When I first started painting again, I posted a quick sixty-second video of me working on a piece and received a message that day asking if the painting was available for purchase. That video changed everything for me, and social media is now where I get most of my sales. Eventually, I’m going to have to hire someone to run my social accounts because keeping up with messages can sometimes be overwhelming. But for now, I enjoy connecting with my followers online.

“I figured I’d be back before you were done,” Dayton says as I’m pressing Send on a reply to a message I received, and I look up, noticing he’s coming from the inner part of the club and not the men’s room.

“There aren’t many women here today, so there wasn’t a line.” I drop my eyes to his hand when he opens the can he’s holding. “You shouldn’t pay for beer when you have drink tickets, and I’m sure my dad has a cooler of beer on the back of the golf cart.”

“It’s not for me. I got you a ginger ale. I thought maybe it might help with the nausea.”

“Oh.” Damn, these stupid pregnancy hormones for making my throat go tight. “Thank you.”

“It’s the least I could do.” He puts a straw in it before handing it to me.

Yep, things are definitely getting more complicated.

CHAPTER 7

Dayton

As the crowd goes quiet, I watch Franny line up and swing, her long ponytail hanging out the back of the ball cap on her head, swishing from side to side as she connects with the ball. She claimed that the only reason she came in number two in the state with her school was because everyone else had the flu, but after watching her play all morning, I know that’s bullshit. She’s good—better than me and a lot of the guys I’ve played with who show up every weekend and golf like they’re trying to go pro.

She’s also a distraction in that cute-as-fuck short skirt, with her long tan legs and the tank top she has on, which shows a sliver of her tan stomach every time she moves. I haven’t been able to keep my eyes off her, and neither have most of the men here.

“That wasn’t so bad.” She turns to face her father and me after seeing where the ball landed just a couple of feet from the next hole.

“Not so bad?” Barrett walks forward, laughing, and wraps his arm around her neck, squeezing her into his side. “If you wouldn’t make me look bad, I’d force you to come play with me on the weekends.”

“That’s never happening,” she tells his back when he lets her go and walks forward to take his shot.