Mr. Blackbourne touched my elbow briefly, and it was enough to draw my attention away. I followed his lead. This time, he allowed me to walk a half step behind him, although his shoulders slightly hunched and his face was stern like he was uncomfortable. I couldn’t help it. I was completely out of my element. My eyes were everywhere, absorbing every detail of this excursion.
The foyer of the country club had an array of dark woods and hanging deer heads with great antlers. The décor drew the eyes up to gold and crystal chandeliers. There were large paintings on nearly every wall of Charleston plantations. One particularly big painting looked like an overhead view of the building we were in, along with the grounds.
There was another attendant in a formal suit standing at attention at an inner wide archway. His smile looked painted, forced.
Mr. Blackbourne addressed him. “Pardon me, it’s been a while since we’ve been here. Could you direct us to the golf shop? I’m afraid I dragged my girlfriend out without advising her where we were going. She’d like a change of clothes.”
Girlfriend?
I tore my eyes away from paintings to stare at Mr. Blackbourne. I was behind him so I couldn’t catch his expression, just the edge of his cheek and the black rim of his glasses.
I supposed it would make sense to say such a thing, and I couldn’t argue about it. The ruse was just terribly timed, and my thoughts instantly went to what North, or anyone else might think. I tried to ease my nerves as I told myself Mr. Blackbourne was trying to simplify the situation. It was probably the first believable thing he came up with.
The fact that it was the first thing he thought of still made my heart flutter.
“Of course, sir,” the young man said. He lifted his hand, pointing with two fingers down a hallway. “If you’ll head this way, you’ll find the golf shop to your left. There’s a small selection of appropriate attire.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Blackbourne said. He found my elbow again, tugging me next to him so I walked alongside.
“Shouldn’t we head straight to where Mr. Hendricks is?” I asked. “What if he meets with someone and we miss it?”
“I’m already listening,” he said. He tapped at his ear. It was the first time I noticed the ear bud, barely detectable unless you were looking for it. If I didn’t know him better, I may have assumed it to be a hearing aid of some kind.
“If he’s wired, why did we have to follow him?”
Mr. Blackbourne tapped a finger to his lips. He didn’t seem to mind me asking, but it wasn’t the right place. Who knows who could be listening?
I followed Mr. Blackbourne through another archway and found a posh golf shop. The displays were mostly filled with the latest golf clubs, tennis clubs, bags and accessories, but there were a number of racks of clothes. Sporty casual. There were some bathing suits, and I wondered if there was a pool within the country club.
I stood by Mr. Blackbourne, gazing at the racks, unsure of what to do.
Mr. Blackbourne sought out the racks of women’s clothes. He threaded his fingers through some of the selection and in under a minute, he pulled out a pink polo T-shirt dress. He handed it off to me, ripping the tag off the cuff in the process.
“Mr. Blackbourne...” I stammered.
“The changing room is there,” he said, pointing toward the door in the far wall. “Put this on.”
I glanced around, meeting eyes with a curious attendant at the register. I took the dress from Mr. Blackbourne, walking quickly to the changing room.
I took my skirt and blouse off quickly. I held up the shirt dress. I hadn’t worn anything like it before. It was a deep shade of pink, with a white sailboat logo above the breast. I shoved the dress over my head. The lower hem fell to a few inches above my knees; the fit was perfect.
How did he know my size?
I didn’t know what to do with my clothes. I collected them in a heap and then stopped. I dropped them again so I could fold them neatly. I’d have to carry them around somehow. My shoes were black and as I put them back on, I thought they didn’t really match with the dress.
I stepped out and it took me a full minute of scanning the gift shop before I spotted Mr. Blackbourne standing at the counter.
Wearing tan slacks, a maroon polo, and a brown sports coat.
I almost choked. The whole room seemed to still. I silently asked him to turn and focus on me, sure this was a trick.
And when he did, I almost died where I stood, my heart thundering back to life.
Casual Mr. Blackbourne was severe perfection. The way his soft brown hair was cropped close to his head, his high cheekbones and dark lashes against his fair skin, the angle of his jaw... he was still the polished diamond, but the softening of his attire stirred something deep inside me in a new way.
I adjusted my posture before I set off to meet him at the counter.
His eyebrow cocked as I approached him. He studied me in a harsh sweep. There was a twitch in his eyes as he focused on the shoes. He turned around and picked up a pair of brown wedge sandals that had been waiting on the counter next to him. He passed them over. “Wear these.”
That little twitch at seeing the mismatching shoes rattled me, embarrassed for not getting an immediate approval. I obeyed him, slipping on the shoes that fit my feet exactly.
He took my old clothes and shoes and stuffed them into a golf shop bag. “Pardon me,” he said to the attendant at the cash register. “Could I leave these with you until we’re finished?”
The attendant agreed, taking the bag behind the counter. Mr. Blackbourne tucked his fingers around my elbow and guided me back down the hallway. I hadn’t even seen him pay, but the attendant didn’t say a word. It felt like we were stealing the clothes.
He seemed to know where he was going, his face was very intent. When we were in the quiet of the hallway, I thought I could hear a voice, a whisper. I realized it must be from the earpiece he was wearing. He was listening to Mr. Hendricks.
We turned a corner, and I stopped short when I realized we were facing a very busy dining room. A hostess stood by a podium. Her eyes swept over our clothes. There was a slight nod to her head, as if this met some sort of standard. I realized the clothes were meant to gain access to this particular section of the country club. She turned to Mr. Blackbourne. “Do you have a reservation?”
“We actually prefer the balcony,” he said. He pointed to where there was a door, and several empty tables sat overlooking the driving range.
The hostess nodded and asked us to follow. My bones shook about as much as my heart did. I scanned the room, not spotting Mr. Hendricks.
When we were outside on the balcony, the hostess pointed to a table, but Mr. Blackbourne pointed to another, one angled oddly at the windows but still had a view of the range before us. Mr. Blackbourne put his hands on the back of one of the chairs, pulling it from the table. He eyeballed me.
I eased myself into the chair just as he adjusted it. I ended up facing the driving range. He sat next to me and had a view looking in the window of the dining room.
When the hostess left us, we were immediately waited upon. We were given water glasses and a basket of homemade dill crackers along with some sort of herb dip.
“We know what we want,” Mr. Blackbourne said, waving away the offered menus. “I’ll have the steakhouse and...” He turned to me nonchalantly. His hand found my knee, fingertips brushing along my skin until he grasped it gently and then squeezed as if trying to gather my full attention. “You prefer the cobb, don’t you, sweetie?”
My lips parted and my cheeks flushed with heat at both the sentiment and the way he smoothly behaved as if we’d been there a million times before. I held my breath and nodded. He smiled back at the waitress, who recited our order for his approval and disappeared behind the door to the dining room.
With him touching me, I didn’t have the sense to ask what cobb was.
When she was gone, I blew out a puff of air. I think it was finally settling that I was p
laying hooky with Mr. Blackbourne at a country club. I would never have pictured it in a million years.
Mr. Blackbourne released my knee and sat back. His eyes seemed to be on me, but his focus was elsewhere. I realized he was staring behind my head toward the windows. When his shoulders rolled back, I caught the outline of his frame from the polo shirt. The top was partially unbuttoned, and I got a glimpse of the dip at the base of his neck and a little further down. I had to force myself to shake off the desire to stare.
“Well?” he asked.
I tried staring at his eyes, but it was pointless, as he wasn’t focusing so it felt weird. “Pardon?” I asked.
“Are you going to tell me what happened this weekend or are you going to make me ask Mr. Lee?” His tone had changed. The previous sweet-talking and doting boyfriend voice was gone. This was Mr. Blackbourne, Academy-trained group leader.
My cheeks wouldn’t stop heating. “What happened?” I asked, feigning naiveté, which was pretty easy to do under the circumstances; so much had happened over the weekend that I wasn’t sure if he was referring to something specific. Instead of looking at him, I stared behind him, finding it easier to address the half-occupied driving range.