Early the next morning, Olivia heads off for a spa day with the Bride Tribe, and Larry invites me to play eighteen holes with the rest of the guys. Golf’s not really my sport—I’m not much for the polo-shirt-wearing, country-club life—but I’m always happy to stroll around outside drinking beers for a couple of hours, so I agree to tag along. Besides, I need to get my mind off this PowerBar pitch—and off the thought of Olivia in that tiny black dress last night.

Because damn, I wanted to get her out of it.

I figure the fresh air will clear my head, but by the seventh hole, I’m starting to regret my decision. “Might want to take it easy over there, buddy,” Tristan says, slapping my back too hard for it to be strictly amicable. The guy’s been on my jock all morning, talking trash and offering me plenty of “friendly” advice. “We’re not at Giants Stadium anymore, am I right?”

“Uh, yeah dude,” I say. What the fuck does that even mean? “Thanks for the tip.”

“Any time, man. I mean, we’re practically family.” He takes a long swig of his beer. “So how long have you and Olivia been together?” he asks.

And there it is. Fuck, I knew this guy had a hard-on for Olivia the second I saw him drooling all over her in the coffee shop. “Not too long,” I tell him easily. “We’re getting to know each other, taking it slow. Going great, though.”

“Yeah, sure thing.” Tristan nods like a bobblehead. “You ever need any advice, you let me know. When you’ve known Olivia as long as I have, you’re bound to pick up a few tricks.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, wary. “You guys go way back?”

“To college,” he says. “She was so shy and quiet then, though. I had no idea she was going to turn into such a fucking fox.” Then he grins. “Uh, no offense.”

“None taken,” I say blandly, reminding myself that I don’t actually want to get thrown off this fancy golf course for punting this dude across the green. Olivia and I aren’t even really together. Which doesn’t make it any less obnoxious that this guy is trying to get me to join in a dick-measuring contest like we’re in junior high.

The worst part is how it’s kind of working.

I’m not the jealous type, normally. Especially over a woman who’s made it pretty clear she isn’t interested in me that way. I made my move up against that wall, and she neatly side-stepped it without even ruffling her outfit. Cool, calm, and collected as ever. But it’s also true, what I told her the other night. I didn’t grow up around this kind of money. The opposite, in fact. Back in high school I used to wake up at six a.m. to bag groceries at the supermarket, then swing back to work the late shift after football practice. And that was before I even started my homework.

It’s not like I feel sorry for myself or ashamed of how I grew up or anything like that—I think it’s good for a kid to learn a good work ethic early on, and knowing the value of a dollar definitely helped me when I got drafted in the first round back in college and things got really crazy. But it means that I’m never quite comfortable around dudes like Tristan. I can’t get over the suspicion that no matter how much they might kiss my ass because I can throw a football, they still think I’m a dumb jock from the sticks.

“Anyway,” Tristan says now, leaning jauntily on his golf club like it’s a silver-tipped cane, “the point is, if she’s happy, I’m happy. But you break her heart”—he breaks off with a corny I’m watching you gesture—“football star or not, I’ll come after you.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” I say, trying to keep a straight face. Look, the guy’s a total douche, but I can’t even blame him for wanting to try his luck with Olivia. The truth is, I haven’t been able to get her out of my head. I don’t know what happened—it’s like she burrowed her way under my skin somehow, her hair and her voice and the smell of her, and that body . . .

When I met her, I thought she was an ice queen.

Now all I want is to make her melt.

None of that actually matters, though. After the other night it’s pretty obvious she wants to keep things professional, and I‘m not going to go panting where I’m not wanted, so professional is exactly what I’m going to do.

Even if it kills me.

I head over to grab a fresh beer out of the cooler, then offer one to Larry, who is sitting in a golf cart, happily munching on a hot dog. “Don’t tell Vanessa,” he says, waving it guiltily. “She’s got me on the what do you call it, the paleo diet.”

I grin. “Are hot dogs not paleo?”

“Apparently not,” Larry says sadly, then shrugs and finishes the rest of it in one bite. “So,” he says once he’s swallowed, popping the top on the beer. “You and my daughter.”

“Yes sir,” I say, unsurprised by the sudden segue. Olivia prepared me for this conversation—and, let’s be real, many others—complete with a bulleted list of approved talking points.

“Your intentions are honorable?”

“Completely,” I assure him, feeling a twinge of guilt even as I say the word. It’s one thing to keep up the charade around Vanessa, who’s dumb as a post, or Tristan, who’s like a dopey minor character in a Judd Apatow movie. But there’s something that feels a little shitty about deceiving Olivia’s actual dad.

“I don’t doubt it,” Larry says, settling back in the golf cart. “Olivia wouldn’t keep you around if they weren’t. She’s got a real talent for reading people.”

“She’s incredible,” I agree. “The way she built up that business from the ground up? I’ve got a lot to learn from her.” That last part wasn’t actually on the Olivia-vetted list of responses, but it’s not like it isn’t true.

Larry smiles. “We all do,” he admits. “And I’m glad she’s found someone who appreciates her. She deserves that, after everything she went through.”

I’m not exactly sure what he means by that, but I nod anyway, and after a moment Larry goes on. “She had it hard, after her mother died,” he explains. “Before that, even. Olivia was the one who took care of Junie after the cancer diagnosis—sat with her through her chemo and coordinated with the hospice workers. She had to grow up fast, and a lot of that was my fault. I couldn’t handle what was happening. So I checked out.” He rubs at the back of his neck for a moment, the regret clear on his face. “And then after the funeral, when I was too depressed to work, she posed as my assistant and single-handedly kept the business afloat.” Larry shakes his head. “The girl was sixteen. She should have been out with her friends, not negotiating business mergers.”

“Wow,” I say quietly. Beyond the fact that her mom died when she was a teenager, I had no idea about any of this. I don’t like to think of Olivia having to go through all that by herself. I wish I had known her back then, even if it was just to make her laugh with dumbass pirate jokes. “I bet she was good at it, though.”

“Oh, she was the best,” Larry says with a smile. “But even so, it takes a toll on a kid.”

“I bet.” Suddenly her take-charge—OK, anal-retentive—attitude makes a lot more sense. I’d be a stickler for details, too, if I’d never been able to count on anyone else taking care of them. “I didn’t realize.”

“Well, how could you?” Larry says with a shrug. “She doesn’t like to talk about it. She doesn’t like to talk about herself at all, if you’ll notice.”

“That’s true,” I say, though I hadn’t put the pieces together until now.

How many times has Olivia redirected the conversation when things got too personal? How many times has she subtly shifted the focus away from herself? Hell, her whole entire business model revolves around other people’s wants and needs.

“In any event,” Larry says finally, “it gives this old coot a measure of peace to know that Olivia’s got somebody like you in her corner.” He holds up his beer for a toast.

“Yes sir,” I say as we clink, lying like a cheap rug. “I feel really lucky to be the one.”

The girls join us just as we’re finishing up the round. They look rested and refreshed—with the exception of Olivia, who looks pale and drawn despite the heat. “Hey,” I say, holding my hand out for hers and pressing a kiss against her temple. “How’d it go?”

“Oh, great,” she says before making a face and lowering her voice. “Somehow Vanessa and the Bride Tribe accidentally forgot me in the sensory deprivation tank for an hour and a half.”

“Holy shit.” I try not to laugh and mostly fail. “Are you serious?”

“Yep,” Olivia says, sitting down in the seat of the golf cart and taking the bottle of water I offer her. “It was like that George Clooney space movie. I thought I was just going to spend the rest of eternity floating in nothingness.” She twists the cap off gratefully, taking a long sip. “Which, now that I stop and think about it, would probably be better than spending the rest of the weekend with these people.”

“Come here,” I say, pulling her to her feet and wrapping her in a bear hug before I can talk myself out of it. Fuck, what was I just telling myself about keeping things professional? “I’m sorry that happened.”

“You’re sweaty,” she mutters, but she also hugs me back, letting herself sink against me for a moment. Her hair tickles my nose with the smell of girly spa products, and damn, she feels like she was made to fit in my arms.

We stand like that until I can feel my dick starting to spring to attention. “Come on,” I say, releasing her abruptly and clearing my throat. “You wanna go hit a few balls, blow off some steam?”

Olivia looks skeptical. “I mean, I’m not exactly a sports girl,” she says.

“You?” I make an exaggerated face of shock. “You’re kidding me.”

“Hilarious.” Olivia rolls her eyes. “Have it your way, QB. Let’s go.”

We say our goodbyes to the others and head out onto the abandoned green. It’s quiet out here now, just the idle buzz of the occasional mosquito and the faint laughter of some middle-aged lady golfers a few holes away.

“You know, just for the record,” Olivia announces out of nowhere, “I’m not always like this.”

That stops me. “Like what?” I ask.

She makes a face like I’m being thick on purpose. “You know like what,” she says. “Like, exactly who Vanessa and her friends think I am. Some silly, disaster-prone, Type-A harpy who can’t just go with the flow and be happy for anyone else.”

“Seriously?” I blink, surprised. “I don’t think you’re any of those things.”

Olivia’s eyes narrow, like she’s looking for the trick. “You don’t?”

“No,” I say honestly. “I think you’re smart, and generous, and funny as all hell. And I think your new stepmother is . . .” I trail off, trying to figure out how to put it delicately.

“A tacky bitch,” Olivia supplies. Then she claps a hand over her mouth. “See?” she says. “Disgraceful.” She lets out a heavy sigh, then nods at the golf clubs. “All right, sports star,” she says—redirecting the conversation away from herself one more time, I can’t help but notice. “Hand me one of those and let’s get this over with.”

I pull a driver out of the bag and hand it over. “This is for a guy my height,” I warn her, “so it’s going to be too big for you.”

“Oh, right, because the size of the club is what’s going to make all the difference here.” She takes a couple of practice swings, hitting the grass hard enough to make giant divots. “Whoops,” she says with a grimace, dirt spraying up over her immaculate white sneakers.

I raise my eyebrows. “You want some pointers over there, Tiger Woods?”

“No,” Olivia says, then immediately proceeds to take another giant chunk out of the perfectly manicured green. Jesus Christ, at this rate they’re gong to kick us off the course for destruction of private property. “OK,” she admits, wincing a little. “Maybe a few.”

I smile, I can’t help it. “Make a triangle with your arms,” I instruct. “Hands overlapped. Back straight, and then bend your knees.”

“Like this?” she asks—wriggling around trying to get her stance right, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ears. She looks criminally adorable, dressed in a chambray button-down and white denim shorts that expose miles of toned, creamy thigh. I want to sling her over my shoulder and haul her off to bed like a fucking caveman, then park myself between her legs until she screams in pleasure.

“Um.” I clear my throat. “I mean, a little less like you’re trying to twerk, but yes, close.”

Olivia’s face snaps up. “I’m not—” she starts, then breaks off, her mouth falling open into a perfectly outraged O.

“I’m kidding,” I say with a grin, ignoring the flash of her wet pink tongue. “Kind of. Come here.”

I put my arms around her from behind, gently positioning her hands on the golf club and telling myself I’m not paying any attention to her curvy waist or the smell of her neck or the way her body fits perfectly against mine.

Olivia glances over her shoulder, smirking like she’s onto me. “Is this really necessary?” she asks, but it’s not like she’s making any effort to move.

“Uh, yep,” I say, guiding her arms back carefully. I can’t tell if she’s pushing her ass against me on purpose or not. Dear God, I hope so. “Just like that, see? And then follow through with your whole body.”

She actually hits more ball than grass this time, surprisingly. It rolls to a slow stop a couple of yards from the hole. “There you go,” I tell her. “See? You’re a natural.”

Olivia laughs. “Sure,” she says. “Go ahead and sign me up for the PGA tour.” She looks at me over her shoulder again, raising her eyebrows mischievously. Her cheeks are pink and sun-kissed—she’s got her color back, that’s for sure. “Are you impressed that I knew what that was?”

“Totally,” I promise. “You’re an impressive woman.”

“Well, that’s a fact.” Olivia winks. “OK, here, let me try again.” She lines up and swings, following through with her entire weight just like I showed her—only instead of rolling neatly into the cup, the ball sails far and wide, disappearing into the great wide yonder.

A moment later a noisy crash echoes out across the green.

For a beat Olivia and I just stare at each other, horrified. Then, she giggles. “I told you I wasn’t a sports person,” she announces with a grin. “Let’s go get a drink.”