“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” CC asks loudly, and I’m thinking this could get ugly real fast. “Tell me, Cammie, how is dear old Dad? Still feeding your trust fund monthly?”
“I think you should leave now. Gray, you’re new to the area here, but I think you can clearly see that CC and her kind of people don’t exactly mix well here.”
“I was just telling him that very thing before you got here,” CC says, standing up. “And if there’s one thing that I’m thankful for Cammie, it’s that I don’t mix well here. Gray, it’s been real. Don’t bother getting up, I’m sure Cammie here would be more than willing to take my place.”
Before she can finish her sentence, I’m up with her. I wrap my hand around her wrist and pull her towards me. “Cammie, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be seeing CC home.”
“Of course you will. It’s the only gentlemanly thing to do. It’s a shame I couldn’t have warned you sooner. We’re still on for lunch tomorrow right?”
I feel CC jerk away from me, and it’s annoying. I barely know the woman and I can feel myself getting embarrassed all because I have a business luncheon with Cammie and her father. What the ever-loving fuck? My brothers would be laughing their asses off at me right now.
“Wouldn’t miss it. I’ll see you then.”
“Definitely,” she chimes. “CC, I do hope you find a way to get your anger under control,” she calls out. Either Cammie’s smarter than I gave her credit for, or she’s just a bitch.
“Cunt,” CC growls under her breath.
I feel myself grin a little. I always did like my women with a little bite. The little tigress in my hands right now definitely bites—and boy, does she have claws. I manage to get her back to my vehicle and I forcibly, over her objections, buckle her into the seat. Truthfully, I’m afraid if I don’t buckle her in, she’ll take off running.
“Well, that was interesting,” I tell her, leaning against the opened passenger door and taking a breath as soon as the seatbelt buckles. Damn, why do I feel like I just wrestled a mountain lion? Why am I wondering what my mother would think of CC? “Care to tell me what that was all about?”
“Not especially,” CC all but grunts, looking very put-out with me.
“I think I’m owed an explanation, don’t you?”
“Cammie Riverton is a cunt-a-saurus,” she says with a smile.
“And you don’t think you need to explain that further?”
“Nope.” She shrugs, picking at imaginary lint on her dress.
“You could have ruined my chances of sealing the deal with Riverton Metals.”
“He’s a slime ball. You’re better off,” she grumbles. “So… see? I did you a favor.”
“He might be, for all I know. I don’t really give a fuck. I need his backing for my tournament. His name and wallet are instrumental in me achieving my dream.”
“Tournament? I thought you were a salesman?”
“No. You assumed I was a salesman. I just never bothered to correct you.”
“What do you do then?” she asks.
Shit! This wasn’t exactly the conversation I wanted to have tonight. I sigh, seeing no way around it. I rub my forehead in aggravation. Will she know who I am? Will it change how she is with me? I don’t know why, but I don’t want that to happen… which is weird. I usually play the whole I’m-A-Golf-Pro-Fuck-Me card right away. CC is different. I’ve said it before and I have a feeling I’ll be saying it again for as long as I’m around her.
“I play golf,” I tell her, nervously waiting to see what her reaction will be.
“Golf?”
“Yeah,” I say, wincing at her disbelief.
“Like… weird-hats-crazy-pants-ugly-shirts golf?”
“I don’t wear clothes like that, but yeah.”
“But you don’t look like you’re eighty!”
“What? I’m not. What are you—?”
“Oh my God! I had sex with a grandpa! How old are you? I mean, I knew you were older, but Jesus!”
“I am not old! What are you going on about? I’m thirty-five, for God’s sake. You know, not only old men play golf.”
“I know.”
“Well, there you go.”
“I’ve been miniature-golfing before. Little kids eat that up, but seriously, dude. We’re talking regular golf here, right? Where you hit those little balls with sticks and try to knock them in a hole?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that. And there was once a twelve-year-old who played in a tournament, I’ll have you know.”
“Golf,” she says again reproachfully.
“What is your problem now?”
“Well, I mean, if I was gonna have a one-night stand with a pro athlete, I’d much rather it was football or basketball… something. I mean, at least then I could brag a little. I can’t here.”
“Why the fuck can’t you?” I ask her, getting annoying and forgetting the fact that I don’t really want a woman to fuck me just so she can brag.
“The first thing they would ask me is if you smelled like muscle rub!”
“What? Jesus!”