Brown-Eyed Girl (Travis Family #4)(40)

After setting down the clubs, Joe went to pour the golf balls into a painted wooden container. He glanced at the wall, squinting against the sun. “It took the three of us a month. But when we finished building the son of a bitch, we knew we could rely on each other. We’d made it through hell together. From then on we never raised a fist against each other again. No matter what. And we never took Dad’s side against each other.”

I reflected that while the family’s wealth had conferred many advantages, none of the Travis offspring had escaped the pressures of expectation and obligation. No wonder they were close – who else would understand what their lives had been like?

Pensively, I wandered to the first hole of the mini golf course. The ramp on the diver’s helmet didn’t look quite straight, and I went to fiddle with it. I rolled a ball up the ramp and frowned as it bounced off the edge of the helmet’s porthole. “I hope this is going to work.”

Joe pulled a club from the bag, dropped a ball to the green, and putted. The ball rolled neatly across the green, up the ramp, and into the porthole. “Seems fine.” He handed me the club. “You want to give it a try?”

Gamely, I placed a ball on the green and took a swing. The ball careened up the ramp, bounced off the helmet, and rolled back to me.

“You’ve never played golf before.”

“How can you tell?” I asked dryly.

“Mostly because you’re holding the club like a flyswatter.”

“I hate sports,” I confessed. “I always have. In school, I avoided gym class whenever possible. I faked sprains and stomachaches. On three different occasions, I told them my parakeet died.”

His brows lifted. “That got you out of gym class?”

“The death of a parakeet is not an easy thing to get over, pal.”

“Did you even have a parakeet?” he asked gravely.

“He was a metaphorical parakeet.”

Laughter danced in his eyes. “Here, I’ll show you how to hold the club.” He reached around me. “Wrap your fingers around the handle… No, left hand. Rest your thumb farther down the shaft… Perfect. Now take hold below with your right. Like this.” He shaped my fingers around the grip. I took an extra breath to make up for the one that had stuck in my throat. I could feel the rise and fall of his chest, the solid, vital strength of him. His mouth was close to my ear. “Feet apart. Bend your knees a little and lean forward.” Releasing me, he stood back and said, “Swing easy and follow through.”

I swung, connected gently, and the ball rolled into the porthole with a satisfying plunk. “I did it!” I exclaimed, whirling to face him.

Joe smiled and caught me close, his hands at my waist. I looked up at him and time stopped, everything stopped. It seemed as if an electric current had locked up every muscle, and all I could do was wait helplessly with the awareness of him flooding me.

His dark head lowered, and his mouth came to mine.

In the privacy of my imagination, I had relived his kisses, I had tasted them in my dreams. But nothing was close to the reality of him, the heat and soft, searching pressure, the intense sensuality of the way he brought up the desire slowly.

Gasping, I managed to pull back. “Joe, I… I’m not comfortable with this, especially in front of your family. And my employees. Someone might get the wrong impression.”

“What impression would that be?”

“That there’s something going on between us.”

A series of expressions crossed his face: puzzlement, annoyance, mockery. “There’s not?”

“No. We’re friends. That’s all it is for now, and that’s all it’s ever going to be, and… I have to work.”

With that, I turned and strode toward the house in a subdued panic, feeling more relieved with every footstep I could put between us.

Twelve

The band played jaunty surfer-pop as guests began to arrive. In no time at all, the house and patio were packed. People swarmed around the buffet and went out to the boardwalk arcade for dessert. A bartender served tropical drinks at a grass hut near the pool, while waitstaff walked around with trays of ice water and glasses of nonalcoholic punch.

“The mini golf course is a hit,” Sofia said as we passed each other on the patio. “So is the dessert station. In fact, everything is a hit.”

“Any problems with Steven?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Did you say anything to him?”

“I made it clear that anyone who disrespects you will be out on his ass.”

“We couldn’t afford to lose Steven.”

“Out on his ass,” I repeated firmly. “No one talks to you like that.”

Sofia smiled at me. “Te amo.”

For the rest of the afternoon, I stayed busy, taking care not to cross paths with Joe. A couple of times, when I passed by him, I could feel him trying to catch my gaze, but I ignored him, afraid that he would pull me into a conversation. Afraid that my face would reveal too much or that I would say something foolish.

Seeing Joe in person forced me to contend with him not as a friendly voice on the phone, but as a robust male who made no secret of the fact that he wanted me. Any notion I might have had of trying for a platonic friendship with Joe was gone. He wasn’t going to settle for that. Neither would he let me slip away without a confrontation. My mind buzzed with ideas about how to handle him, what to say.