Page 36 of Keepsakes and Kismet

“Plenty of people have gone to the ER from golf carts, Peyton. In fact, nearly forty percent of golf cart related injuries are due to people falling out of them.”

I slap my hands over my cheeks in mock horror. “First, it was the mechanical bulls, now it’s the golf carts. What’s next? Grocery baskets?”

“Funny.” He scratches his chin. “But since you brought it up, children are the number one victims of grocery cart accidents. I don’t know the exact percentages, but harness safety is important. Just like it’s important here. So, buckle your damn seatbelt.” He tops off his command with a boyish grin.

“You win, Callum,” I concede, fastening my seatbelt. “Injury statistics hate to see you coming.”

“As long as you’re safe,” he replies casually, turning the golf cart on and releasing the parking brake. He gently presses on the accelerator pedal and starts driving at a snail’s pace.

I wonder if he even registered the “you’re” in his comment. It didn’t seem like a slip of his tongue. It felt like this was the hundredth time he’s told me that he cares about my safety, specifically.

“I never actually asked… Do you even know how to golf?” I ask him.

While my golf training is limited to casual lessons from my grandfather as a teen, I’m adept enough to get by. This past weekend, I played on a golf simulator at a sporting goods store just to double check. I’m not great, but I’m good enough.

Callum nods. “I’m just okay. I haven’t golfed in a while, but I’ve always been pretty athletic. I used to play sports in high school.”

He definitely seems like the kind of guy to downplay his skills, and it only takes one hole of Callum dominating our entire group to confirm that he was, in fact, being modest.

I unbuckle my seatbelt and retrieve some chapstick from the pocket of my polo dress, swiping across my lips. “So, it turns out you’re pretty good at golf. You’re a real Rory Gilmore out there.”

“Do you mean Rory McIlroy?”

“That’s what I said.”

After seeing his obviously fake smile when he interacted with Bobby, the genuine one that spreads across his lips gives me a little rush. I’ve never been this happy to see someone’s teeth before.

Callum rubs the back of his neck, clearly a little uncomfortable with my praise. “Um, thanks. I think I mentioned that I played competitive sports in the past, so I guess that’s where I get it from.”

“Yeah, but you said high school, which immediately made me believe you were one of those Glory Days Guys.”

He tilts his head, and the little line that I’m kind of obsessed with makes an appearance between his brows. “What’s a Glory Days Guy?”

“Like those guys that swear if they didn’t pull their big toe senior year of high school, they’d be a professional football player right now.”

Callum laughs, leaning forward against his seatbelt—which remains buckled, even though the cart isn’t moving. “I’m happy to report that I don’t know any Glory Days Guys.”

I place my hands over my cheeks dramatically. “Consider me shocked. Not even one of your former teammates? Which sport did you play in high school again?”

“Soccer,” he says quickly, glancing at his watch. “But I think I see the rest of the group arriving. We should grab our clubs.”

Callum exits the cart and picks up his bag, which looks brand new. He removes the sock from his driver, and I do the same. We both wave to Abigail and Vincent, who are wearing matching monogrammed sweaters. Paul follows closely behind them, his luxury-brand sunglasses screaming “I work for my dad.” I need to reel them all the way in before I dial up the influencing back at the clubhouse, so I turn my charm back on.

By the ninth hole, our group has nicknamed Callum Gremlin of the Green. He absolutely hates it.

And as each golfer waits for their turn at the last tee, I mingle. With Callum by my side, I speak comfortably with the men, asking them questions about themselves. When they tell me about their jobs and education, I nod as though hedge funds and ivy leagues are two topics I’m extremely interested in. Callum even chimes in here and there with follow-up questions and compliments on their form.

Surprisingly, he’s been socializing just fine all day. I even heard him lie once, telling someone that he golfs “every weekend” and has been enjoying this course “immensely.”

Immensely? Wow, I’d mouthed. This man broke out a whole thesaurus for that comment.

Shut up, he’d mouthed back with a crooked grin.

I eye the only other woman in our group, a younger blonde wearing jewelry worth at least a few grand.

“Abigail, I love your golf bag,” I gush. “Is that vintage embroidery?”

She runs her hand over the thick red stitching. “Oh, yes, thank you. Vincent got it for me last year at the Summer Soiree auction.”