Under the Table(49)

“I just have to ask,” Zoey said after making that observation. “What is your obsession with all the crazy outfits?”

“I think I picked it up from my grandfather. He spent most of his life in colors designated by the army, which basically meant beige or green, with the occasional camouflage. But you think I’m bad? He really made some fashion statements on the course back in his day. For such a disciplined man, golf clothes were where he cut loose.”

She wondered what Tristan must have been like as a boy. He painted a picture that had her imagining waking up to a bugle every morning at dawn and being tested to see if a quarter could bounce on his bed ten minutes after that. A little towheaded Tristan, dressed in fatigues.

On their way to the third tee, she was ready. And not just to play golf.

It started with bending over in front of him to put her ball on the ground. After finally getting the ball to balance on the little tee, but before standing up, she coyly looked over her shoulder in his direction. His eyes were riveted on her backside. One of his arms was crossed over his chest, gripping the elbow of the other, his hand with a firm grab on his chin, his mouth slightly agape. She would never tire of that look.

“What do I do now?” she asked innocently.

Tristan shook his head to break the stare. He pulled a club out of her bag.

“Drivers are the most accurate, but you sacrifice distance,” he explained while approaching her. “But since you’re just beginning, let’s start with a three wood.”

“That’s made of iron,” she pointed out while taking it.

“I know.” He chuckled. “Wood is the name of the club. They have longer shafts and rounder heads, to drive the ball farther.”

“I think I just found a term of endearment nickname for you!”

She waited for him to catch on to the joke, thinking, Good grief, didn’t this dude’s grandfather have at least one Playboy or Penthouse lying around for him to stumble across? She knew he had caught on when he started to blush ten shades of red.

“You are not only naughty, you’re dirty,” he admonished her with a bashful grin.

“You have a problem with that?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“If I had known just how much sexual innuendo came with golf, I would’ve taken an interest in the sport years ago. What do I do next?”

Tristan got serious. “While you might believe golf is all about the swinging of your arms, you really want to work your game from the ground up. Your footwork and interaction with the turf is vital. It’s not all about the hands.”

“You might want to rethink that in your case. Your hands can get pretty magical.”

“Thanks for the compliment. I realize you want to play, but I’ll feel like a complete failure if I don’t at least teach you the basics. Can you keep your mind on the game for one hole, please?”

“Trust me, it already is.”

Tristan narrowed his eyes, and she peered up at him with feigned innocence with hers.

“Sorry,” she said. “I’ll get serious.”

“Good. Now you don’t want to grip the club too tightly, because that would engage more of your wrist. You don’t want that. What you want is more like your arms becoming an extension of the club. You don’t want to break your wrists. Does that make sense?”

“Yes,” she replied. She had been so busy watching his mouth, she hadn’t heard a word. But she didn’t want him to regret bringing her along either. Zoey stationed herself behind the ball and imitated his foot-to-foot shifting.

“You need to adjust your grip. One hand over the other, not too tight.”

She shot him a knowing look.

“Spread your legs a little and keep your eye on the ball. Bend your knees a little.”

He had to know that sounded downright perverted.

She put her head down to look at the ball, but when she swung the club, she closed her eyes. The end result was her looking out to see how far it went and finding it still on the tee.

“You’re swinging too fast without keeping your focus on the ball. You have to hold the cock.”

Zoey purposely flipped the club, sending it flying. It landed several feet away.

“Now you’re just asking for it,” she told him, landing her hands on her hips. It was her turn to blush.

“What?” he asked, all innocence given away by his twisted grin. “It’s when you pull back your arms before the swing.”

“Now I realize why guys play with guys and women with women,” she mumbled while trying again, with a marginally better result.

“Good job.” He congratulated her effort. Her ball had landed what looked like miles away from his.

For the sake of keeping the game from taking forever, she asked if they could take her ball and put it closer to his. What Zoey didn’t know was both of them were losing interest in the game.

They scooped up her ball on the way to his and he took his next shot. She didn’t bother getting out of the cart. When he made it close to the green, after sinking his put, he insisted on giving her a putting lesson. He dropped her ball about ten feet from the hole and she situated herself behind it. Then he pressed himself flush up against her from behind, his hands wrapping around hers on top of the club.

“Now when you are putting, it’s more about the shoulders. You gauge how far to pull back by the distance you want the ball to travel.” His mouth was only an inch away from her ear. His breath was hot and tickled the back of her neck. She was hot all over. Keeping her eye on the ball was impossible and her eyes drifted closed as she leaned back against him.