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He laughs.

Dammit.

He tugs my hand and leads me back to the couch where he sits and pulls me back onto his lap facing him. He spreads his thighs and drops my ass between them so I am low enough that he can tuck my shoulder under his chin tightly.

“I have been thinking this since we crossed that line, when you seduced me.”

I gasp in indignation.

“Oh, you know you did,” he chuckles, pressing a kiss to my head.

I sniffle.

He huffs and continues. “I am a bit stunned at how fast I fell.”

I jump in surprise and turn my face up to stare into his gorgeous face. He takes my face between his hands and presses a kiss to my lips, then tucks me back under his chin, arms around my shoulders.

“It’s barely even been a month since we started… being… boyfriends.” He still has trouble with that word. “Just over two months that I’ve known you. But even if we don’t last…”

I grumble, cuddling in tighter, and I can hear his smile.

“Even if we don’t,” he continues. “I won’t hide you. These two months have been the most glorious ever. The way you support me, work with me, hell, protect me…”

I nuzzle against his chest. I do really love being #GuardDogCaddie.

“I have fallen hard and fast for you, Geoff. I’m so fucking proud of you. I want to go out with you and make it clear that you are taken. Mine. Hold your hand, put my arm around you, open your fucking doors. I hated being in that fish place, and the waitress could touch you, and I couldn’t. I want to fucking touch you. I never have cared about that before, never had a reason to.”

He tilts my chin up to stare into my eyes.

“But I want to control the narrative. I don’t want some nosy reporter with a zoom lens to out us, like we are shameful. Like we are doing something wrong or bad.”

“God, I love you,” I breathe out.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “Really? You aren’t just saying it because I did?”

“Well, technically you haven’t said it, so I…”

He shuts me up with a kiss and I laugh against his lips.

“Shut up, I love you,” he murmurs.

25

BEN

The hotel bar in Belfast is too bright for how raw and tired I feel, all brushed steel and Tuesday-morning light coming in flat off the harbor. Marcus is already there when I arrive, laptop open, two coffees waiting, pot to the side. Always slightly overdressed, his TAG Heuer watch gleams on his wrist, white pinpoint cotton shirt rolled up over his forearms, and his suit jacket is on the back of his chair.

“Third,” he says, before I’ve even sat down. “Third at Royal Banks. Do you understand what that does?”

“I understand what my back feels like right now, if that counts for anything.”

He doesn’t laugh. Marcus doesn’t really do laughing when there are big numbers involved, and there are clearly big numbers involved right now.

“Titleman wants to talk. Actually talk, not the polite renewal call we had in March.” He turns the laptop slightly, more out of habit than because I need to see anything. “And I’ve had two calls this morning already about the watch deal. They were lukewarm in January. They are not lukewarm now.”

“It’s one tournament.”

“It’s a major.” He says it flat, like I’ve said something slightly stupid. “It’s the major. On a course everyone was already talking about. You were in the last groups Sunday, Ben, on television, in front of the exact people who write these checks.”