I let out a long, aggravated sigh. “I’ll meet you—”
“No, no, no,” Fletcher says, jogging away from the girl tied to the pole in nothing but skimpy panties. “We’re done. I was just playing around with her. Come on, I gotta change and then we can go.”
He takes my hand and I don’t even bother trying to pull away, because he’s practically dragging me down a hallway.
“You can’t mention that I’m mentoring you, Tiff. It’s weird, ya know?”
Boy, do I ever. “About that—” And then I stop because he just ushered me into a men’s locker room. There are hot guys everywhere I look.
“Pay no attention to them, Tiff. I have a private dressing room back here.”
I blush my way past one, two, three, four, five, six naked men and one, two, three four half-naked men, and then let him swoop me behind a closed door.
Jesus. This job cannot be real.
Fletcher whistles and looks me up and down. “You look hot, princess. Like smoking.”
“Oh.” I blush again. I’m wearing tan slacks that hug my curvy hips, a pale pink sleeveless silk blouse with a little flutter of fabric near the neck, and some crystal-encrusted pink Louboutins that I wore to my cousin’s wedding in May. “Thanks.” I think I look pretty hot too. I thought about what Fletcher said. About becoming the girl Cole wants. But this is me. The me not in a suit, at least. And I don’t think Cole is that shallow. So I’m not going to change my ways to win him.
“I love it, babe. Fuck, yeah, you’re hot in that fancy shit.” He reaches into a closet and pulls out a garment bag. “But you said Cole was a yacht guy and dates golf pros. So we’re gonna have to… adapt a little.” He smiles as he thrusts the garment bag towards me.
“What’s this?”
“Your outfit for today’s practice lesson.”
“I’m not—”
“Not me, relax. We’re going to the golf course to hang out in the bar. Obviously, you will be alone and I’ll be watching from afar, otherwise I’d cramp your style. This is your first chance to try out your tips on a stranger.”
“But I only have the lips thing, Fletcher. And I had Cole interested in that yesterday.” Jesus Christ, do I hear myself? I came here to tell him it’s off.
“Relax,” he says, placing his sweaty hand on my cheek. It should repulse me. He’s sticky. And he smells.
But I like it. His whole body is glistening from his workout, if that’s what that was. His hair is damp and has been finger-combed back across the top of his head. I glance down at his package and—“Fletcher!”
“Sorry.” He laughs. “You just look fucking hot today, princess.”
“Don’t call me princess, that’s so stupid.”
He puts his hands up but he’s still grinning.
“And stop looking at me like that. I don’t want to change. I’m not going through with this. But you still have to make things right with those girls and I’ll let you keep your job.”
“Wait,” he says, removing his hand from my cheek. “You’re quitting on me? Why? You did good yesterday, Tiff. I just have one tip today, that’s all. So you put them all in motion with one stranger at the golf course bar, and then once he’s interested, you get up and leave. No funny business. He’s not gonna touch you or kiss you or anything. Because you are a hot commodity. You are too good for this world. You are an angel among mere mortals. A goddess. No one is worthy of your company.”
“I sound like a bitch. I know Cole won’t want me to be a stuck-up snob.”
“Not a snob. Just self-assured.” And then he shakes the bag at me. “Go on, get dressed in that. It’s not as sexy, but it’s far more comfortable.”
“What is it?” I ask, pulling the zipper on the bag to get a peek.
“Golf skort, polo shirt, and golf shoes.” Fletcher beams another smile as he grabs a towel and wipes his face with it.
I prefer him sweaty, I realize, once that sheen is gone.
“If Cole likes the jocks, then a jock you shall be. Now, do you play golf?”
“No,” I say, annoyed. “I can, but I hate golf. It’s stupid.”
“I agree. But today you will talk golf with a man in the course bar and you will like it. Cole likes it, so you like it.”
I sneer my lip. Is that really how this works? I have to pretend to be someone else to snag a man?
But I don’t say anything. Mostly because Fletcher just assumes I will do as I’m told, and he’s already walking away, calling out, “Gonna get a shower. Be done in five.” But also because I really do want to hook Cole.
I look around, find a corner where I can hide in case he comes back before I’m done, and start changing into Cole’s future wife.
Five minutes later I’m transformed, sitting on a wooden bench, braiding my hair when Fletcher comes out of the shower, dripping wet, and wearing nothing but a towel.
He drops his towel like I’m not even there, and turns away and opens a door where he’s got clothes hanging in a closet.
I watch the movement of his muscles. His ass. Those little cut lines that ride his hips. His back as he pushes clothes around on the rack. The hills and valleys of his arms.
“Like what you see?” he asks, still facing away from me.
“I’m not looking at you,” I say, reaching for my phone on the bench. “I’m checking voicemail.”
“I can see you staring, Tiffy, there’s a mirror in here.”
Oh.
“It’s OK. I like your body too. So next time you get naked in front of me, I’ll stare all I want and we’ll be even.”
“There won’t be a next time.”
“Right.” He starts pulling on a pair of tan trousers, neatly creased down the middle of his legs. He doesn’t button them, but instead turns back towards me and shrugs on a crisp, white, button-down shirt that he also leaves hanging open.
He’s got no boxer briefs on this time.
“Going commando?”
“I forgot them. But if you want to go up to my room with me, I’ll be happy to put some on.”
His room is a definite no. I need to stay the hell out of there. He’s just too hot to ignore. And if he makes another play for me, I’m not sure how strong I can be.
You want Cole, I remind myself. You’re doing this for Cole.
Right. I realize that. But Cole does not look like a Greek god just came to life before my eyes. And Fletcher Novak does.
He messes with the collar of his shirt, shrugging his arms around, trying to arrange the fabric over his muscles, and then he starts buttoning it from the bottom up. I stop focusing on his fingers and look up into his eyes. He’s smiling at me. “What?”
“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head a little. He stops buttoning and reaches for a necklace hanging on a hook inside the closet. Dog tags, I realize, as he slips the beaded chain over his neck and tucks it inside his shirt.
“Were you in the military?”
“What?” His smile drops, and then he looks down his shirt to the tags. “Oh. No. These aren’t mine. My gramps was a patriot. Left me one of his tags in the will.”
“Oh.” I’m not sure what to say to that. No mention of gramps in the Wikipedia entry at all.
“You look nice,” Fletcher says, slipping his sunglasses on his head and then rolling up his long white shirtsleeves. “I like the other outfit better, but no one cares what I like, so let’s go.”
We make our way back upstairs to the lobby and then Fletcher guides me out to the valet area with a hand on my upper arm. I feel a little like a prisoner, but his hand is warm and it’s touching my bare skin, so I don’t really mind it.
We stop alongside a large black limo and Fletcher waits for the driver to open the door before motioning me in. “Wow,” I say. “Mr. Moneybags. You always take a limo to the golf course?”
He raises his sunglasses and smiles. “It’s your car, Tiffy. I just told them it was for you.”
“Oh.” I giggle. “Well, you definitely get points for resourcefulness. So tell me, what exactly am I supposed to do at this bar?”
“Just initiate conversation. Play along, some small talk. And then use your tricks to make him see you as sexy.”