Love on Par

A proper swing, my father used to preach, is all about self-restraint.

Keep your wrists firm. Keep your head down. Never over-rotate. Stick to the mechanics, and the ball will go where it is supposed to go. For twenty-six years, I applied that exact philosophy to my education, my career, and my engagement.

Then I met Ezra Vance on the ninth hole, and self-restraint evaporated into thin air.

The heat of the late-afternoon sun beat down over Whispering Pines, but it was nothing compared to the warmth radiating from the man standing just inches behind me, adjusting my grip on the six-iron.

'You're thinking too much, Emma,' Ezra whispered. His chest grazed my shoulder, sending a jagged spark of electricity straight down my spine. His hands were warm, calloused, and unhurried as his fingers wrapped over mine.

'I am not thinking,' I lied, staring intently at the dimpled white ball on the manicured grass. 'I am calculating trajectory.'

Ezra let out a low, wicked chuckle that vibrated right through me. 'Sweetheart, you calculate taxes. You feel golf. Relax your hips. Trust me.'

I looked over my shoulder. Big mistake. His amber eyes were fixed on my lips with an intensity that made the heavy diamond on my left hand feel suddenly like ice.

'If I relax any more, Ezra,' I murmured, 'I might do something reckless.'

His slow, devastating grin answered before his words did. 'Reckless is my specialty. Swing when you're ready.'