Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions Chapter 33

I wasn’t prepared for this.

Not the ridiculous décor or the aggressively cheerful older man at the counter who handed me a putter with a lightning bolt on the end and called me ‘kid’. Not even the faded murals of sea creatures painted along the back walls.

What I honestly wasn’t prepared for…was *her*. In jean shorts and a sundress top, her hair pinned up haphazardly, her eyes bright with amusement, and her lips constantly twitching like she can’t decide whether to tease me or kiss me.

She was already dangerous. Now she’s damn near lethal.

And then it happens.

We’re walking up to hole seven (a windmill monstrosity with mechanical sunflowers swaying side to side like drunks on the way home from the bar). Then she points at an angry-looking taxidermy squirrel in a tiny plastic rowboat floating in the surrounding moat.

“That one’s got your jawline,” she says, smirking. “Do you think he’s your long-lost cousin? Lord Squirrelington of the Glower Clan?”

I open my mouth to give her a sarcastic retort. But instead…I laugh. Out loud. An actual, honest-to-gods, involuntary fucking laugh.

The sound startles me and feels foreign in my throat—it’s sharp, strange, and *warm*.

Harley freezes, her eyes as wide as saucers. “Oh my God,” she whispers theatrically, “He *can* laugh. Someone call The Times.”

I glance away as my jaw locks up, and a sharp jolt of unease runs down my spine. What the hell was that? Laughter? In public? With *people* around? No. No, no, no.

This isn’t me. I don’t *laugh*. I don’t let down my guard, and certainly not like this. I don’t *feel* things unless they’re calculated and sharpened into weapons. And I certainly don’t give anyone the satisfaction of seeing me undone over a stuffed rodent with plastic googly eyes.

But Harley’s already moved on, bounding up to the next tee to take her shot like the moment didn’t just short-circuit my entire nervous system.

I watch her from behind as she lines up her putt, the bottom of her sundress top swaying in the light breeze, and her skin glowing in the mid-afternoon sunlight.

She doesn’t even realize what she’s doing to me.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

It only gets worse from there, or better, depending on which part of my brain you ask.

She misses her shot at the ninth hole, then turns to me with that raised eyebrow and sassy glint in her eye as she says, “I dare you to do better, Lord Glowerpants.”

She doesn’t think I will. And that’s where she miscalculates, monumentally.

I step in behind her, circle my arms slowly around her luscious hips, and slip both of my hands over hers on the putter’s grip.

She stiffens for half a second while half-protesting about my being in her aura.

But when my voice drops, and I say, “I’m helping. You’re clearly struggling,” she involuntarily leans back and into me, melding her body against mine as if it was always meant to be there.

And it’s over. It’s game, set, and match.

I swing our arms smoothly together, and the ball flies in a clean loop and at a perfect angle to land as a hole-in-one.

Her breath catches, and mine does too.

And I *feel* it—this hum between us. This pull that’s been there since the beginning, but now it’s less of a spark and more of a goddamn current.

Still facing forward in my arms, she softly says, “That was...”

“Effective?” I offer lightly, causing my lips to brush against the shell of her ear. The goosebumps that scatter down her neck awaken an animalistic urge in me that wants to do it again, but this time so that the rest of her skin pebbles all over her body.

She twists around to look at me, her eyes searching mine, and her lips parted slightly, almost invitingly.

But we’re too close. Way too close considering we’re in public, and I can’t devour her right here, right now.

I can hear her heart beating faster, see her pulse flutter at the base of her throat, and smell the heat blooming beneath her scent.

And I have to step back. Because if I don’t, I will lose whatever grip I still have left where she’s concerned.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

After the final hole and her glorious defeat, accompanied by my smug grin, we walk toward the small snack kiosk tucked into the corner of the course.

It’s painted turquoise and coral, with faded signs for cherry slushies and rainbow sprinkle cones. It’s absurd, and I should feel out of place. But when she glances up at me with that flushed face and tells me I’m not allowed to buy the whole kiosk only to ‘win the capitalism war’, I almost feel…at ease.

We get drinks—she orders a slushie with three kinds of syrup, and I choose bottled water to keep up appearances—and then we sit at a shaded picnic table off to the side.

Her knee brushes mine as we settle beside each other, but she doesn’t move it away, nor do I move mine.

She sips her drink as she watches the kids running around, their laughter high-pitched and chaotic. Then her voice goes quiet, and she says, “My dad used to bring me here.” Then, while still not looking at me, she adds, “On good days.”

I turn toward her slightly and let the moment linger before asking, “Good days?”

“Before everything went…sideways,” she murmurs. “Before I started working at the bookstore, before college, and before the world started pulling the rug from beneath me on a regular basis.”

She pauses, and then with a humorless chuckle, adds, “He used to cheat. He thought I didn’t notice, but I let him get away with it and never confronted him. Because I liked seeing him happy and smiling.”

Something inside my chest aches at her words. It’s not hunger, or even bloodlust. It’s something else entirely that’s new and foreign.

“I’m glad you brought me here,” I say, surprising both of us.

She looks at me at that, her brows raised and smirking slightly, asking, “Even though your image is ruined forever?”

I nod once, saying in a deadpan voice, “Completely and forever ruined. But it was worth it.”

She searches my face for a long moment, waiting for me to joke, brush it off, or dodge her scrutiny. But I don’t, not this time. Because she deserves some morsel of truth.

Even if I’m unsure if I’m ready to give her *all* my truths.