Kissin' Tell (Rough Riders #13)(82)

“Me too.”


“Now how about if we get cleaned up, pop some popcorn and make out on the couch for a little while before I have to go home?” He saw disappointment in her eyes. “I’m sorry. I can’t stay tonight. Can you come to my place?”


“No. I have to leave early for the two-day rodeo in Evanston.”


“I wish I could go with you.” Sometimes being a rancher sucked ass. “But I promise I’ll have a fun surprise planned for when you get back.”


“Fun,” she repeated. “Should I be scared?”


“Probably.”


Chapter Twenty-One


“Miniature golf,” Georgia repeated.


“Yep.”


“You want me to play mini golf with you?”


“Yep.”


“That’s your big, fun surprise?”


He grinned. “Come on. Admit you weren’t expecting that.”


“Uh, no. And I’ll admit I don’t know why you picked it.”


“Because you need fun in your life. And as the McKay who’s been called the ambassador of fun, aka the boy who won’t grow up, I have much better ideas on how to have fun—with our clothes on—than you do.”


As flip as his answer sounded, Georgia read between the quips. “Do your cousins call you that because they believe you’re out having fun all the time, while they’re tied down with wives and kids? Do any of them know how hard you work on the ranch? Or how much time you volunteer to the community? Or how much time you spend helping out your immediate family? If anyone deserves to cut loose, it’s you.”


His beautiful smile faded and she wanted to kick her own butt for causing it.


“Tell. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business.”


He curled his hand around the side of her face. “I’m surprised by what you pick up on that most people, even my own family, don’t. The truth is, there wasn’t a lot of fun in my house growing up, so I learned to make my own. That way when I was away from home, I couldn’t blame anyone but myself for how things played out. Havin’ fun didn’t come natural, as my brothers can attest. Dalton is better at cutting loose than Brandt is, just because he’s younger and I could beat it into him.”


She laughed softly, even when a little pain had lodged below her heart.


“So what do ya say? A trip to Spearfish for putt-putt golf and a steak dinner?”


“How could I resist?”



After the ninth hole out of eighteen, Georgia realized why she never played mini golf: because she sucked at it.


She sighed and smacked the crap out of her stupid pink ball, and it bounced out of the stupid maze into the stupid grass.


“Ah, sweetness? That was your eleventh stroke. Why did you hit it so hard?”


“Because I was hoping the ball would blow up so I didn’t have to finish this dumb game.”


He grinned and his damn dimples winked at her.


Argh. She wanted to whack the golf club against the wooden bridge out of pure frustration. How could Mr. Mini Golf Pro Tell have such a great disposition when she was having a lousy time?


Then those devilish dimples were right in her face. “Such a sexy pout.”


“I’m not pouting.”


“Yes, you are. Want me to tickle a smile out of you again?”


Georgia swung the golf club like a baseball bat and snarled.


Tell held up his hands in surrender and backed off. “Okay, I’d rather see you pout than let you brain me with a putter because I’m winning.” His lips twitched. “So let’s see if we can’t make the game more interesting.”


“How? Are you gonna let me turn that replica gold-miner’s shack into a real fire trap when I throw a match on the roof?”


He sighed. “Ever notice you have violent tendencies when you’re not winning?”


“Who likes losing?”


“It’s a game. It’s supposed to be fun. F-u-n, Georgia. Spell it with me.”


“F-u-c-k your f-u-n, McKay.”


The man busted a gut, which made it impossible to stay mad at him. She smiled. “Fine. What’s your suggestion for f-u-n?”


“Since you went thirty-seven strokes over in the first round, let’s make the extra strokes…count in the second game.”


This could be entertaining. “I’m listening.”


“Every penalty stroke—meaning anything over six shots per hole—will earn you a penalty when we get home.”


“What kind of penalty?”


“A hard smack on your butt. You across my knee. Bare-assed.” He shrugged and tossed the neon-green golf ball in the air and caught it. “I’d probably tie your hands. Maybe even gag you.”


Gulp. “And what about you?”


A smirk. “Same deal.”


“But that’s not fair! You haven’t had a single hole over three strokes this entire game!”