Page 174 of Midnight Curfew

She seems alert, too, letting her hesitant eyes wander around, but the course appears empty. It’s almost a hundred fucking degrees.

As soon as we get closer, she skips up to Callum. “It’s too hot,” she teases.

Sweat mats the hair at his temples, his backward cap not doing a thing to shield him from the sun. He stands with Vincent and Jerome, all of their shirts already discarded. His long, fucking amazing body is tanned, darker than it was just last night.

He embraces her in a side hug, but she squirms away. “Sweaty.” She grimaces.

“Did you have a good day?” he asks, not sparing me a glance.

She smiles, her shoulders relaxing. She feels safe with these three.

“Therese is going to take you in.” He gestures to the beer cart girl sitting under the trees with her feet up. “Celeste wants to show you how to make your favorite drink.”

She leaps up, excited. “Can I drive?” she shouts, running to Therese Beltran and completely forgetting about me.

In moments, she’s speeding away with the beer cart, and I loosen my tie. I assume he wanted me to bring her instead of sending their driver because he has things to say.

“Thank you for bringing her,” he tells me.

“Didn’t have much of a choice.”

He nudges a ball with his club. “Well, you are getting free labor out of her.”

I won’t point out that I never asked for an assistant. I’m glad she’s there, and I don’t want her hearing otherwise.

He sets the ball down on the tee, measuring up. “Actually, we needed to speak to you.”

I drift closer, his friends draining their beers and leering.

“We’ve replaced Ms. Oliver’s chaperone for her trip to the caverns at Mariana,” Callum informs me. “You won’t be going.”

Holding back my smirk, I watch him take his shot.

“That’s fine,” I shout in his backswing.

His ball goes high rather than far, the tiny white sphere disappearing into the rough.

“Maybe I’ll go up there for dinner Saturday night, though,” I taunt. “My weekends are mine.”

“Not this one.” He strolls back to me. “You’ll be in jail.”

A round of laughter goes off, Watson stepping to the tee.

“Do you notice?” I lower my voice. “When I’m winning, I don’t need an audience to pat me on the back?”

Callum curls his mouth in a sly smile to hide the fact that he’s not strong on his own.

Sliding his golf club back into his bag, he picks up his beer and takes a drink. I start to leave.

“If you make it home Friday night,” he calls out. “I’ll call off the curfew.”

Friday night.

Tomorrow night.

Pivoting back around, I slide my hands into my pockets and wait.

“On one condition,” he tells me.