How to Honeymoon Alone

I feel ridiculous, standing there beneath his scrutiny, but I swing the club.

He nods, eyebrows drawn together. “Again.”

I do it one more time, and then another.

“Good, but you need to make it slightly more fluid.” He takes a step closer, a hand half-extended to me. “Can I show you?”

I nod and hand him the club. But he shakes his head and comes to stand behind me instead. Oh.

His arms reach around and grip the club over my hands. He’s warm against me, and the scent of shampoo and of man brushes against my senses.This content provided by N(o)velDrama].[Org.

“This okay?” he murmurs.

I nod. Speaking feels like too much.

He shuffles closer until his body is curved around mine entirely, and the cotton candy cloud beneath me evaporates. Poof. Goosebumps rise along my forearms despite the warm temperature and the shining sun.

This feels real.

“Like this,” he says and pulls both of our arms up. He takes the club in a full arc over my head, before whooshing back down and connecting with an imaginary ball. “Keep the arc going,” he says and completes the swing with both of our arms up by our heads again. Opposite side this time.

He’s warm. Warmer than me, at any rate, and my lips tingle with the memory of his kisses from last night.

It’s been a long time since a man hugged me like this. Even if it’s not an actual hug-just “help”-and it’s only his front pressing against my back. But it still counts.

“Eden,” he says. His voice is a murmur in my hair.

“Yes?”

“Think you can try swinging again?”

“Oh. Yes, yeah, so… I’m supposed to do this?” I’m the one carrying the weight of our arms this time, moving the club in a slow arc.

“Yes, that’s it. You’ve got it.” His hands brush over mine in a lingering touch before he steps back, putting some healthy distance between us.

My entire body feels electrified by the contact.

Phillip clears his throat and takes another step back. “All right,” he says. “Okay. So, want to give it a try?”

“Yeah, okay.” I get into position and look down at the tiny white ball, so innocent looking against the green. I still feel too-light, and a bit charged, as if I have more energy than I need.

I look over at him. “Are you going to watch?”

He cracks a full smile for the first time today. “I was planning to, unless you don’t perform under pressure.”

“I don’t think this will be much of a performance.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, that smile still there. “Just take a swing.”

“Okay. Maybe you should take another few steps back,” I say. “And get some protective gear. Did you pack a helmet?”

“I’ll be fine,” he says, amusement in his voice.

“Okay,” I say again. I’m gripping the club tight. Bending my knees. My eyes are on the ball and I’m not going to let it escape. “Here goes nothing.”

I make the swing, putting force behind it, and feel my club connect with the ball. It flies a full three feet away, and wildly to the left.

“Shit.”

“That’s okay,” he says and walks past me. He bends over and picks it up. The shorts highlight the muscles in his thighs.

“Um, are you allowed to move my ball?”

“Yes,” he says and puts it back down in front of me. “Try again.”

“I’m almost positive this is against the rules.”

“Isn’t this your first time playing?” he says and takes a few steps back. “How would you know the rules?”

I turn to him with my most withering glare. “Yes, but I know some things. Like hand-on-ball is verboten in most games.”

“Eden,” he says, eyes steady on mine. “We’ll make our own rules.”

“Oh. Okay. I’ll try again, then.”

I do. It goes better this time, and while the ball doesn’t soar in a straight arc like his, it ambles down the hill halfway to his.

“That was excellent.”

I chuckle, leaning against my club. “Liar.”

“For your second-ever attempt, it was pretty damn good.” He climbs back into the golf cart, taking the passenger seat. “Come on, why don’t you try driving the cart, too.”

I get in the driver’s seat, unable to stop my grin. “Really?”

He pulls his cap further down and leans back, stretching his long legs as much as there’s room. “Nothing like being chauffeured.”

I laugh and press down on the accelerator pedal. Golf, it turns out, might not be such a boring sport after all, and in this beautiful location? I might even find myself enjoying it.

We make it to hole seven before disaster truly strikes. He’s two points under par, and I’m about fourteen thousand over. But I’m soldiering on, and Phillip doesn’t show any signs of being frustrated by my frequent mishaps.

It’s surprising. Somehow, he’d struck me as the kind of person that wouldn’t be described as patient. After all, his pacing while talking on the phone, his constant emailing, his clear passion for his job… His own self-proclaimed desire to win in every facet of life.

But here, he doesn’t let out a single disparaging comment.

Until I manage to hit my ball into the sand trap. It rolls beautifully off the green and into the sandy depths of a large bunker.

“Oh no,” I say. “That one hasn’t happened, yet.”