Chapter 2

It’s Thursday,a mere twenty-four hours before the first rounds of golf begin,and Greg stands in the lobby of the Hermitage,waiting.He’s behind a long registration table—spread out before him are nametags on lanyards,free pens,and goody bags full of promotional tees and mini golf balls on key chains and other knick-knacks golfers will love.Greg knows;he spent most ofthe night before stuffing the last of the bags after the shipment of Ping-sponsored golf towels finally arrived.Now he stands with his arms folded behind his back,his gaze roaming over the table one last time,assessing it as if the items before him were an offering to please the gods.

His attention is drawn to the nametags,which look jostled.A few of them are just slightly out of line with the others.The smallest detail bothers him—with so many people lodging at the Hermitage for the tournament,Greg knows just how much can go wrong over the course of one weekend,and he’s determined to make sure nothing happens that might make golfers not want to return or sponsors pull out of the event.Anything he can control,anything at all,takes priority,even if it’s as simple as straightening a line of nametags.

Leaning over the table,he runs his hands along the rows of plastic-coated tags to shimmy them into position.They’re in alphabetical order,the registered golfer’s last name in large print across the center of the tag,their first name or nickname of choice in small print above that.This being the South,there seems to be an extraordinary number of men named“Bubba”participating in this year’s tournament.Greg thinks it’s a stupid nickname,but as long as they paid their three hundred dollar entry fee like everyone else,he’ll call them whatever they want,no matter how dumb“Bubba,sir”may sound.

Now that the first row is fixed,he moves onto the next,and the next.Halfway through the rows,he notices a name he hasn’t seen in quite a while.JOHNS.From where he stands behind the table,the first name is hard to read—he’s looking at it upside down,and the nametag above it partially obscures the word.He sees the letter T,though,and to be honest,how many other Johns does he know in the world of golf?It’s a small sport of diehard fanatics like Greg himself.Each year,the same faces show up at the Hermitage for the tournament.Greg recognizes a lot of the names when he receives their entry forms.Some of the older guys he’s played with on the green,and can even cite their handicap if asked.

There’s only one Johns among the golfers in Virginia,and Greg remembers himwell.It’s good to see he’s still playing the game.I’ll have to keep an eye out for him.Make sure I say hi.Mr.Johns would get a chuckle when he saw that Greg still dragged around his mentor’s old golf bag full of clubs some ten years later.

Then the sliding glass doors leading into the lobby open,and the first busload of golfers descend on the Hermitage.Some make a beeline for the check-in counter;others veer in Greg’s direction to complete their registration before they even bother unloading their luggage.Hands reach for the nametags,scattering Greg’s arrangement as nimble fingers flip through looking for their own name.The goody bags start to disappear as if bymagic.Ducking beneath the table,Greg grabs another box of bags to restock the supply.Let the games begin.

****

A little before noon,Greg’s coworker Carla weaves through the crowd that loiters around the registration area.In her early thirties,she’s a few years older than Greg and pretty in an ephemeral sort of way.Her hair wisps back from her face in pale blonde feathers,and a smattering of barely-there freckles dot her cheeks and nose.Her skin looks almost translucent,and her eyes are the light blue shade of clear ice.She looks impossibly frail,as if the first strong wind could knock her off her feet.

But since he’s been working with her,Greg has learned not to misjudge Carla.She’s feisty,quick,and damn strong,to boot.One evening after work,as the two shared a few drinks at the lodge’s bar,she told him she’d been studying tae kwon dosince high school.Greg laughed,picturing this little dandelion of a woman playing at martial arts.“Stand up,”she said,indignant.“I’ll show you.”

To humor her,he pushed himself up from their table.“In case you haven’t noticed,honey,I’m a big guy.I’m pretty sure I’ll be able to hold my own—”

A petite foot struck his inner thigh.As he lowered his arms to block the kick,Carla’s open palm chopped at the sensitive spot between his shoulder and neck.The next thing Greg knew,he knelt on the floor in front of her,the beer in his stomach churning nervously,threatening to come back up.“Oh!I’m so sorry!”Carla’s hands smoothed over Greg’s back,seeking purchase to help him stand.“I didn’t hit you all that hard.”

Since then,Greg has been careful notto underestimate his coworker—he watches those tiny hands of hers at all times just in case she decides to throw him down again.At the moment,a glower simmers on her ethereal features and Greg hopes that isn’t directed at him.As she eases around behind the registration table,he turns from the guests picking over the goody bags and flashes her what he hopes looks like a sympathetic grin.“Uh-oh.I know that look.”

Her smile is just a sardonic twist of her lips.“The next old man who winks atme with his wife standing right thereand asks if I’ll meet him up after work for a drink or two at the bar is going down.I’m just saying.”

Greg laughs.“Old men like you,”he teases.“You should be flattered.”

“We’re not talking Sean Connery.”Carla glares at a couple of golfers lingering at the table and they quickly move along.“We’re talking wrinkly old geezers with pace makers and hearing aids.”

Because that describes most of the men in the Hermitage’s tournament,Greg can’t disagree.Still,she doesn’t have to put it so succinctly,particularly when their table is surrounded by golfers who fit her description.Greg doesn’t want to hear any complaints about the staff this weekend,especially those coworkers he considers friends.“Now honey,you’re just being mean.”

“Don’t‘Now,honey’me,”Carla warns.“Who seriously hooks up with a random person they meet working at a place like this?I mean,really?I’ve been in the hotel industry all my life and I’ve nevergotten with a guest.Ever.Hello?Three days and he’s gone.It’s bad enough that happens normally,but why bring it upon yourself in the first place?”

Greg chooses not to answer,but his lack of response doesn’t deter Carla.Waggling her hand over the nametags on the table,she flashes her wedding ring at the golfers gathered there and says,“I’m married,people.Back thehell off.”

“Ooo-kay.”Greg steps in front of her,his back turned to the guests.Leaning against the table,he absently picks at a nametag behind him as he stares Carla down.“Listen.They’re harmless.I’m guessing if you ever winked back and said,‘Hey,sounds great,I’ll meet you at eight,’the old man would have a heart attack right there at the front desk.We’d have to call the ambulance.”

A slight smirk curls the corners of Carla’s mouth,but she pouts harder to tamp it down.

Greg sees that half-attempt and grins.“And heaven help whoever decides to press his luck.I’ve seen you work your—”he chops the air with one hand—“magic.These guys just think they’re being cute,flirting with you.”