Page 1 of Unexpected Shot
CHAPTER 1
SHELBY
Oh fuck him…
Not literally, of course. Absolutely not. Not with someone else’s vagina. And definitely not this early in the morning.
Because it’s early. Five forty-three to be exact. The sun isn’t even up yet over the Nashville horizon. The air is too cold and the sky is too dark for anyone to be out at a driving range on a golf course. Which is why I’m here. I thought I could have peace. I thought I could get in an hour or so of swings by myself before my swing coach arrived for our daily session. I thought this time could just be me, my clubs, and the thermal mug of coffee I made. Zero interruptions or distractions as I hit ball after ball in an attempt to get my new swing feeling as natural as my old one did.
I should’ve knownhewas going to ruin it.
Beau Devereaux ruins everything.
I don’t say anything as I lift my clubs from the back of my golf cart and set them down as far away from Beau as I possibly can.
“Good morning to you, too,” I hear him mumble.
When I glance over to him, he’s not making eye contact, hisfull focus on the ball in front of him that he’s about to strike with his fifty-two degree wedge.
“You’re here early.” No sense in pleasantries. I don’t like him. He doesn’t like me. We haven’t since the dayithappened.
Frankly, we never really got along. We were frequent playing partners who squabbled like siblings. And for all of five seconds, I was a dumb teenager who thought she wanted to kiss him.
That version of Shelby was a dumb, dumb, girl.
That Shelby was also trying to prove herself every day on the golf course. Coming from a single-parent home where money was tight and resources to play an expensive game were tighter, I had to claw for everything I wanted. I worked my butt off. I taught myself everything, because unlike Beau and the other guys I played with, I couldn’t afford coaches or lessons. It was just me, my hand-me-down clubs, and a dream.
Then there was Beau. My best friend’s older brother. The one who always looked out for me—even when I didn’t want him too. Beau with his fancy clubs and his bright, fashionable, golf shirts. He was a natural on top of the lessons his parents got him. Was I jealous? Slightly. He was the one who had it all. And I was the one who had to prove why I belonged at the same table as him.
Things are different now. We’re both professional golfers. Our clubs are top of the line. The carts we each drove to the driving range are our own personalized ones, not ones we rented from the course. But what will never change when it comes to my relationship with Beau is that we will always, no matter what, hate each other.
Old habits die hard. And some don’t die at all.
“Joke’s on you. I’m here early every day. Part of the system.”
I roll my eyes as I fish my golf glove out of one of the pockets of my bag. “No you aren’t.”
“How would you know?”
He pauses talking and I hear him connect with another ball.Looks like it was a good shot. You know, from the corner of my eye that I’m barely looking out of.
“I’m here every morning at five thirty, because you don’t mess with routine, Shelby. I’m surprised you don’t hear my golf cart since I have to drive past your house to get here. Or can you not hear it because you sleep in a coffin?”
I’ve hated everything about having to move to Nashville. But the shit icing on the fuck-ass cake was learning that the house I bought, sight unseen, just happens to be next door to the man I hate.
I really want to find out who hired the Etsy witch to curse my life.
“Fuck you,” I say, a growl coming through in my tone as I turn to face him. “Also, quit lying to me. You aren’t here this early every day. There’s no way.”
I’m very confident in that fact despite having no proof, just vibes. Beau has never struck me as an early-bird-gets-the-worm kind of guy. More of an attention whore than a creature of habit. Every time his stupid face winds up on my screen, or featured in some magazine, it’s an image from some lavish party or upscale bar. If it’s a Saturday and he’s not at a golf tournament, he’s at some sort of concert, sporting event, or any place he can have his picture taken. That isn’t the kind of golfer who’s hitting balls before the sun comes up.
I don’t know why I’m staring at him, subconsciously daring him to spar with me before six a.m. I’m always in a bad mood after we have one of our verbal sparring sessions, so I don’t know why I’m choosing this course of violence before the coffee has set in.
Skipping my first cup of coffee before coming here was mistake number one.
Mistake number two is happening now as I forget to breathe.
I don’t know what it is about him right now that’s rendering me breathless. The way he sets down his club? The way his eyesburn into mine despite being twenty feet apart? The way he has no business looking so good this early in the morning?
