Page 5 of Unexpected Shot
When I turn back around, I’m surprised to not see the normal disdain in his eyes he usually has for me. No, this look is almost…care? Which can’t be right. It’s very early, and I haven’t had much caffeine, but no way does Beau Devereaux care about me.
“Not that it’s any of your business, but this is purely professional. I needed a new swing and he’s known for finding out-of-the-box ways of helping golfers in situations like mine. Plus, what Chad did to me was years ago.”
“Ha!” Beau barks, loud enough that a few birds in the nearby trees find a new place to roost.
“Why is that funny?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because what Ididn’tdo, but you think I did, was also years ago. Within a week of what Chad actually did do. Yet, you haven’t forgiven me.”
Is he really trying to compare the two? What an unbelievable pompous asshole this man is.
“It’s absolutely different.” I don’t get a reply, only a pair of raised eyebrows from Beau. “You cheated in golf. He cheated on me with a cart girl.”
“A cheater is a cheater,” Beau says. “Isn’t that what you’ve always said?”
I hate it when my own words come back to bite me in the ass. Because yes, I’ve said it. Many times. I hate cheating. It’s unforgiveable. It’s why I didn’t have a mom growing up. It’s why I’m no longer in a relationship. And it’s what I’m conveniently overlooking because, unfortunately, Chadwick Ashcroft is one of the best swing coaches in the country, and I need my swing back.
“No words, huh?” Beau says, which only makes my face redder. “It’s just hilarious that you hate me because you think I cheated. Which again, I didn’t. Yet, you’ll work with Chad, who definitely cheated. On you, no less. I always thought I was good with word problems in math, but that’s just not adding up.”
He’s right. He knows it. I know it. Hell, even Chad knows it. But there’s one big difference—one of those situations broke my heart for a little bit. The other changed the course of my life.
“I don’t need this,” I say, shoving my iron back in my bag before storming away.
“This was fun!” Beau yells as I march back to my golf cart. “I’ll be here again tomorrow morning! Let’s make this a thing!”
I don’t respond. That’s what he wants. Instead I just stew in silence as I make the short drive back to my new home, cursing the entire way that this is now my fucking life.
CHAPTER 2
BEAU
“Well this is an unexpected surprise,” my sister Gabi says as I walk through the front door of our bakery, Sugar and Sweets. “I normally don’t see you here two days in a row.”
I place a kiss on her cheek before stepping back, quickly eyeing the options for the day. I make a mental note that she loaded up on scones. It’s like she knew I was coming. “Can’t a guy want to see his sister while also checking on the business he owns?”
It sounds like a good excuse. I’m definitely not about to tell her I’m here because her best friend—the SheDevil—ruined my morning, and as a result, my entire day has been shot to hell.
Gabi lifts an eyebrow at me. “He can. But he usually doesn’t on a Wednesday.”
She has me there. I have a pretty set schedule—that she knows of—when it comes to my visits at the bakery. To be honest, when you look at the big picture, my involvement is minimal compared to what she does every day.
On paper, she’s the general manager. In reality, she’s the GM, the head baker, the schedule maker, the order placer, and the face of the bakery. She knows every regular customer’s nameand order. She always has a smile on her face. This place is hers in every way, from the ever-changing menu to the white and blue gingham logo she designed and applied to the motif throughout.
Me? I’m just the guy who comes in every Tuesday and Friday, stays for an hour or so, pays the bills, and makes sure there’s nothing happening with the building. I mingle with a few customers, take selfies for anyone who’s a fan, then grab a few scones and head home.
I for sure have the better end of the deal. But my sister doesn’t think so. She’s living her dream getting to run the show, creating pastries in the bakery she brought to life from her own imagination. I’m just the cash man who uses his bakery owner status to steal treats when he’s having a shitty morning because of a certain tall, blonde, golfer who is also the bane of his existence.
Oh, and to host monthly “poker nights” that have nothing to do with poker. That’s the biggest advantage.
“I just needed to grab a few things,” I say, which isn’t a lie. I’ll pretend to grab an invoice, while also picking up two scones and a cinnamon roll.
Gabi gives me herdon’t bullshit a bullshitterlook. “Do any of those things have cream cheese drizzle on them?”
I give her a pretend shocked face as my eyes lock onto the cinnamon roll that looks like she just took it out of the oven. “Well look at that! One does!”
She shakes her head at me as she opens the glass case. “You know, you do own the place. You can just come in and say you want things. There doesn’t have to be an elaborate story.”
“What fun is that?” I say, bumping her out of the way so I can snag a maple pecan scone. And a lemon blueberry. Fuck it, and a chai one too. “Plus, you know I don’t like to throw around that I own a bakery. Whether it be with you or anyone else.”
