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The first gust of icy air hits me, and I shiver. As I suspected, my sweater and thin jacket do nothing to keep out the cold.

“Wow, this place is great,” I lie, pretending to admire the empty course in front of me as I calculate how long it’ll take before hypothermia sets in.

Tyler walks around the front of the car, zips his coat to his chin, and slides his hand into mine as if I didn’t dodge his attempt to kiss me. “Come on, you’re freezing. We’ll go inside to pay and grab a couple of hot chocolates while we’re in there.”

Hot chocolate. The mere suggestion sends a warm tingle through me.

Tyler grips my hand as if he’s afraid I might bolt if given the chance, and we walk through the double glass doors right into a scene from The Hunger Games. Thousands—okay, dozens—of screaming kids fight to the death over brass tokens and coiled strips of cherry-red tickets, kicking and screaming so loudly it nearly drowns out the flashing lights and mechanical beeping coming from the machines they’re crowding around.

A pint-size Katniss lets out a warrior’s cry before hitting a boy twice her size in the nuts with a Skee-Ball. I can’t tear my eyes away as he doubles over with a high-pitched squeal and she snatches the tickets from his hand and disappears into the crowd.

“You hungry?” Tyler squeezes my hand, drawing my attention back to him.

“Uh . . .” A catch a whiff of greasy pepperoni and corn dogs and pray he isn’t suggesting we eat in the kids’ zone. “Maybe. I, uh, need to work up an appetite first.”

“Fair enough.” He flashes another devastating smile before turning to the guy behind the counter to pay.

Armed with kid-size putters, bright-colored balls, and a score sheet, we make our way to the first hole. After getting rained on most of the day, the artificial turf has become a giant green sponge. Water squishes out and puddles around my feet with every step. Sending up a silent prayer that Nicole’s boots are waterproof, I place my neon-orange ball on the starting marker.

Tyler comes up behind me, resting his warm hands on my hips, and I must admit, it feels nice. He has big hands. Does that mean he has a big . . .

I lean into his chest and wonder if Tyler would be gentle. If he’d take his time with me.

His lips brush my ear. “You’ve played minigolf before, right?”

“Uh, yeah.” I shake my head to clear the fantasy. “Not in a while, though.”

“It’s easy. You line up your ball with the hole and tap it with the club.” He reaches around me, pressing his front to my back as he demonstrates the swing, and I swear there’s a different sort of club pressing into me.

“Got it! Thanks.” I flinch away from his hips and stand ramrod straight.

As soon as he steps back, I reposition myself in front of the ball. The hole is slightly downhill, so it doesn’t take much effort. With a light tap, the orange ball skitters over the green like a speedboat on a lake and hits the bottom with a splash.

“I guess this hole’s a little damp.” Tyler scratches his head, stepping around me as my ball floats downstream and straight to the cup. It bobs a few times before falling over the edge.

I let out a victory shriek, splashing through the shallow puddle at my feet. “That counts, right?”

“I, uh . . . I guess.” He marks my score on the sheet with a frown.

“Then I’m winning, and you’re up.” I step aside, giving him a wide berth. I don’t trust my reaction if he touches me again. No matter how attracted I am, I’m not sleeping with him on the first date.

Tyler pulls a sapphire ball from his pocket and discreetly adjusts himself, making me giggle. I’m pretty sure that’s not the only blue ball he’ll end up with tonight.

“Having fun?” He scowls in my direction.

I wipe the smirk from my lips. “I’m winning, so yes.”

“I don’t know if you can call the game after one hole.” His frown lines deepen as he lines up his shot.

I grin wider. “You mean, a hole in one.”

Tyler tightens his grip on the putter until his knuckles whiten, his muscular frame hunching over the too-short club like an old man leaning on a cane. He takes his swing, knocking his ball a little too aggressively. It skips over the water and jumps the barrier lining the green, landing in the bushes at the end of the slope.

“Too bad. Do you lose a turn if your ball goes out of bounds? I can’t remember . . .” I want to laugh, but he’s already annoyed.

He glares at me and stomps down the hill to retrieve his ball. “No, it costs me a penalty stroke.”

Biting back a grin, I follow him down the path to the cup and fish out my ball. “I’ll wait over there.” I nod toward the bench between the first and second holes.