Page 34 of The Sweet Spot

“Good question.” He doesn't answer. Instead, he tries to take a step into my room.

I stand firmly in the way. “Excuse me—”

“I come bearing gifts, Coach.” He brings his other hand from behind his back, revealing two coffees from the boutique place down the street.

“Coffee?”

“Yup. I think it's a good way to start the day right, and that's imperative if we want to win today.” The coffee smell is too much to ignore, so against my better judgement, I open the door wider and let him stroll in.

He takes his time, studying the closet and the living room. “Never had the presidential suite of a hotel before. It's pretty fancy,” he says, placing the drinks and their holder on the coffee table. He pulls both of them out and makes his way back to me, offering me one.

I am not strong enough to deny myself coffee this early in the morning, so I accept it and take a sip.

“Ugh. What the hell is this?” I wince, glaring at what I can only describe as sweet, creamy, hot liquid.

“Oh, whoops. You got mine. This one is yours.”

We switch drinks, and the second I taste the black coffee, I relax. This is what I needed to get my mind off of having JB in my room.

“Is there a reason for your early morning visit?” I take a few more sips as I head over to the living room, where JB has made himself comfortable on the couch.

“I didn't have your number.” He turns to face me as I sit, his eyes glittering with mischief. “So I had to come in person.”

“Okay. What's wrong? Did you get a stain on your catfish baseball pants?”

“No. It's worse than that. Much worse.” He puts his coffee on the table and scoots closer to me. “It's worn off.”

I wait. When he doesn't answer, I ask, “What has?”

He holds my gaze. “You.”

“I've worn off?”

“My hands.”

Silence.

I stare at him. He stares back, and he's serious, which is almost more alarming than if he was joking with me. “I need to—” He stops, closes his eyes, and slumps his shoulders. “I need to finger you again,” he says without looking at me.

Okay, I must still be dreaming.

“I'm sorry. I think I misheard you,” I say slowly.

He holds up his right hand between us and studies his own fingers. “I showered this morning,” he says, with the gravity of a man delivering genuinely difficult news. “I can't smell you anymore.”

I stare at his hand, then his face. “We really need to have a conversation about your bathing habits at some point.”

“I'm being serious, Whit. It's what saved our asses yesterday.”

“What are you talking about?”

“After the incident, everything fell into place. You relaxed, and my hips loosened. Not only that, but my grip pressure was down. I stopped fighting my swing, all because I had you with me the entire time.”

“It was a coincidence,” I answer, since no other response feels appropriate. “Your swing improved because we worked on it all morning on the practice green.”

“My swing was terrible until my fingers were inside you. Tell me that's not related.”

I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. He cannot be serious.