You didn’t fucking care about golf. Never did. But your parents thought dragging you to the country club for a “refined afternoon” would somehow fix your attitude. You rolled your eyes the whole ride there. Now they were off sipping gin with Rafe Cameron’s dad, and of course they left you with him.

Because apparently, they knew the Camerons. Apparently, you and Rafe would “get along just fine.”

Bullshit.

You held the club awkwardly, your stance stiff. The first swing? A complete disaster. The ball didn’t even move—it just rolled a few inches and died. You groaned and dropped your shoulders.

“Seriously?” you muttered, glaring at the damn ball like it betrayed you.

Behind you, you heard that laugh. That familiar, infuriating chuckle. You didn’t even need to turn around to know it was him.

“You’ve never held a golf club before?” Rafe asked, his voice smooth with amusement.

You glanced over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. “No shit.”

His smirk widened as he stepped closer, his presence looming. “Guess I’ll have to teach you, then.”

Before you could even react, his hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer. You tensed, but he didn’t give you a chance to back away. His fingers shifted your hips, guiding them into a more natural stance.

“Relax, princess,” he murmured, his breath warm against the side of your neck. “You’re way too stiff. Gotta be loose to make it work.”

His fingers lingered at your waist a second longer than necessary, and your stomach flipped in annoyance—or maybe something else. His body was practically pressed against your back now, and you were trying really fucking hard not to notice how close he was, how his chest brushed against you with every breath.

You clenched your jaw, trying to focus on the damn club. “What, you do this with all the girls you teach?” you shot back, your tone sharper than you meant it to be.

“Only the ones who look as cute as you when they’re pissed,” he said, his voice low, a teasing edge to it. “Now, let’s see that swing, princess.”