“I’m not doing very well, am I?” Jillian huffed in frustration and stared at the scenery. No wonder people paid to walk around the grounds all day. Too bad they had to keep whacking a little ball all over the place.

“Sometimes people have beginner’s luck and get hooked forever.” Ben walked up to her. Between the beauty of the course and the gorgeous man before her, how could she possibly concentrate on learning to play some stupid game with too many rules? “Other times it grows on you. You can’t get intimidated and give up.”

“Don’t you think I’d learn faster with a ball?”

“You don’t get a ball until I’m sure you can hit it. Once you understand the set-up and swing, you’ll be able to hit great shots. No one is a good golfer on the first day.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Jilly stared down at the club in her hands and imagined the clock face, exactly like he’d told her. Repeatedly. Left thumb at one o’clock, club in her fingers not her palm. Right hand over left, right thumb at eleven o’clock. The hand-over-hand position wouldn’t be blatantly sexual to anyone else. A normal person who could keep their mind on trying to learn, and not trying to imagine what Ben Cannon hid in his pants.

“Much better.” Ben’s deep voice rolled through her, her nerves vibrating from head to toes. He’d moved closer, but she didn’t trust herself to check where. “Stay relaxed, you’re tensing up again.”

Easier said than done when your fantasy man is within kissing distance. Taking a deep breath, Jillian moved her feet shoulder-width apart. She tried to soften her knees, keeping her body weight distributed evenly. She remembered every word he’d said all day, why couldn’t her body just obey?

“Don’t grip the club too tight. Stay relaxed.” All at once he was behind her, around her. Jillian froze the moment in her mind as his hands covered hers, making her oh so grateful she hadn’t dug the pink glove out of her bag. Jillian’s blood swirled, circling to where his fingers covered her hands. Her body reacted instinctively to his hold. Maybe if she—

“Stick your butt out, tilt your pelvis forward.”

If only his mind were in the gutter with hers. Jillian bit back a groan and did as she was told.

“Let your arms hang straight, relaxed, natural.”

She felt herself relaxing into him, but she didn’t care. It felt natural, and since that’s what he was going for, she didn’t want to disappoint him. His body tensed against hers, straightening and backing away. She froze in position. Had he read her mind?

“Let’s try that swing again. Start small, remember L to L.” Jillian cleared her head and tried to follow instruction as best she could.

“The shaft and your left arm make an L on the back swing, that’s it. And you make a backward L on the follow-through. Good.”

Her body relaxed into the momentum of the action, but Jilly dared not disengage her brain. She’d done that around him once, one too many times.

“Keep your feet planted, Jillian. Keep going, back and forth, until it feels natural. That’s it.”

She tried to concentrate on the motion, biting back the giggle threatening to erupt. Back and forth, until it feels natural. Did he know he sounded like a sex instruction manual?

“Back and forth. Feel your body react to the motion.”

She would love to do just that. Her body primed itself, reacting to his words. Jilly willed herself to focus on swinging the damned club, not picturing Ben Cannon wielding his.

“The ball simply gets in the way of the club. The motion is what’s important.”

Jilly thudded her club against the ground as hard as she could. “I need to hit something. Now.”

* * *

Grapefruit. Ben stepped closer to pull her scent deeper into his lungs. Such a clean, sweet smell. Unassuming.

“I never thought it would be this hard. I mean, the ball stays still, you hit it with a stick, you walk on some grass. I’ve been at this all morning and you still insist I’m not ready for a ball, I only get one stick, and we stood in the same place all morning.” Jillian let out an exasperated sigh and slid into the booth.

Ben shook his head and sat opposite her. His cheeks ached from smiling all morning. She charmed the smile right out of him. And laughing—when was the last time he had laughed until his eyes watered?

He felt nervous and at ease with her at the same time. Like a thirteen-year-old who just realized his best friend was a girl. He loved the way she kept glancing at him. Quick, so he couldn’t catch her, but he felt it. There was definitely something going on here.

Jillian’s manicured hand waved in front of his face. “Earth to Ben? I’m hopeless, aren’t I?”

“No, my mind drifted. You’ll catch on.”

“Maybe if we tried the other course?”

“The other course? You haven’t been on either course. That was the driving range.” He bit back the laughter. She was funny without even trying. “We’ll try the executive nine tomorrow.”

“Is that the one with the ocean in the background? I want to use that on Friday when the photographer comes. I don’t actually have to be able to play. We only have to make it look like it in the pictures.”

He wasn’t sure if she was joking until the low, soft laugh slipped from her throat. Shaking his head, he looked out the window. The eleventh hole in the distance, dropping into the ocean beyond, did look amazing in pictures. Jillian really had an eye for this sort of thing.

“There’s that one with the flag on a cliff that they have on the Bandon website. I could do it there.”

“That’s Angela’s.” His mind corded off his libido. This was business, and needed to remain that way. Jillian was writing a piece on golf and dating, he did not need it to be about instructors hitting on her. Golf pros had a bad enough reputation. “That’s the only hole Crosslands has with an ocean view. The rest of their course lies lower.”

“Are the courses competitive?”

“Not really.” He gave the stock Cannon Meadows reply. “We provide quality, they work on quantity. The customer base is totally different.”

“How so?”

“Everything we do is about playing the best round of golf. They have their fingers in a lot of pots. There is really no difference between Crosslands and a country club. They have a beauty salon, snack bar, day care, tennis instructors, full-service day spa. They have three different kinds of golf carts, but we require our players to walk, the way the pros do, to help them focus. We don’t waste our guest time with anything that won’t improve their game.”

“Except alcohol?” Jillian tilted her head in the direction of a group of rowdy retirees saddled up to the bar.

“It’s tradition.” Ben shrugged. He should have taken her to the dining room, not the grill. But the tablecloths and napkins seemed too much like a date. He didn’t want to confuse himself more than he already was.

A waitress appeared, setting down ice water and a breadbasket before scurrying away. The staff knew not to hover around business meetings.

“So the animosity between you and Angela is personal?”

“I’m sorry if we made you uncomfortable.” The very last thing he needed was for Jillian to turn her article into a piece on rivalry between the resorts.

“Not at all.” Jillian’s manicured fingertip traced the rim of her glass. “You were just a little vague about the relationship.”

“There isn’t one. Nothing that affects either resort in any way.” Ben shifted in his seat. He had to steer her away from this. “I’m curious as to why you chose Cannon Meadows over Crosslands.” Jillian would definitely be a better fit in a golf spa, as Ben thought of Crosslands Golf Resort. Though he was infinitely glad she’d chosen him. Them. Cannon Meadows.

“Lauren is one of the fifty best coaches in the nation.”

Ben watched her shoulders creep up her neck. “Still, you could’ve opted for something closer to home.”

Jillian rolled her shoulders back as a smile teased her mouth. “This is closer to home. I grew up in Toledo, by Newport. So I figured, why not let the magazine pick up the tab for a trip home?”

“Do you make it back very often?” She was from the Oregon coast? She became more perfect every minute he knew her. And more familiar. Like on the plane, he had the strangest sense he knew her from somewhere. But he couldn’t place where. And she hadn’t said anything. So maybe it was wishful thinking on his part.

“No. I haven’t been back since I left for New York after my dad died. There really isn’t a lot that goes on in Toledo. It’s a very small town. A phone call and you’re caught up for a month.”

Jillian swallowed hard. Caught up on more than you ever wanted to know. A town so small neighbors knew what you ate for dinner, when you did your laundry, who your father was sleeping with. They knew, but they never told you.

“The coast works like that. Except during the season.”

“Toledo is a drive-through for tourists. It stays pretty slow year round.”

“Lucky you. The townie-tourist battles are rough in the summer.”

Toledo kids were considered one step lower on the evolutionary ladder than even tourists. Sipping at the ice water, she tried to remind herself he was being polite, making conversation, not probing.

If only he were flirting. He was all business. Carefully steering the topic of conversation back to the golf course every time she’d tried to flirt with him.

What she wouldn’t give to sink her teeth into the crusty French bread barely hidden by a napkin in the breadbasket in the middle of the table. Smother her frustrations with yeasty goodness slathered in butter.

That’s attractive. Jilly sat up straighter. She was a professional. The Dating Diva. She could overcome her inherent lack of athletic ability. She had to. Failure was not an option.

“Do you still think of it like that? Townies versus tourists?”

“Nope. All money is the same. It’s the locals that keep us open year round. We have guys we have to drag off the course during lightning storms.”

“That must be gorgeous.” Jilly’s gaze drifted out the window as she imagined the sight. The sky darkening, waves crashing, rain falling, electricity reaching for the ground. There was nothing like a storm on the Oregon coast. The bluffs were designed to watch the ocean dance with the shore. A hypnotic dance Jilly remembered well.

“You miss it, don’t you?”

Jilly reluctantly pulled her gaze from the surf in the distance. “There’s nothing like it.” What was she saying? She hated Oregon and small towns where no one ever allowed you to change. “But New York is fabulous. Always something to do and see. There is so much culture and history. And career opportunity.”

“Is that why you left? For your job?”

“When I left I didn’t have a job.” Jillian smiled at the memory of how she took off for New York with two suitcases and a phone number for a college friend. It took everything in her savings account for the one-way ticket.

“Wow. That would terrify me.”

“Really?” It had terrified her too, but his admission surprised her. As had his quick apology for making fun of her shoes. Most men had too much bravado to admit weakness or say sorry.

“My brother says I have a planning problem. If it isn’t in the plan, then it’s a problem.”

“And what is in the plans for you, Ben Cannon?” She smiled her best smile and hung on every word.

Ben liked her more every minute she let him prattle on about his plans for Cannon Meadows. He tried to keep it brief, to the point, business-like. But she looked at him with genuine interest, didn’t she?

He told her about how his great-grandfather, a Scottish immigrant, designed the course’s wide fairways. The elder Cannon thought the course lay naturally in the land, waiting to be sculpted from the sea cliffs like Michelangelo and his marble.

When he caught himself monopolizing the conversation as their sandwiches arrived, he reasoned she might need course history for her article. And he so missed having someone to talk to who didn’t nod in agreement to every word he said because he signed their paycheck.

Jillian didn’t just nod and smile. She asked intelligent questions, laughed at his jokes, and her eyes never left him. He told her of the first time he could remember playing a round with his family. He’d been four, and true to the family motto, he’d carried his own bag.

“Do you ever play with your girlfriend?” Her downcast eyes studied the untouched potato chips on her plate with keen interest.

“What are you asking?” Was she flirting with him or merely a good reporter? He needed to know. Now. Because he could swear—

“Golf courses are supposed to be hot on the singles scene right now. Have they been lucky for you?”

The low hum of chatter buzzed in his ears. How did he answer that? Like a resort owner or like a man?

“Is that too personal?” Her eyelashes fluttered wildly, fanning the deep brown eyes.

“No, it’s not that. Cannon Meadows is known as a men’s course.”

“Really?” Her eyebrow arched, her eyes narrowed.

“I’m not trying to be sexist. Women tend to play at Crosslands. They have more par threes, fewer dunes. And they’re farther inland so the winds don’t mess with your hair as much.”

“Mess with your hair? So you have played with women.”

“Played, caddied, taught. I learned to walk on a golf course. But my mom always complained about how the wind whipping off the ocean mussed her hair. And made us smell like salt. She actually joked—” Ben caught himself before he said too much. Talk of the course was business, but confiding in her about his mother was not.

“What?” Jillian’s fingers reached for his across the table. He really should pull away. The very last thing his father needed was an article from the Dating Diva about how his son was on the make.

Ben pulled his hand out from under hers and slid out of the booth. “Let’s go try the first hole.”

* * *

So close. Jillian tried to flirt with him subtly, but he either didn’t get it, or didn’t want to. Compounding her frustration, he was fantastic. Believing her attraction to Ben was simply physical was one of the things keeping Jillian sane. Every time the man opened his mouth, he proved it was more than skin deep.

Jillian planted her feet and tried to work on what he’d told her. She took a deep breath, swung at the dimpled pink ball for the fourteenth time and missed it with a whoosh.

“God bless it!” Jillian stomped her foot and thumped the club against the grass.

“Hey, don’t do that!” Ben leapt forward, pulling the club from her grip, and used his shoe to fix the dent she’d made in the ground.

Jillian wilted inside. “I’m sorry. This is just so frustrating!”

“The first rule of golf is no whining.” Ben stepped closer, still keeping her club out of reach.

“That wasn’t on the list we went over earlier.” Though she couldn’t have paid much attention. She’d summarized low score good, high score bad, and figured that was good enough.

“It’s on my list.” He ticked off more rules on his fingers. “No whining. Look for your balls yourself. Carry your own bag. No humming or singing, ever.”

“You sound like a joy to play with. Sign me up.” Jilly reached for her club, but he pulled it away, holding it behind his back.

“Say you’re sorry.” His grin widened, his lips slightly parted. She should kiss him now, see if she could con him into a shag right there at the first tee and get this whole sordid mess over with.

“Are you saying you’re fun?” Jillian looked to either side of where Ben stood. The course was completely empty. “I haven’t seen fun. Where did it go?”

“It will be fun once you find your swing. You’re trying too hard. Let’s go back to the driving range and we’ll go at it another way.”

“Find my swing? It’s been lost all my life. I doubt there is use in sending out a search party now.” She grabbed for the club again, but he took a step back.

“We’ll find your game, Jillian.”

“Are you flirting with me, Cannon?” Please say yes.

“Of course not.” Ben held the club out, but Jilly didn’t grab for it.

“You sure? Teasing is a big part of flirting.”

“You’re the expert.” Ben’s face went blank, betraying nothing.

A ringing telephone tensed Jillian’s body. Not the techno music from her cell, or a cell phone at all. This was an old-school chime. Her gaze narrowed, watching as Ben pulled a tiny green phone from his pocket.

“When it beeped I could never tell when it was ringing.” He turned away from her as he spoke.

Jillian listened to Ben’s side of the conversation, trying to discern who he was talking to. But it was a bunch of yeses and whens, followed by an “I’ll be right there.”

Where was he going? Now? She’d almost got him to flirt back and he was running off? Jilly tossed her hair over her shoulder and decided she needed to move up this timetable. Waiting and wondering would kill her for sure.

“I need to check in back at the resort. I’m sorry, it shouldn’t take long. I’ll get Lauren to work with you.”

“I’m so unteachable you’re going to pawn me off on someone else?”

“Of course not.” Ben threaded her club back into the bag and slung it over his shoulder.

“I thought you had a rule about carrying your own bag?” Jilly’s head spun. Think of something, some reason to stay close to him. Something.

“You want to carry it?” Ben ran his fingers up and down the vinyl strap.

“No, but don’t think you’re through making this up to me.”

* * *

Thank goodness for exploding toads. He’d flirted with her, and she caught him. He hadn’t meant to, it just happened. He’d tried to keep his distance, but no man could resist The Dating Diva forever. Jillian Welch was twenty-seven different kinds of hot.

Staring at the reports from the biologists, he tried not to think of how the skirt she wore showed off her legs. She’d flirted too, hadn’t she? Did she want to be seduced?

“I’ve never seen anything like it. None of the samples we took show anything that would explain it.” Ben nodded in the direction of one of the two experts he’d hired to solve the toad problem.

Toad carcasses littered the water hazard on the eighth hole of the executive nine and no one had any ideas why, or how to make them stop. Great, just great. He couldn’t keep the course closed much longer without raising questions.

Blinking hard, Ben’s eyes glazed over the reports again. This was not good. Surely he could think of something. But no, all he could wrap his mind around was the long tanned legs a sassy reporter hadn’t even tried to hide beneath a very short skirt. And those glossy lips. Wet lips always made him think about—

“We don’t want to do that, do we, Ben?” Willy asked.

Ben’s eyebrows rose in alarm. Looking up, he noted the arms crossed over Willy’s chest. Even if Ben wanted to do whatever the biologists suggested, he’d have to do it himself. Obviously Willy didn’t want to.

“We’ll continue to test on the samples we have, but there could be an unknown virus. To be safe, you should drain the pond.” Ben noted biologist number two had acne scars that resembled Ursa Minor.

“I’m not draining the pond.” It wasn’t a landscaped feature—the hole had been designed around it. It wasn’t a bathtub you could just pull the plug on.

“You could populate the pond with a fish large enough to eat the toads so it wouldn’t become a problem,” the other so-called expert offered. Fish in the pond only meant cranes eating the fish. One problem replaced by another.

“Let us know if you find anything else.” Ben stood and offered his hand to each man in turn.

“That won’t work,” Willy huffed once the door closed. “You can’t get rid toads like that. Sturgeon could eat the eggs and tadpoles, but some would still sneak by ’em. And they serve a purpose, keeping the course free of mosquitoes. We can’t just get rid of them.”

“I’ll sit them down and explain they either stop popping, or they’ll be served with an eviction notice.” Ben grinned at the older man. Willy had been the greenskeeper all of Ben’s life. “Any ideas?”

“Yep. Are you gonna pay me what you paid them college boys?”

“Name your price, Pritchard.”

“Debbie’s gettin’ married next month.”

“Since when is Debbie old enough to get married?” Willy’s granddaughter hadn’t gotten her braces off the last time Ben had seen her.

“She’s eighteen, that’s all you have to be. The world didn’t stop spinning ’cause you were away at school. Anyway, I fix the problem and you let us have the bluff.”

People always requested to get married on the overlook of the eighth hole. It was spectacular, but the foot-traffic and set-up ruined the green. Ben only knew of two events ever allowed there; his parents’ wedding and his mother’s memorial service.

“You’re okay with fixing the green after something like that?” Of all the people to ask to abuse the course, Willy Pritchard was the last man he ever expected to.

“I solve the problems, junior,” Willy said with a sly smile. “You just sign off.”