The pro’s hands are on her again. His chest is to her back as he reaches around and flanks her so that he can help her swing the club. They sway their bodies backwards, then forward. When they connect with the ball, it soars.
Harlow lets out a yelp of excitement and does a little dance to celebrate it. Her hips sway and arms go above her head. Her laugh carries so that even more people stop to appreciate the sight in front of them.
The only thing I hate more than the pro’s hands on her is how every man standing here is watching her.
Christ, if they only knew they could look up photos of her wearing lingerie online . . .
The pro—preppy in his white polo shirt and perfect hair and goofy smile—makes an awkward attempt to give her a high five and then pull her into a celebratory hug.
Fuck this. That’s enough.
“Harlow? Honey . . . ” I call her name and stride from the bar into the range.
Harlow’s head startles and when she spots me, her smile spreads wide. “Zane! Did you see my drive?”
That’s right fuckers. She’s with me.
I stop just inside the platform. “Great shot.” I look over at the pro and fire off a warning shot with a glare to back the hell off before turning back to her. “You ready to go over everything?”
“Everything?”
What in the hell am I talking about?
“Yes. For tonight.”
“Oh. Okay.” Confusion fills her eyes before she glances over at the clock on the wall and then lifts her brow. “You want to take the last few shots left in my hour?”
“No thanks. I have a seat for us at the bar.”
She nods and smiles. Satisfied that all of the pricks watching know she’s with me, I make my way toward the bar. It takes a few moments before she reaches me, and I stand and press a chaste kiss to her lips.
That was for anyone who doubted that she was with me.
She stiffens when our lips touch but then seems to realize that this is the location of our event tonight, and any one of these people might be attending.
It takes a few moments to get our orders settled and once we do, she turns her attention on me.
“So?”
“So . . .what?”
“You said you needed to talk about tonight. Should I assume we do the same as last night? Talk. Flirt. Inform. Mingle.”
“Right.”
“Act like we’re madly in love.”
I snort and look away from her to where pro golf boy has moved on to the next Stepford wife.
“You confuse me,” she says, prompting me to look back at her. “You run a matchmaking company yet everything you say about it in private is a total contradiction.”
“That’s my prerogative. And I run a lot of businesses. This just happens to be my current focus.”
“And when it’s not your focus? What does that mean for the thousands of people who are signing up and who believe it’ll work because we say it will?”
“Not my problem.”
“That’s a shitty thing to say.”
“Perhaps, but it’s the way of the world. Things in this life only last so long. You enjoy them, take advantage of them while you can, and then you wash your hands of them and go your separate ways.”
Her eyes narrow, the hazel in them darkening. “That’s what you really believe?”
I shrug. What I said had its merits but fuck if I’m going to let her play shrink to see how I feel about women and dating. I’m a thirty-three year old man. A busy one at that. I don’t have time for commitment. I don’t have time to devote to one person in the way I’d need to make a relationship work . . . and frankly, I don’t really want to.
Growing up with my mum and dad didn’t exactly paint the rosiest picture of what a good relationship should be. Hitting the bottle, all day, every day, just so you can stand your spouse taught me never to want one.
“Earth to Zane? Is that what you really believe?”
She pulls me from my thoughts and for a beat I stare at her and try to find my answer.
“My theory evolves daily,” I finally say.
“Don’t think about it. Just answer.” She leans her elbows on the table and levels me with a stare. “Do you believe in love, Zane?”
“Love is a bullshit emotion.”
Harlow angles her head and stares at me as if she’s trying to believe I just said that. I did. And it’s true.
“Don’t tell Robert that.”
“Didn’t plan on it.”
She takes a sip of her drink and then watches the ice cubes as she stirs the straws around in it. “I don’t get it.”
“Stop trying, it’ll make your life that much easier.” Too much talking. Way too much talking going on here.
“I don’t understand. You’re a wealthy man—”
“Ahh, the all knowing power of Google. Did you look up my sordid past while you were at it?”
And why does that fucking bug me if she has? What about my past do I want to hide from her when I’ve never fucking cared before what people think of the many women I’ve dated. Hell, I looked her up. I even searched all the men whose arms she was on.
Or maybe it’s not my dating past I don’t want her to know about, but rather the life I left behind that I’d prefer to keep out of the discussion.