Just as I expected, her eyes narrow and she finally grabs a donut from the bag and shovels half of the giant thing into her mouth, crumbs and little crispy bits of bacon falling down onto the front of her shirt and into the open bag she’s still hugging as she chews.
“Mo for muh muffing muffing meem!” Birdie orders through a mouthful of donut, pointing the half-eaten one in her hand out toward the practice putting green, which leads me to believe she just said go to the fucking putting green.
Good thing I’m still fluent in Birdie donut speak.
Jogging back to the cart, I grab my golf bag from the back and throw the strap over my shoulder. Saluting her as I hustle by where she’s still standing on the sidewalk already finished with the first donut and halfway through her second, I go to the putting green while I still have sugar and bacon on my side and she’s not running away from me.CHAPTER 9Birdie
“This is my cup of tee.”“You gonna say anything other than give me orders, or just keep hoovering donuts into your mouth and let me do all the talking?” Palmer asks with humor in his voice, shooting a ten-foot putt and explaining the mechanics of what he’s doing just like he would during a lesson with a customer, like I’ve made him do repeatedly for the last hour.
I’ve made him take a hundred shots back and forth between the practice putting green and the first hole, having him pretend to teach me and making him repeat the same lessons over and over just to annoy him. Except, it’s not annoying him; it’s just annoying me. The longer I spend with him with both of us ignoring the giant elephant in the room, the more I want to scream and tear my hair out. Which is exactly why I’ve been avoiding him for three days.
“I’m trying to be professional at work and not bash your head in with a club,” I remind him as he walks over to the cup and retrieves his ball, bringing it back to where he stood a few feet from me and dropping it on the green by his feet.
I blindly reach into the cooler I slung over my shoulder and grab another donut, putting it in my mouth and holding it there when Palmer switches his club from one hand to the other to push the sleeves of his long-sleeved, fitted golf shirt up to his elbows until his muscular forearms are on display, the dough stuffed in my mouth thankfully muffling my whimper.
All that “talking” Palmer was referring to isn’t just about the fake-lessons I’ve been making him give me to “prove” he can be a decent golf pro, but about all the stupid Bradley questions he’s been asking in between each shot that I’ve been ignoring.
Not only have I inhaled a donut every time I’ve gotten distracted by inappropriate thoughts of Palmer, starting with looking up from the cooler in his arms when he made that comment about liking things dirty and I realized how close our faces were and I got preoccupied staring at his mouth. But I’ve been ignoring his Bradley questions by shoveling doughy maple and bacon sent straight from the heavens into my mouth as well.
Every time he asks me about Bradley, he calls him Backpack Brad, and he assumes I’m ignoring him and have so far inhaled five donuts because I always hated that nickname, and not because I don’t want to have to tell him the truth and look like a total loser. The fact that he hasn’t heard the Summersweet gossip by now is a freaking miracle. When you’re secretly in love with your best friend for half your life and he drops you and walks away, then suddenly shows up out of the blue after two years, it doesn’t matter if you aren’t in love with him anymore and you refuse to ever have those feelings about him again. You still want to show him that you have fucking thrived since he walked away. Screw you, buddy! Look how awesome my life is without you, even though I don’t want you now and you never wanted me. How you like me now? Mic drop!
“I can’t believe Backpack Brad has never brought you Dolphin Donuts. Especially with his hands being free at all times,” Palmer says, lining up to take another putt.
Goodbye, donut number six.
Palmer sinks another ten-foot putt, turning around to face me and lean on his putter while I chew aggressively.
“You know, since he never has to pick up a drink, the lucky bastard.”
“He took like two pictures with that backpack when he went hiking in Utah. Will you give it a rest?” I mutter around a mouthful of donut, finishing it off in record time, because what in the hell am I even doing defending that douchebag just because I don’t want Palmer to think I’m a loser? Pretty sure that is the exact definition of loser, for fuck’s sake. Also, Bradley took like seventeen pictures with that ridiculous backpack and tube in his mouth.