"Have fun," he says, with such a tease in his voice that I can't resist lifting my middle finger in response.
He laughs. "I think you're
aiming that suggestion at the wrong man."
Since I clearly can't win, I just shut the door and head to my room to change. But I'm smiling, and I know it's because of Noah and the day that's spread out in front of us.
I also know I have to be careful; this man has the power to hurt my heart. I know that. But knowledge doesn't control feelings, and even though part of me wishes I could deny it, the truth is that being around him makes me feel happy.
And all I can do is hope to hell that he doesn't hurt me again.
12
"I'm three under par," I say as I gently tap my ball with a putter and try to send it straight between the legs of a giant Tyrannosaurus Rex. "You were right. I'm seriously kicking your ass."
I smile sweetly at Noah, who hasn't managed to sink any ball within the prescribed number of strokes.
He leans on the end of his putter. "Hey, no ego here." He meets my eyes. "My talents lie in different areas."
Heat floods my cheeks, and I look away, ostensibly following the direction of my ball. "That's good," I say, lightly. "Because you won't be making a career of miniature golf."
Not that Austin's iconic Peter Pan Mini Golf center is typical miniature golf. With the statues of Peter himself, Tinkerbell, giant whales, and whatnot, its focus is more on whimsy than skill.
When Noah had first pulled into the parking lot on Barton Springs Road, he'd smiled proudly at me. "Every article I've read since I moved to Austin says this is a can't-miss place. Have you been?"
He'd so obviously done his homework that I hated to burst his bubble, but every Austinite knows about this place. And even though I was already twelve when our mother left Cam and me with Grams and hit the road, I still consider myself an Austinite. Mostly because I have no interest in remembering those early years in Waco at all.
"I had my thirteenth birthday party here," I'd told him. "And my friends and I came at least once a month in college."
"Damn," he says. "And I wanted to be different."
Now, as we're well into the course, I grin at him with genuine pleasure. "This was a really great idea," I say. "I've been spending so much time inside, I'd forgotten how nice a day out in the world can be."
"What's kept you trapped?" he asks as I retrieve my ball, and we move on to the next hole.
"Planning for your consult, for one. But mostly writing music. The girls and I are breathing life back into Pink Chameleon."
"Yeah? That's great." He lines up his ball and shoots.
Across the way, some kids at a birthday party squeal when someone gets a hole-in-one by a giant bunny.
"And that reminds me," he says, after he's finally sunk his ball seven strokes later. "You never answered my question. Why marketing? And what happened to Pink Chameleon that you have to get it back together?"
"You really didn't pay attention." I look up from where I'm about to hit the ball, and see that he's looking hard at me.
"Attention?"
"To me," I clarify. "All these years between us, and you never tried to find out what I was up to?"
His expression takes on a hard edge. "I wanted to," he admits. "Pretty much every damn day."
"Why didn't you?"
He leans on the end of his putter. The intensity has faded from his face, and when he meets my eyes, I'm struck by a sadness so palpable it's all I can do not to walk to him and take him in my arms.
"Do you have any idea how hard it was walking away from you?" he asks. "Do you think I don't know how much it hurt you?"
"Did you?" I hate how needy I sound, but I am. Hearing this is like a balm for my soul, healing the wounds I'd inflicted on myself, believing that the connection between us had been an easy one for him to break, and that he hadn't suffered the way I had.