The brand-new club shirt Jericho wore should have been emitting a formaldehyde smell, but the enticing scent wafting from him that filled her nose smelled like cinnamon and a green meadow.
An image of her scrambling up him like climbing a cliff face, her fingers and toes clinging to the crevices of his muscles, and then planting her mouth on his assailed her.
Her face flushed hot, and she blamed it on the warmth rolling off of Jericho’s tall, muscular body, even as her knees wobbled. She was pretty sure the brace on her left leg was the only thing keeping her standing and not flopping at his feet.
This was insane. She was insane. There was no way she could allow this guy to kiss her. Her cousins would stage an intervention and drag her off to Boston to get her head examined. “That’s not what I meant to say.”
The breathiness in her voice sounded like she’d run ten miles. Sweat popped out of her skin.
Jericho glanced down her body, his gaze traveling over her felt like he was brushing her skin with his hands.
Her skin heated under her clothes, her whole body becoming more sensitive as she swore she could feel him looking at her.
And then he was looking at her mouth, and her lips felt as if they were plumping like he was already kissing her. The seam where they touched together felt tender as if he’d rubbed his thumb across her lips.
He asked, his voice low, “Are you sure?”
No. No, she wasn’t sure. Her hands felt empty and like the only thing that could fill them was if she grabbed his shirt near the tanned column of his throat, hauled him into the dark bag room where they could hide between the tall shelves, and ripped that cheap shirt right off his broad chest while he kissed her until she couldn’t remember the past year and a half of disappointment in everything.
Tiffany drew in a breath, but her inhale shook in her lungs. “I’m your boss. This isn’t going to happen.”
He murmured, “So, it’s just that you’re my boss? If you weren’t my workplace superior, this would be all right with you?”
The heat in his voice pushed Tiffany back. As soon as she’d put a few inches between them, she knew what was wrong with what he’d said.
Tiffany got right up in his face with one finger pointing at his straight, patrician nose, and she channeled every NCO gene she’d gotten from her dad. “Don’t you dare quit. I don’t know why you’re working here as a bag boy at this point in your life, but it’s a step in the right direction, Jericho Parr. And don’t tell me what happened to you. There’s a lot of things it could be, and I don’t want to know any of them. Newcastle Golf Club is a great place for second chances. You shouldn’t mess yours up, and I’m not going to mess mine up either.”
Jericho crossed his arms, but his smile seemed a little gentler. “Did you need a second chance?”
Tiffany flipped her hand in the air. She was not going to spill the tea to a new guy she’d just met, especially one who would be designated as nothing more than a coworker. “Everyone needs a second chance sometimes. My next student will be on the driving range in two minutes, and I need to go give that lesson. Welcome to Newcastle Golf Club, Jericho Parr.” She walked away from him.
“Wait.”
She stopped walking but didn’t turn around. Why did she even stop walking? But she had. “What?”
Jericho appeared beside her. “Let me walk you back to the range. My clubs are up there.”
“Fine.”
She was far too acutely aware of Jericho’s height beside her, his long legs covering the ground as they walked in silence, and his hand swinging inches from hers.
What would happen if she flopped her hand out just a few inches? Would their knuckles brush? Would he catch her hand in his big, warm one and use their clasped hands to pull her against his chest and kiss her?
Tiffany adjusted her stride to put a few more inches between them. Jericho was her coworker and would not be anything more.
As they walked back up to the driving range, all the tees were occupied by a line of scrawny high school students wearing matching red golf shirts.
Jericho gestured to them. “Who are those guys? Are they from a private school in the area?”
Oh, he must think the matching team golf shirts were a school uniform. “No, those are the kids from Newcastle Free Academy. NFA’s varsity and JV golf teams practice here on school days from three to six, and NGC is their home course for tournaments.”
Jericho squinted at them. “Doesn’t it annoy the club members to have a high school golf team commandeer the entire driving range every day?”
“Nah, they’re used to it. Everybody knows not to come to the range at three o’clock, and if they want to play, to tee off before three-thirty. The golf teams reserve the first tee from three-thirty to four-fifteen.”
Jericho lowered one sandy-colored eyebrow, a nifty trick. “Isn’t there a municipal golf course where they can play?”
“The nearest muni is another twenty miles away, and that one’s not in the city of Newcastle. They’d have to pay through the nose to practice there.”
“Nearest muni is twenty miles away, huh?” Jericho repeated back to her as he gazed over the driving range, nodding.
They retrieved their clubs from the caddie shack, and Tiffany saw her three o’clock appointment on the far end, swinging wildly.
Oh, dear. Where had Latoya picked up that wicked reverse pivot over the winter? They’d straighten that out first.
Jericho nodded. “Right. Well, it was lovely meeting you, Tiffany. I hope I’ll see you around sometime.”
She scoffed at him. “Yeah, you will. I’m your boss, remember?”
Jericho grinned, shouldered his clubs, and began backing away. “You bet, boss.”
“When’s your next shift?” she asked and immediately wanted to horsewhip herself.
“I think I’ll be back sometime next week,” Jericho said. “It depends on my schedule.”
“Yeah, well.” She couldn’t think of anything to say that wasn’t stupid. “Don’t you be late. Coach Kowalski doesn’t like it when bag boys are late for their shifts.”
He chuckled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Jericho Parr strode off back toward the clubhouse, and she watched his fine ass in those clingy athletic pants for a minute longer than she’d meant to.
“Coach Jones?” a girl’s super-soprano voice squeaked beside her. “I’m ready for my lesson. I’m set up near the end.”
Tiffany glanced down at the high school junior with corkscrew locs and freckles. “Sure, Latoya. I’m ready, too. Let’s go.”
When Tiffany glanced up to get one last look at Jericho because he shouldn’t have made it to the clubhouse yet, he had disappeared.
Oh, she hoped he hadn’t accidentally taken the turn-off trail to the first tee, but if he had, he’d find his way back. He was a big boy.
Yes, he was. He was a spectacular, tall man with a barrel chest. He was a very, very big man.
“Coach Jones?”
Tiffany sighed. “I’m coming, Latoya. Let’s see how your swing fared over the winter, shall we?”
The Yips
Jericho