He grins. “Yeah. They usually roll out the red carpet when I pull up. I’m not sure where they are. Maybe they didn’t want to intimidate you too much.”
It’s a beautiful night out. The air is just crisp enough to mean I have no fear of sweating, but not cold enough to make me shiver. I threw on my outfit quickly, putting a tunic on over grey leggings. I have my favorite elephant earrings in. They were a gift from my mom years ago because she knows I love elephants, and wearing them now helps me remember what things were like before she was sick. I can still remember the anticipation in her face as she watched me open them. She’s always loved giving gifts more than receiving them. My vision blurs a little as the tears threaten to come.
Leo looks at me, face growing serious. I expect him to ask if I’m okay or to force me to tell him what’s wrong, but instead he just puts a reassuring hand on my shoulder and pulls me into his side, wrapping me in his warmth and protection. I breathe in deeply, getting lost in his scent. I’ve never been good at identifying smells, but the way he smells makes me think of hiking through chilly forests and of sex beneath the stars. I blush. It’s almost impossible not to think about sex around him.
He wears a t-shirt and jeans, but somehow looks like a million bucks. His dark hair is pushed out of his face, but a few stubborn strands dangle in front of his smoldering eyes. His powerful chest is clearly visible through the thin cotton of his t-shirt, and I can even see the hint of his abs when his shirt lies against his stomach just right. It takes considerable effort not to slide my hands across his body. My thoughts still burn with the memory of how he felt beneath my fingertips, soft skin and hard muscle, perfectly sculpted.
We step inside the building, which is built to look like an old, aged water-mill. It’s a little tacky, with Christmas lights strung haphazardly, but the trickle of water passing beneath and the winking lights of the city in the distance are peaceful. I wait while Leo pays for us and picks out a putter for me.
A pang of guilt stabs through me. Roman would love being here, and yet I just made him stay with Lauren all night so I could figure things out with Leo. It hurts to think of it that way, but I know it’s partially true, at least. If I’ve learned one thing about parenting, it’s that doing what’s best for my child almost always means doing what’s hardest. It would be easier to write Leo off and refuse to talk to him. He’s persistant, but I know he would keep his distance if I made my intentions clear. I’ve treated plenty of stalkers and people with borderline personality disorder, and he doesn’t fit the profile.
The strangest thing about Leo is that he defies my training. When I’m around him, the never-ending focus on ticks and word choice and body language fades into background noise. The only sense I get from him is an overwhelming impression of protectiveness and sexuality. Yet all I have to do is look at his tattoos and watch for the flickers of darkness that pass across his face to know why I should stay away. He’s trouble. He’s a criminal. He’s exactly the kind of man I should be keeping away from my son, so what am I doing here?
We step outside to the practice green and Leo lets me take the first shot. It’s a flat, straight path to the hole. I sink mine in two putts. Leo lines up, squaring his hips, and breathing out a deep, slow breath. His eyebrows draw down in concentration. His eyes dart from the ball to the hole a few times before he takes a practice swing. He finally taps the neon blue ball and I watch with annoyance as it rolls straight into the hole.
He quirks an eyebrow at me.
“Shut up,” I say, falling in beside him as we cross through a narrow path between bushes to the next hole, which is at the top of a bridge over the winding stream that passes through the whole course. “You take this way too seriously.”
“Shut up?” he asks. “I thought you would be trying to get me to talk.”
“I don’t need your life story, I just want to know why. Why did you leave, and why did you come back?” I ask.
“Because of you,” he says, kneeling to set my ball on the green.
I watch him silently, not sure if he’s blowing off my question or answering honestly. I try to judge his body language for a clue, but he betrays nothing. He’s a single-minded man, always moving forward, never looking back, never hesitating. Normal people give away their intentions because they reflect, hesitate, or over-think. Leo just acts, unapologetically. There’s nothing to read or interpret except the words that leave his mouth.
I look at the course as I line up my shot. It’s a snake-like set-up with a bulb at the end and an off-center hole. I can’t see how you could hit a hole-in-one, so I settle for aiming to get me as close as I can. I take my shot and drop my putter in frustration when the ball catches the first bend in the course and bounces to a standstill less than a fourth of the way to the hole. “Shit!” I purse my lips angrily, stomping toward my ball. I feel myself clenching the putter too hard, but I swing anyway, this time hitting the next bend so hard that the ball bounces backward, nearly landing right where it started.
I suck in a deep breath through my nose, feeling myself fuming. I’ve always been competitive, and I do not want to lose to Leo. I’m about to swing again, probably too hard, when Leo’s strong hands take me by the forearms. I feel his chest against my back.
“Relax here,” he says, running a finger along the center of my forearm.
My tense muscles ease and relax at his touch.
“And here,” he says, stroking my wrist. “Lower your hips.” His hands guide my hips down, brushing my ass into him. He moves his hands to my wrist and guides me through my swing, making the motion feel smooth and right. The ball clinks off my putter and perfectly sails along the hidden dips of the course, winding its way straight into the hole where it clatters home.
“Yes!” I yell, turning to hug him and then pulling back abruptly.
He grins. “Nice shot.”
I frown. “It probably would have taken me five more tries if you hadn’t helped me.”
“Yeah, well tough shit. You’re going to have to get used to me helping you. I’ll always be looking out for you.”
My heart flutters and my stomach turns over. God, I wish I could believe him. I wish that was true. I didn’t realize how badly I wanted a strong man to be in my life, ready to help me and step in to shoulder some of the responsibility. Hearing him say it ignites an ache so deep in my chest that I feel like my breath is taken away. I wish.
“Where were you all the times I needed help since you left?” I ask.
He doesn’t look away. “Wishing I could be here with you.”
“Where were you instead?” I ask.
He looks down, eyes growing distant. “Doing whatever I could to keep you safe.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
“I could tell you, but then I’d have to kill you,” he says, looking down and putting the ball smoothly. It winds perfectly through the course, weaving gracefully and then sinking straight into the hole.
I glare at him. “Do you get a lot of time to practice miniature golf in your line of work, Mr. Citrione?” I ask.
He walks to the hole and collects our balls, leading us on to the next course. “What is it you think I do for a living?”
Something in his tone holds a warning. He tries to cover it with humor and that smirk of his, but I can see through it. This is a dangerous subject, and he may close up if I push too hard. But screw being gentle. He gave up his right to gentle treatment when he sauntered into my life four years ago, got me pregnant, and then disappeared without so much as a text. “You said you hurt people. I think maybe you’re part of some…I don’t know. It sounds too stupid to say. Like you’re a mobster or something.”