Chapter 1: The Tee Off
The house was too quiet.
I sat at the kitchen island, scrolling through emails on my phone while the coffee maker gurgled in the background, filling the still air with its bitter perfume. Ashley was in the living room, half-heartedly flipping through a magazine she’d already read three times this week. The couch cushions were indented where she’d been sitting for the last hour, her legs tucked under her like she was trying to disappear into herself.
I knew that look. The *bored* look.
The one that had been creeping into her eyes like a slow-moving storm cloud over the last few months. It wasn’t just the magazine—it was everything. The way she’d stopped humming in the shower. The way she’d stopped laughing at my stupid jokes. The way she’d started staring out the window like she was waiting for something to happen, anything, even if it was just the mailman dropping off another bill.
I took a sip of my coffee, the heat of it grounding me. The kitchen was spotless, the way she liked it—no crumbs on the counter, no dishes left in the sink. The house was perfect. Too perfect.
That was the problem.
Ashley finally noticed me watching her. She looked up from the glossy pages, her dark brown hair falling over one shoulder as she tucked a loose strand behind her ear. Her B cups rose and fell with a heavy sigh, like she’d been holding her breath for hours.
“What?” she asked, her voice flat.
I swirled my coffee, watching the steam curl into the air. “Nothing.”
I shrugged, keeping my tone light. “Just thinking.”
She rolled her eyes, that classic Ashley eye-roll that had always made me smile, even when we were teens sneaking beers in her parents’ basement. “You’re thinking *something*. You always are.”
I leaned back in my chair, letting the legs of it scrape against the tile just enough to make my point.
“I’m thinking you’re bored.”
She didn’t deny it. Just exhaled through her nose and flipped another page, though I knew she wasn’t reading. “So?”
“So,” I said, setting my mug down with a deliberate *clink*, “maybe we should do something about it.” I watched her carefully, gauging the flicker of interest in her eyes. It was there, just beneath the surface—like a spark under kindling.
Ashley finally looked up, her fingers tapping the magazine’s edge. “Like what?”
I smirked. “You’ve been home too long. Stale. Same four walls, same routines. You need to get out.”
She crossed her arms, the gesture half-defensive, half-intrigued. “And what, just *go* somewhere? I mean, I could volunteer somewhere. Or take a class—”
“No,” I cut in, shaking my head. “I’m not talking about baking cookies for the church bake sale.
I’m talking about something that gets your blood moving. Something that makes you feel alive again.”
Ashley tilted her head, studying me like she was trying to decipher a puzzle. “Like what?”
I leaned forward, resting my forearms on the island, close enough to see the faint freckles dusting her nose. “Ever thought about working somewhere you actually have to talk to people?”
She scoffed. “Like what, a retail job? I’d hate that.”
“Not retail.” I grinned. “Cart girl at the golf course.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “You mean, the girls who drive around with the little motorized carts?”
I nodded. “Yeah. They make bank off tips.
Way more than you’d think. Hot sun, easy money, and you’d get to dress up a little—wear one of those little skirts and polos. You’d look damn good in it, too.”
Ashley blinked, processing the suggestion like it was a foreign language. Then she laughed—a sharp, disbelieving sound that echoed off the kitchen’s marble counters. “Oh my God, Justin. You’re serious?”
“Dead serious,” I said, not flinching. “I checked. They’re always looking for girls. And you’d make what, a couple hundred bucks in a weekend?
Maybe three hundred if the members are feeling generous?”
I wasn’t even close.
Her skepticism rolled off her in waves, but I could see the glimmer of curiosity in her eyes—the same look she got when she considered buying a dress she didn’t need or ordering dessert when we were already splitting the bill.
I smirked. “Try six hundred. Maybe more, depending on how creative you get with the rules.”
That got her attention. Her fingers stilled on the magazine. She set it down with a *thud*.
“Creative how?”
I shrugged, deliberately casual. “Depends on the client. Some guys tip better if you bend the rules a little. Ask about their swing. Compliment their form.
Laugh at their jokes—even the terrible ones."
Ashley’s lips curled into a slow, amused smile as she picked up on the implication. "So you’re saying I should flirt with old men for money?"
I leaned back, grinning. "Not just old men. Rich ones. Out of shape ones. The ones who forget they’re married by the third hole." I watched as the idea settled over her like warm sunlight. "You’d be good at it too. You’ve always had a way with people." She rolled her shoulders back, testing the thought. "And what if someone gets *too* into it?"
I rubbed my chin, pretending to consider it.
"Then you set your own boundaries.
Part of the job is knowing when to smile and when to walk away."
She exhaled, chewing her lip. "It sounds... kind of fun, actually."
"Fun and profitable," I said smoothly. "And I bet you’ll figure out ways to make it even more interesting."
Her eyes flickered with something—excitement, maybe, or the thrill of breaking a rule—as she glanced toward the hallway where her work clothes hung in the closet.
I took a sip of coffee, letting the silence stretch just enough to make her wonder.
She finally spoke, her voice lighter than before. "You’re really suggesting this?"
I nodded. "I am.
And I think you’ll like it." I reached for my phone and pulled up the golf course’s website, scrolling to the "Employment" page. "They’re hiring immediately. I already texted the manager—said a friend might stop by today. You can go in, fill out an app, and if they’re smart, they’ll hire you on the spot."
Ashley stood up, her bare feet padding against the hardwood floor as she moved toward me. She stopped at the island, her fingers trailing along the edge like she was testing the weight of the idea in her mind. "So what?
I just walk in there, say I want the job, and suddenly I’m driving golf carts and flirting with rich guys for tips?"
I swirled my coffee, watching the steam rise. "Not *just* flirting. Making them feel good about themselves. A little charm, a little mystery—maybe even a little tease if the vibe is right."
Ashley crossed her arms, her fingers drumming against her biceps. "And if they try something?"
I leaned back in my chair, keeping my tone easy. "Then you say no. You’re in charge. They’re paying *you*, remember?"
She exhaled through her nose, considering it. "I don’t know.
It just feels..." she trailed off, chewing her lower lip.
"Risky?" I supplied, raising an eyebrow. "Scary?"
Ashley shot me a side glance. "Yeah, actually."
I pushed my chair back slightly, giving her space to move if she wanted it. But she didn’t. She stayed right where she was, her bare arms crossed tightly over her chest, her skin already warming in the morning light that poured through the kitchen windows.
"It’s not risky if you stay in control," I said, keeping my voice calm and even. "You tell them what you’re comfortable with. You set the pace." I leaned back, resting my forearms on the kitchen island, close enough to watch the way her neck flushed when she got thinking. "And let’s be real—you’ve never been afraid of pushing limits."
Ashley let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking her head. "That’s different. That was us. You and me.
This…" She gestured vaguely toward the front door, as if the golf course was already visible through the walls. "This is a whole other ballgame."
I shrugged, unfazed. "Maybe.
Maybe not." I kept my voice even, unhurried, as if we were discussing nothing more consequential than what to order for dinner. "But isn’t that what makes it interesting?"
Ashley exhaled through her nose, her fingers tapping rapidly against her forearm. "You’re really excited about this. You want me to be naughty with them?"
Ashley asked, her eyes flickering with amusement.
"Is that what this is all about?"
I leaned back in my chair, the old wood creaking under my weight. The coffee had gone cold, but I didn’t care. The conversation was worth savoring.
The weight of it hung between us, sweet and charged, like the stillness in the room before a storm breaks.
I met Ashley’s gaze with a slow, deliberate smile, letting her see the challenge in my eyes. "Maybe," I said, drawing out the word like honey from a spoon. "Depends on how daring *you* want to be."
Her lips parted, just slightly, like she was about to laugh or scoff or both. She just studied me, her eyes tracing the line of my jaw, the shape of my shoulders under my fitted shirt. The morning light carved shadows across her face, softening the sharp angles of her cheekbones.
"Oh my god you want me to actually *do* something,” she said, her voice dropping into something lower, more deliberate. "Not just flirt for tips, but—” she gestured vaguely, "...you know.”
I swirled the last sip of cold coffee, watching how her fingers curled into loose fists along her thighs.
“Mmm,” I murmured. “I want you to *earn* it."
Ashley exhaled through her nose, a laugh bubbling up that she immediately swallowed down.
"That's it then? You're actually sending me to the golf course to... to *work* the clients?"
"Work the course," I corrected, grinning. "The clients are just the scenery. But yeah, that’s the idea.
You get out of this house, you make some cash, and you remind yourself that you’re still the same woman who once talked her way out of a speeding ticket by batting her eyelashes at a cop twice her age. The one who convinced me to sneak into that rooftop pool in college by promising we wouldn’t get caught. The one who didn't seem to care if someone did see us fucking in it.
I've always loved how your imagination runs ahead of your common sense when you're feeling alive.
"You've pictured me doing more than flirting haven't you?" Ashley asked, her voice barely above a whisper as she took a small step closer to me, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor.
I didn't answer immediately. Instead, I reached for my phone and set it on the island between us, the screen still glowing with the golf course's employment page. The image of a young woman in a polo shirt and skirt flashed across the display—her hair styled neatly, her posture relaxed but professional. It wasn't Ashley, but the idea was there.
Ashley followed my gaze and then looked back at me, her dark eyes searching mine for the truth I hadn't yet voiced.
"Tell me," she said, her voice firmer now. Not demanding, but insistent.
Like she already knew the answer but wanted to hear it anyway.
Like she was daring me to admit it aloud.
Like she wanted to hear the words spill from my lips so there was no mistaking the game we were playing.
I set my phone down slowly, the screen dimming as it timed out. The kitchen hummed with quiet—no music, no television, just the faint sound of the refrigerator cycling on and off in the background.
“Maybe,” I said, stretching the word out just enough to let her feel the weight of it.
"I'll take the job, but I'm not going to be a slut for them." Ashley said, her chin lifting slightly, defiance flashing in her eyes.
I raised an eyebrow, amused by her quick refusal to confess her own desires. "Who said anything about being a slut? I said you'd have to be creative. That's different."
Ashley crossed her arms, her fingers tapping rapidly against her bicep as she considered me. "Fine. But I'm drawing the line at anything happening in the cart. No one's going to catch me doing anything stupid like that."
I chuckled, shaking my head. "Relax. I'm not suggesting you fuck anyone in the middle of the fairway.
But I'm hoping you'll be open to the idea of giving them something more than just a ride and a smile."
Ashley's breath hitched just slightly, her fingers tightening around her own arms. She tried to give a frown like she was mad. "We'll see, but I doubt it."