“If you two deplorables can convince me of your professionalism on Saturday, then I’ll return my business to Cline Corp.”
Westin and I meet eyes as Mr. Brown heads back to the elevators. We have a chance. All we have to do is keep cool, hit some golf balls, tell some witty stories, and that nine-figures is ours once again. And most importantly, we won’t have to layoff any of our staff.
“Gentleman,” Mr. Brown says when he pushes the button and the doors open immediately. “I’ll see the two of you at the club on Saturday. 8:30 AM sharp. Don’t be late.”
He walks into the elevator and gives us a stern look as the doors close.
“You guys can’t fuck this up!” Westin spits out as the elevator takes Mr. Brown away.
“Do you really think we’re going to fuck this up?” I ask as I peel the slice of pepperoni off my shirt and toss it into my mouth.
Westin looks like he’s about to have a stroke.
“Cocktail party, huh?” Brooke says, looking excited. “You must need a date for that. I have a girl from my—”
“No!” all four of us scream at the same time.
Chapter Two
Carrie
“You’re going to need a driver,” my boss says when I pull a random club out of my bag. “And that’s a three wood.”
“I’ll give her some wood if she needs it,” one of the men whispers under his breath, and the three creeps laugh.
I fucking hate golf.
And the only thing worse than playing golf with my new boss and his two perverted friends is playing it on a freaking Saturday.
I’m new at the company and I know that Mr. Miller only picked me to be his golfing partner at this charity tournament because he wanted to leer at me in my tight shorts. I didn’t really have a choice even though I didn’t want to go. How could I say no after working at Miller Inc for only two weeks?
If he tries to wrap his arms around me from behind to correct my swing, I’m going to implant my putter into his forehead.
It’s only the third hole and I’m already out of patience. If I have to hear Edgar, Barney, or Raymond joke one more time about washing each other’s balls while they scrub their golf balls before each drive, I’m going to kick them in their real balls.
“Let’s see what you can do with a stiff shaft,” Barney says as I walk over to the tee with my club.
“Just grip it softly,” my boss Edgar says with a creepy grin on his weathered face, “and stroke it smoothly.”
Oh my God. I hate these guys. So much.
I’m biting my tongue as I bend over and sink the tee into the grass. They’re worse than teenage boys, whispering and snickering at my ass as I place the ball.
I get up as quickly as I can and shoot them a glare before lining up to let another shitty drive loose.
“You’re going to want to spread your legs,” Raymond comments, and the other two pervs start laughing.
I just want to go home.
The stupid ball falls off the tee and I curse as I bend over to put it back on. That’s when I hear a click.
I whip my head around and see my boss shoving his phone into his golf bag. Real classy. I guess these guys haven’t heard about the Me Too movement. I’m surprised since it was created because of creeps like them.
The first time I hit a golf ball was three days ago at the driving range, so there’s no reason to think that I can aim the ball when I hit. Still, I aim right for the thick tree trunk a few yards away.
“Come on,” I whisper. “Please make this happen.”
I hit the ball as hard as I can and it flies off the tee and lands right where I aimed it. It smacks into the tree trunk with a thunk and comes flying back at my playing partners. They all yelp as they duck out of the way.
“Oops,” I say with a grin as I strut back to the cart. I shove the club back in my new bag as they stare at me in shock.
“You’re supposed to hit the ball that way,” Barney says with a derisive laugh.
“I think the shaft on that club was too long for her,” Raymond says, grinning at Mr. Miller. “She looks like she could use a short shaft. Probably why she’s with Edgar.”
With Edgar?! Geez, what the hell is wrong with these guys? I’m the new saleswoman at the office, not his escort.
I sit in the golf cart as the three of them tee off. We’re playing best ball, which means I’m going to be hitting from wherever Mr. Miller’s ball lands all day.
His ball lands near the pond in the distance and he’s cursing as he gets in the cart. I’m just happy that we get to go near the ducks. That should kill a few minutes of this dreadful day.
“How long do golf matches last?” I ask as he drives along the path toward our ball.
“First of all, it’s not a golf match,” he says with a laugh, and I have to try really hard not to shove him out of the speeding cart. “It’s a golf game.”
Whatever.
“And they normally take about four hours.”
Four hours?!? I nearly throw up.
“But tournaments are often longer than that,” he adds. “So, maybe around five?”
My stomach lurches as I stare at the ducks on the pond. Even they have a better place to be, since they take off as we approach.
“So, I’ll be home around six?” I ask hopefully as he parks the cart by the water. I really don’t like to leave Chester home for very long. The poor pup was sick this morning.
“Six AM is more like it,” he says as we walk around to our bags in the back. “We’re staying for the dinner tonight. You’re my date.”
That granola bar I ate in the car is coming back up as I watch him pull out a club.
“You’re going to want to use a three iron for this shot,” he says as he walks over to the ball.
I don’t even know what a three iron is and I really don’t care. I just want to go home and take care of my sick dog. I don’t need this.
My jaw is clenched and my pulse is speeding angrily when I see the corner of his iPhone sticking out of his bag. I grab it and head to his photos as he’s busy lining up his shot, rambling on about the yardage to the hole and the direction of the wind.
The first picture that pops up is of my bent over ass in my baby blue shorts.
As soon as he swings his club, I toss his phone into the middle of the pond. It disappears with a plunk.
That’s what you get, perv.
“What was that?” he asks as he turns around to look at the pond.
“A duck, I think. That was a great shot, sir!”
I’m bouncing around with a big excited smile on my face as he turns back to his ball, looking proud. “It was pretty good.
“Your turn,” he says as I squeeze my club, hating every second of this. At least, it’s a nice day, but that also means my tan is going to look horrendous tomorrow.
I hit the ball as best I can, which is pretty embarrassing considering where it goes. I’m wondering if I’m the only golfer in the world who can hit horizontal as Mr. Miller gets back into the cart.
“I’ll catch up,” I say with a wave. “I’m going to go find my ball.”
He shrugs and then drives over to where Barney and Raymond are hitting.