The Royal Dunes Golf Club smelled of money. It was a scent composed of freshly cut grass, ocean salt, and old leather.
Scarlett tugged at the hem of her uniform. The skirt was too short, the polo shirt too tight. She wore thick-rimmed glasses and a short brunette wig that scratched her neck.
"Champagne tray to the VIP tee," the floor manager barked, shoving a heavy silver platter into her hands. "And don't make eye contact."
Scarlett walked onto the grass. The sun was beating down, but the breeze off the Atlantic was cool. Every step sent a jolt of pain up her leg. Her ankle, twisted on the terrace and aggravated by the run from Vance's office, was throbbing in the cheap sneakers she had borrowed.
She saw them immediately.
Sebastian Vance was wearing plaid trousers that cost more than her car. He was laughing loudly, holding a driver, surrounded by a group of sycophants.
And leaning against a golf cart, looking utterly bored, was Harrison.
He was wearing all white. It should have looked ridiculous. On him, it looked like the uniform of a god. He was smoking a cigar, his eyes hidden behind aviator sunglasses.
Vance saw Harrison and immediately abandoned his game. "Harrison! Harry! Look at this swing, tell me what you think!"
Harrison didn't move. "I think you slice to the right, Sebastian. Consistently."
Scarlett took a deep breath. She walked straight toward them.
"Champagne, gentlemen?" she asked, pitching her voice lower.
Vance didn't even look at her face. He reached for a glass. "Thanks, sweethea-"
Scarlett pivoted. She pretended to trip on a sprinkler head.
The tray tipped. Five flutes of sticky, expensive champagne cascaded forward.
Not onto Vance. Onto Harrison.
The liquid splashed over his pristine white shoes and the hem of his trousers.
"You idiot!" Vance screamed. "Look what you did! Do you know who this is?"
Scarlett looked up. In the commotion, her glasses slipped down her nose.
Harrison slowly took off his sunglasses. He looked at his ruined shoes. Then he looked at Scarlett. His eyes widened imperceptibly. He recognized her instantly, wig or not.
"Let her go, Sebastian," Harrison said quietly, cutting off Vance's tirade.
"She did this on purpose! She's clumsy trash!"
"I said, enough." Harrison stepped forward. He looked down at Scarlett. "You have terrible aim. If you wanted to ruin my shoes, you could have just asked."
"I was aiming for him," Scarlett muttered, barely audible.
Harrison's lips twitched. "Well," he said, unbuttoning his glove. "Since you ruined my concentration, you can make it up to me." He pointed to his golf bag. "You're my caddie for the rest of the round. My caddie is... indisposed."
"What?" Vance shrieked. "Harry, you can't be serious. She's a waitress!"
"She's my caddie," Harrison corrected. He looked at Scarlett, a challenge in his eyes. "Unless the bag is too heavy?"
Scarlett looked at the heavy leather bag. Her ankle screamed in protest just standing there. But this was her chance to be near them, to hear something.
"I can handle it," she said.
She hefted the bag onto her shoulder. It weighed a ton. She gritted her teeth against the pain. "Lead the way, Mr. Sterling."
For the next two hours, it was torture. The bag dug into her shoulder. The uneven terrain was a nightmare for her swollen ankle. She was limping visibly by the fourth hole, sweat stinging her eyes under the wig.
Harrison noticed. She saw his eyes flick to her ankle, then to her face, tight with pain. He didn't offer to help. He didn't slow down. He just watched her struggle with a cold, detached curiosity.
On the 9th hole, he called her over. "7 iron."
She handed him the club. He stood close to her.
"You're limping," he stated flatly.
"I'm fine."
"You're stubborn. It's an annoying quality."
"It's a survival trait."
Harrison looked at her, his eyes dark behind the shades. Then he stepped up to the ball and swung.
Thwack.
The ball soared, arcing perfectly against the blue sky. It landed on the green and rolled, tracking straight toward the pin. It dropped into the cup.
"Hole in one!" Vance shouted, clapping politely but looking annoyed.
"A birdie, technically," Harrison murmured, handing the club back to Scarlett. "But effective."
Suddenly, the sky turned dark. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A summer storm was rolling in fast.
"Course is closed!" the marshal shouted. "Clear the greens!"
Vance grabbed his gear and ran for the clubhouse.
Harrison looked at Scarlett. She was swaying slightly, the weight of the bag threatening to topple her.
"Go to the staff locker room," he ordered. "Dry off. Wait there."
"Why?"
"Because Sebastian recognized your voice. He's slow, but he's not comatose. He'll corner you the second you're alone."
"I can handle him."
"Look at you," Harrison scoffed. "You can barely stand. Go. My driver will meet you at the service entrance."
