We’re at the top of the stairs now, and just up the concrete path, Zane and Abby are making out. Full-on lip-locked in a way that would be perfectly expected inside the privacy of a home, or maybe even in a car. (With heavily tinted windows.) But in the middle of mini golf, it looks as out of place as … me in a parking lot with no shirt on.
The same mother is covering her daughter’s eyes again. She probably had no idea that mini golf had turned into a PG-13 kind of affair. They could have stayed home and seen less skin and tongue on primetime TV.
Zoey clears her throat. When Zane and Abby keep at it, she claps her hands, like she’s trying to chase off a pair of alley cats. I bite back my grin.
“Ready to play?” she asks.
Zane hands over the clubs and balls, smirking as he gives me the shortest club and a pink ball. Like that’s going to bother me or my game. Not even a little bit.
Zoey does quick introductions. “My younger brother, Zane.”
“Ha,” he says, giving her a playful nudge before shaking my hand. His smile is genuine and his grip strong. Maybe he won’t be so bad.
“And my best friend, Abby.”
Abby shakes my hand with a lot of enthusiasm. “If you ever need someone to create an app, fix a bug, or break into the Pentagon, Zoey can get you my number.”
“The Pentagon, huh?”
She smirks, and Zane gives her a mildly panicked look. “White hat hacking only, right?”
“Mm-hm.” Abby stands on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss on the cheek, which seems to only somewhat placate him. I get the sense that Zane is wired as tight as Zoey. Abby is clearly his opposite.
Is that what Zoey needs? Someone different than her to balance her out? Because I’m definitely more on the type A side of the sliding scale. We have that in common, which I’ve always thought of as a good thing, something that would make us work well together. Maybe not.
Or maybe you need to get out of your head. Probably that.
We begin, and what follows is a travesty of golf. And yet, as the only actual golfer in the group, I’m the odd man out. Taking too long lining up my shot, considering angles and doing my best with the tiny child’s club Zane gave me.
When I’m losing by the fourth hole, I have to remind myself that I don’t care. No one else does. Abby has lost one ball already, hitting it far enough that it probably landed in Zilker Park. She and Zane head back down to the little hut to grab a replacement ball, and I don’t mind the time alone with Zoey.
She nudges me with her shoulder as I line up my shot. “My short game isn’t so bad either.”
Mine is going to be worse if she continues standing so close. I’m aware of the heat of her body, or maybe I’m just suddenly aware of the temperature. The sun is dipping below the hills, but it’s still muggy. It’s probably my nerves combined with Zoey’s presence, but I’m suddenly burning up.
“You’re definitely a worthy opponent,” I say, smiling as I tip the ball. It hits off one of the walls to slide right past the hole, ending up wedged in the corner.
“Aw, too bad,” Zoey says. “Now scoot.”
Now she’s using her hip to bump me out of the way, and it’s all I can do not to wrap my arms around her waist and tug her close. Her flirting is light, playful. It’s the perfect balance, though it leaves me still not totally sure how Zoey feels about me. I resist the urge to show her how I feel about her in the shadowy area before the sixth hole, and instead watch as she birdies and I bogey.
“Is something throwing you off your game?” she teases, looking at me like she knows exactly what’s got me distracted.
It’s her, definitely her. Though I’m trying to be gentlemanly, don’t think I haven’t noticed her toned legs underneath shorts that are at least five inches shorter than the skirts she wears to work. Still classic, not too short, but yes—very distracting. There’s also the fact that my brain fog seems to have thickened from a light mist into a pea soup. I tried to add up the scores a few minutes ago and the numbers seemed to run around