unnervingly dark.
But then be blinks, and it’s gone.
I blink, too, shaking off the weird feeling and stepping back, saying, “You cheat at mini–golf.”
“I’m excellent at mini–golf,” he states, still looking at me.
“You’re wearing thousands of dollars‘ worth of sneakers on fake grass.”
“I’m dominating in thousands of dollars‘ worth of sneakers on fake grass.”
“Jesus, do you ever not sound like a Bond villain on vacation?”
Besmirks, “Only when I’m distracted.”
“By what?” I can’t help asking.
He doesn’t answere, though. He doesn’t need to.
Because the way he looks at me? It’s the answer I’m not ready to hear.
And it sends heat shooting up my spine like one of the goddamn animatronics has zapped me.
We finish the course. I lose by four points (rude), and he claims his victory like smug marble statue brought to life.
