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But this stuff about her parents hurts her. It’s obvious. It’s the reason for her snark because her dad left scars.
“Well,” he digs deeper, “I’m glad she’s not here to see your scandal. Though I’ll sure never hear the end of it.”
Blair looks exactly like her father. Same jet black hair. Same thick lashes. Same nose with a slope. Same lips, twisted in a snarl.
“Yeah, Dad, it’s all my fault.” She’s wearing a pink sundress and a playful ponytail. It’s a harmless look while sarcasm fires from her mouth like ego grenades. “My panties bring you such shame because the world holds you, your champion putter, and your purple-helmeted seed spreader in such high esteem.”
Colt spews the rest of his beer, quickly wiping it up with a napkin. At this rate, we’ll go through a twelve-pack in an hour.
“Steaks are ready!” I shout.
They’re not. We’re about to eat Wagyu beef that’s still mooing, but someone needs to stop this blood bath.
“I’ll get the potato salad.” Like a true wide receiver, Colt sees an opening and runs for it.
“I’ll help.” Ruby bails, too.
I can’t be mad. They’re supposed to look like a couple while I stand by my woman, who’s ill as a hornet.
“So, Mr. Monroe.” I set the tray of steaks down, half expecting them to still move. I sit beside Blair, offering her dad, “Congratulations on the U.S. Senior Open. Crooked Stick is a helluva course.”
Blair snorts at the pun she’s dying to make.
And our woman says the athletic gene skipped her. Please. She has a gold-medal tongue. You can’t make a phallic reference about sticks or balls or holes without her going for the winning point against her dad.
“Why, thank you, Son.” Blair chokes on her beer. At how her dad talks like we’re married and not barely dating a month. “Twenty under par with a six-stroke difference is a record for me.”
I nudge Blair’s foot, knowing she wants to score a point with a stroke pun, too, but she holsters her pistol. I guess she won’t risk hurting me with friendly fire.
But she does clarify, “Dad, his name is ‘Beau,’ and he’s not your son. You have four of your own. Remember?”
Her dad smirks. “Well, he’ll be my son when he makes an honest woman of you soon.”
Lucky for Blair, I’m used to pressure in the pocket. Though oddly, the idea of marriage makes me happy.
But Blair runs interference, trying to protect me.
“Too late,” she sings. “I gave my flower to Bobby O’Connor in the back seat of his Honda Accord at the mall. It was real romantic. He banged me and my head against the backdoor. I was gonna save my precious gift as part of my dowry, but Bobby wooed me with a large popcorn at the movies. But hey,” she smiles, “you raised me right. I didn’t give my milk for free. I made him buy me a large Dr. Pepper with free refills, too.”
I chuckle, nudging her foot again. I’ll have to take care not to break our woman’s toes when she’s on a roll. And yes, I’ll be asking more about that story later, but her dad rolls his eyes for now. “Just don’t write another damn romance book about it.”
“Oh, it’ll be my next one,” she chirps. “The sexy alien will kidnap the sci-fi obsessed virgin from the movie theater, luring her with popcorn, before they fall in forbidden love.”
It’s a Monroe thing—the dramatic silver eye roll. Her dad does it again, so I play Switzerland.
“Why don’t we play here sometime?” I gesture to the course I live on.
“I’d be honored to show you a thing or ten,” Duncan boasts like every true pro. “But how’s the shoulder?” He also knows our greatest fear: injuries.
“Perfect,” I lie. “I think we’ll go all the way this year.”
“Again?” Not-so-subtly, he mentions our Super Bowl loss.
“Yeah… again.”
He points to Blair, not smiling. “Just don’t get distracted.”
That jab makes her twist by my side, my heart flinching for hers, so I reach for her hand. It’s so warm in my grasp.
