“You didn’t want a career like Tom Brady or Peyton Manning?”
His jaw ticks as he squints out into the distance. The sun catches the red in his hair, highlighting the fiery strands interspersed with the golden brown. Rather than answer me, he asks, “Are we eating here?”
“Fine. Don’t open up. But you might want to write about it in your side of the column so that readers can peek at the real man beneath...whatever this is.” I wave a hand in his general direction.
He floors the golf cart, which doesn’t make it go that much faster, but I still grab the oh-shit bar attached to the roof just in case.
At the restaurant in the country club, Barrett lets out a sound of disapproval.
“What’s the matter, Fox? Don’t see any hostesses you’d like to take home?”
His eyes wander over my face as his lips tilt beneath a thin layer of scruff. His slow perusal causes my heart to pitter-patter in an irritating way. Blue eyes twinkle like there’s a secret he’s not telling me.
Which is ridiculous. Beneath that asshole exterior, he’s an asshole on the inside, too. The whole world knows it, and he goes out of his way to prove it.
Except for that moment when I confessed about North and I breaking up. Then Barrett was really decent... Kind of. In between offering to have sex with me or make out with me. The memory makes me warm. He was oddly comforting in that moment. Something I can’t quite reconcile with who I know him to be.
By the time we’re being led to the dining room I’ve spotted some familiar faces ringing a table in the center.
“Catarina!” A grin splits my mother’s face as she stands.
The two other ladies at the table—Sherrie and Bette—wave. I wave back.
“What a happy coincidence.” My mother tilts her head in the direction of my date-for-hire. “You must be the football guy she told us about. I’m Celia, Catarina’s mother.”
“Damn, I guess,” he says, his charm cranked to stun. He takes her hand and tugs her closer, examining her ring finger before placing a kiss on her knuckles. “Married. Good for you.”
My mom, bless her heart, doesn’t realize he’s flirting with her. “I’m sorry to say Catarina’s father isn’t here. He would have liked to meet you.”
“Is your husband a football fan?” Barrett rolls his shoulders, which only serves to accentuate his broad build.
“He’s not,” I say. His and my mother’s eyes fly to me. “Can’t win ’em all, Fox.”
My mom frowns at me briefly before recapturing her always-there smile. “I’ll leave you two to your own devices. Unless you’d like to join us?”
“We’d love to,” I lie, “but this is a working lunch for us. We’re going to discuss the column.”
That’s when I notice Sherrie’s eyes on Barrett, her mouth frozen in an awed smile. Bette is leaning over and whispering in Sherrie’s ear, and then she draws back and smiles at Barrett in that same awestruck manner.
“Oh Lord,” I grumble through my teeth. His magnetism is irritating.
“One second, Kitty Cat.” He palms my back and then takes my mother’s vacated seat, introducing himself to Sherrie and Bette. Pretty soon, they’re tittering, and he’s signing their white cloth napkins.
“He’s quite the celebrity,” my mother observes. “How was your round?”
“Fine.”
She waits for me to elaborate. I don’t.
“Did he call you Kitty Cat?” Mom knows I don’t care for nicknames. She doesn’t, either. Her name is Celia, and she’s never gone by C or Lia or any other butchered form of her name.
“He’s trying to burrow under my skin. It’s his way.”
Barrett ambles over and inserts himself between us, sliding his palm along my back. He smells like fresh air and sunshine and against my will I lean in his direction.
“Ready to eat, Pussycat?” he asks. My mother’s shock-and-awe expression is one for the books.
“Wow,” I tell him.
“What?” he asks.
“I never thought the moment would come when I’d prefer Kitty Cat, and yet here we are.”
His grin is puckish and charming and has my mom falling under his spell. With a roll of my eyes I move to our table, which is only a few tables away, and we sit down to eat.
“I thought you were kidding.” I say to Barrett, who is sitting in the driver’s seat of an ostentatious, red convertible. The top’s down since it’s a gorgeous summer evening.
“About what?” He pulls his keys from the ignition.
“About mini golf.” I gesture to the building—a gargantuan three-story glass windowed shrine. We golfed at the country club three days ago. I guess this is the “he said” portion of the column. I’ll write about golf and he’ll yuk it up about putt-putt.
“This isn’t mini golf,” he says as we step from the car. Before we walk up the wide concrete stairs to the entrance, he clasps my hand in his.
“Is this necessary?” I try to sound peeved.
“Date, Kitty Cat.” He slides strong, warm fingers between mine. “Humor me.”
Inside, he checks us in (apparently, we have reservations). The place is busy, and beyond the hostess stand a bar is filled with people drinking cocktails, their golf bags propped next to their barstools.
“Oh, wait. I’ve heard of this.” Northrop mentioned something about the “new” building going up about a year ago. All I remember is “yada yada indoor golf” and at that point I tuned out. North used to golf but swapped golfing for working and then picked up tennis, which I really can’t stand.
The hostess instructs that we’re on the top floor in bay eleven, and that our bay host will be along shortly to take our drink and food order.
“Our what will be where?” I ask Barrett as we climb several flights of stairs.
“This beats the hell out of real golf, Kitty Cat, just you wait.” We find our bay and are greeted immediately by a chipper woman named Gail. She chirps about how we pay for rounds via the kiosk at our table and shows us how to keep score. She urges us to be careful and not tumble off the edge, which is a steep drop-off a few feet from where we’ll be hitting the ball.
We’re indoors, kind of. Imagine a long balcony with a roof and floor but otherwise, you’re outside. Nets enclose the golfing area on four sides (the top is open). Neon colored circles with multiple holes are dotted on the green grass a few stories below. She explains that the special golf balls we’re about to hit have a tiny sensor inside, and each colored area on the “green” is worth a certain number of points, with the more difficult holes worth more than others.
“Thanks, Gail, you’ve been most helpful,” my date praises. “I’ll have a tall beer and Kitty Cat will have a dish of cream.”
I slap his arm and order wine. He tacks on an order of mozzarella sticks, buffalo bites, and a quesadilla.
“Hungry?” I ask.
“Starved.” He leans past his barstool and comes closer to say, “I’ll share. But only because I like you.”
I attempt an eye roll but fail. He’s irrationally good-looking for such a cad.