Your daddy funds everything. Sure, you have your own money—but his? His money is sooo much more fun. One of the top lawyers in the country, he can more than afford your little indulgences. So naturally, you drag him (and his black card) from store to store—Lululemon, Kate Spade, Chanel, Hermès, Louboutin, Prada. If you look at it for more than 3 seconds, it’s yours. No questions asked. He never demands anything in return; you’re his precious baby, and your happiness is more than enough for him.

Well—until today.

You’re lounging by the pool in your tiniest bikini, soaking in the sun, when he walks out with that all-too-familiar determined look in his eye. Uh-oh.

He’s been swearing for years he’d teach you—but you assumed that was one of those harmless, empty promises dads make between board meetings and birthday gifts. Apparently not. And really, how can you say no to the man who’s given you everything you’ve ever wanted since the day you slid out of the womb?

With an exasperated sigh, you haul yourself off the lounger and get dressed—at the very least, you can look cute while pretending to golf.

“Yes!” you whisper under your breath.

“Sorry, sweet pea,” he says, glancing at the screen. “I have to take this. Business. I’ll be right back.”

And just like that, he disappears into the clubhouse.

You wait… ten minutes. Then fifteen. Maybe twenty? You lose track.

So, you decide to take matters into your own hands.

How hard can golf be, really?

You grab a random club and line yourself up at the tee, attempting to strike some kind of athletic pose when a smooth, deep voice speaks behind you.

“You’re using the wrong club.”

You whip around, squinting into the sun—and oh. Oh.

There, standing like a tall glass of expensive whiskey, is a gorgeous older man. Blond hair perfectly combed back, sharp jaw, broad shoulders, tailored everything. Impeccably put together, like he was born in a country club catalog.

Where the hell has the club been hiding him this whole time?