So then…Was she going to leave now? A moment of panic shot through his system at the thought of her turning around and walking out the front door. Of course, it would be crazy for her to stay. In his house. Alone. For the rest of the evening. Where his bedroom was. Definitely dangerous territory.
At the same time, he could use the opportunity to show her he wasn’t the ass she thought he was. That they could be capable of having a conversation that didn’t either end in them bickering or shoving their tongues down each other’s throats.
He gestured toward the golf net on the other side of the yard. “Want to hit a few balls?”
She glanced over his shoulder. “I don’t really golf.”
“Neither do I.” He set the gift bag on the patio table and wrapped his palm around the back of her neck. “But you look like you need to hit something.”
She slid him a look as he led her down the deck stairs. “Gee, thanks.”
Her neck was slender and cool, just the right size for his palm to fit and tease the loose hairs at the base of her ponytail. He allowed his hand to linger, even though she was perfectly capable of walking on her own. But he liked touching her. Even more than that, he liked how her breath shuddered when his thumb stroked behind her ear.
So maybe their conversations would end with more tongue dancing. Seemed as though they didn’t have much of a choice around each other. Fight or make out? No brainer, if you asked him.
He reluctantly dropped his hand, missing her softness, and handed her the golf club. She accepted it, then just stood there with it dangling in her hand.
“You know how to hit a golf ball, right?”
She ran her attention down the club, as though she didn’t have the faintest idea how to operate the thing. “I spent every spare minute of my time in a dance studio. What do you think?”
Her question had him grinning and he took a step toward her in order to help her. But she held up a hand to stop him.
“But I’m sure I can figure it out,” she told him.
In other words, no touching. Message received loud and clear. He held his hands up. “Have at it, then. Just don’t hit it into Mrs. McAllister’s yard. I’ve been on her shit list for about ten years.”
She grinned and dangled the club from her index finger and thumb and looked the thing over. Then she gripped it between both hands, but her grip was way too low on the club, and her feet were too close together.
“Spread your legs a little,” he told her.
She eyed him over her shoulder.
“Get your mind out of the gutter,” he instructed. Although he wouldn’t mind joining her there. “Your feet were just too close together.”
With a long sigh, she adjusted her footing and lined up her shot. She’d just drawn the club back when he made a noise to stop her. “Now what?” she demanded.
“Don’t twist the club when you swing back. Otherwise the ball won’t go straight.”
She blinked at him and scratched her cheek.
“You don’t know what I mean, do you?” he questioned.
She scrunched her nose, which was damn cuter than it should have been. “Not really.”
“But you were so sure you could figure it out,” he reminded her.
Her foot tapped a rapid rhythm on the grass. “You’re going to make me ask, aren’t you?”
He grinned. “Yep.”
“Fine.” She thrust the club at him. “Show me how, O Lord of the Golf Course.”
He accepted the club from her. “You’re cute when you’re cranky.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m not cranky. I’m annoyed.”
Brandon aligned himself with the net, noting how Stella had taken a step back when he’d gotten too close to her. Interesting. “A mood that I’ve become well acquainted with.” He braced his feet apart and placed his hands together on the rubber grip. “First of all, your hands should be together like this and higher on the club. Next, when you draw the club back.” He demonstrated so she could see. “You want to keep the head of the club level with the ball. Don’t twist it like this.” He turned the head to the side as she had done. When he shot her a look, her attention wasn’t on his demonstration. She yanked her eyes off his ass and pinned them on his. “Care for a more one-on-one instruction?”
She offered him a sweet smile. “Over my dead body.”
He shrugged and handed the club over. “Bummer.”
She accepted it from him, careful not to touch his hands even though he’d let them linger before letting go of the club. He took a step back and allowed his attention to drop to her plump rear end. Such a nice ass. A perfect handful. All he had to do was take one step closer and he could nuzzle her right in the crook of his hips. He bet she’d fit perfectly there. Maybe even give him a little wiggle and—
“Over there,” she told him, pointing to a spot on the grass next to her.
He decided to play innocent. “I’m just standing here,” he said with a lift of his shoulders.
She narrowed her eyes. “No, you weren’t.” She waved her index finger in his direction. “I know what you’re doing back there, and I don’t want you standing behind me.” She snapped her fingers and pointed to the same spot next to her. “Now move your ass.”
How’s about you move your ass?
He snickered and did as instructed, keeping his eyes on hers to prove that he could be around her and not ogle her spankable derriere. And someone ought to give him a medal for that fine piece of playacting. After they established their respectable, or, in his case not-so-respectable, corners, Stella returned to the task at hand. Only she miscalculated her swing, and the club bit into the ground and didn’t hit the ball with enough force. It shot about a foot in the air and bounced a few times before settling.
She shoved the club against his chest. “Well, that was fun. But I’m due for some Chinese water torture now.”
“Not so fast.” He hooked his index finger in the collar of her shirt and put a halt to her hasty exit. He let out a breath and dropped both hands to her shoulders. “Stella, Stella, Stella.” He steered her back to where she’d been standing. “We both know the perfectionist in you wants to get this right,” he chided, lowering his head to speak in her ear. And yeah, he was right about her ass aligning perfectly against his hips. Sweet Mercy she did things to his libido.
“I’m not a perfectionist,” she murmured. Was she breathing heavy? Or was that him unable to control his reaction around her? “I actually pride myself on being an epic screwup. You can ask anyone,” she continued. “I hate doing things right. In fact, you could even call me an imperfectionist.” Now she was babbling, which meant she was just as flustered and turned on as he was.
“Hush,” he told her. Then he brought the club around to her front and placed it in her hands. Because she’d all but gone limp on him, he had to physically wrap her palms around the club. Not that he was complaining. No, he’d use any excuse to touch her. Her chest expanded, nudging her plush breasts against his biceps. The contact created a jolt of awareness straight to his groin, where he instantly hardened. He eased his hips away from her so she wouldn’t feel his reaction to her. Stella was already on edge and the last thing he wanted to do was send her running in the opposite direction.