Chapter Ten

A few days after the party, Tinka was back on the putting green for a golf lesson with Dylan.

“May I?” Dylan asked.

Tinka rolled her eyes. “Fine.”

Dylan stepped behind her, pressed his chest against her back, wrapped his arms around her torso, and placed his hands on top of hers.

“I really don’t think you need to be that close.” She squirmed away.

He backed off slightly, placed the putter in her hand, and wrapped her fingers around the handle in the correct position. “This grip will change your life.”

“Oh, I’m sure.”

She glanced back at the pro shop. Her dad was inside working on his laptop, missing Dylan’s whole display, not that he’d be bothered by it. He was rooting for Tinka and Dylan to pair up, after all.

“I’ve seen you help my dad.” Tinka lined up her putt all by herself. “Somehow you manage to keep a six-inch-plus buffer zone between your groin and his ass.”

Dylan laughed. “That obvious?”

“Very, very obvious.” Tinka gave him the stink eye. “So, stop. Thanks.”

He held up his hands and backed even farther away, giving Tinka plenty of space.

With a deep breath, Tinka swung the putter like a pendulum and sank the putt from twenty feet away.

“Nice.” Dylan nodded like he was surveying his own work of art.

“I was using my old grip there, by the way.” Tinka tucked the putter under her arm and adjusted the glove on her left hand.

He grinned. “I know. I only taught you the new grip so you’d have more confidence in your old one.” He glanced back at the pro shop. “Your dad doesn’t realize how much you hate this, does he?” He waved his hand to indicate the golf course.

She glowered at him.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I know the whole story. I was talking to your friend Jane at your little party the other night. ‘Tinka hates golf. She wants to quit, but doesn’t know how to tell her dad. She wants to be a baker.’” Dylan raised an eyebrow. “A baker?”

“And?” she asked.

“I thought you might want someone to talk to, because I understand what you’re going through.”

“Oh, you understand me, do you, Duke boy?” Talking to him was exhausting. He was like a persistent gnat she couldn’t swat away.

“More than you know.” He grinned. “You think you had me pegged since the second we met, but you and I are in the same boat. I want to keep doing the golf thing full-time, maybe move down south after graduation. But my mom and dad expect me to go to law school and take over the family firm here when they retire. I don’t want that, and I’m having trouble telling them the truth, like you with your dad. You and I, we’re not that different.”

Tinka bit the inside of her cheek. Maybe he had a point, but she wouldn’t let him know that. “I really don’t think that’s true. We are not even remotely in the same situation.”

“I beg to differ,” Dylan said. “Our parents expect certain things from us. There’s an obligation. My parents’ firm is their legacy. And you’re expected to fill your brother’s shoes.”

Screw this guy. He barely knew her, and he was bringing her dead brother into the conversation. If he thought that was the way to get her on his side, he was very, very wrong. “You know absolutely nothing about anything.”

He rubbed the head of his putter with a towel. “I know you see me as a sleazy jerk, but I’m seriously offering myself up as a friend. That’s it. I’m someone who gets what you’re going through. You and I have never had it easy. Not like your boyfriend.”

Okay, really. Who the hell did this guy think he was? Tinka touched her cheeks, which had warmed at the mention of Sam. Their kiss had been running through her mind for days. Back at Florian’s, she never thought about a hook-up after the fact (okay, except Colin, but that was a completely different situation). Come morning, that stuff was all in the past. But the thing that happened between her and Sam Friday night? She couldn’t shake it. “What does Sam have to do with this? Sam doesn’t have it easy.” Yes, she made sure to say his name twice. She liked the way it felt in her mouth. Sam.

“Sure he does,” Dylan said. “He’s got the big house and the gobs of money. He can do whatever he wants with his life. He’s going to film school in L.A. I mean, come on, Mr. Silver Spoon. Must be nice.”

“You don’t know him at all. He’s not like that.”

“But he doesn’t get you, does he?” Dylan said. “He probably sees you as this perfect girl—the pretty baker who’s tons of fun. He’s all happiness and joy. You need someone more experienced, more realistic. I’m saying, if you ever get tired of him, come find me.”

“I won’t get tired of him,” Tinka said. “And Sam’s not the bubbly doormat you seem to think he is. He knows I’m not perfect, and he doesn’t judge me for it. He’s loyal. He’s wonderful. He’s one of the nicest, most caring—” She stopped, when she heard an “a-hem” from behind her.

She spun around, and there was Sam, drinking a lemonade.

Tinka’s jaw dropped and she blushed to the roots of her hair, but Sam grinned. “Do go on.” His brow was cocked as if he was challenging her, but his face had gone pink, too.

She couldn’t help laughing, mostly from nerves. The situation was so absurd. It shouldn’t have mattered that Sam had heard her saying those things. So what? Her fake boyfriend had caught her in the act of defending him. Though, no matter what she’d told him in the kitchen after the kiss, there was nothing fake about her feelings for him. She couldn’t deny it, not with the way her skin tingled when she saw him standing there in a Kill Bill T-shirt and his omnipresent basketball shorts. She’d barely seen him since Friday night—he’d been busy with wedding stuff, and she’d been trying to keep herself busy tearing up the shag carpeting in her parents’ basement—and it had been like a piece of her was missing. But for some reason she couldn’t tell him all that. Why not? What was she more scared of—rejection or acceptance?

She ripped off her glove and shoved it into her golf bag, which she swung over her shoulder. “I think I’ve had enough for one day.” She stepped over to Sam, hooked her arm in his, and dragged him toward the clubhouse.

“What are you even doing here?” she asked once they were far enough away from Dylan.

“Rehearsal dinner stuff. We’re having it here at the club.”

“Well, thank you for rescuing me,” she whispered, resting her head on his shoulder, as if it fully belonged there. Waves of heat pulsed through her body. He smelled like summer and sunscreen and she wanted to eat him, which was definitely not part of their deal.

Tinka lifted her head and dropped his arm. She’d taken things too far. “Your timing is impeccable, fake boyfriend.” She jabbed him in the arm. “Dylan was all over me back there.”

“Just doing my job.” Sam sped up, leaving Tinka in his wake. He shouted over his shoulder. “Dylan can’t see us anymore. We’re safe, dude.”

Tinka stayed a few steps behind him as tears stung her eyes.

Yeah, she’d started it. She was the one who’d called him her “fake boyfriend,” but she almost started bawling right there in the parking lot, telling him everything—that she’d meant what she’d said to Dylan, that she’d never get tired of him. Sam had called her “dude,” and it had broken her heart.

But she kept her mouth shut. It was for the best. He was doing his job, sticking to the party line, the one they’d agreed to Friday night. This was what they both wanted. No strings, no mess. She’d keep up her end of the bargain. “Thanks, pal.” She tossed her clubs into the back of his truck.

…

“Finally!” Craig slammed a five-dollar bill down on the counter at Maurice’s video store. “After weeks and weeks of you showing terrible movie after terrible movie—”

“Your opinion,” Sam muttered, grabbing Craig’s complimentary can of Mellow Yellow from the fridge under the counter.

“—you’re finally showing something decent.” Craig gestured toward the poster on the wall outside the screening room.

“You’re a big fan of Girls Just Want to Have Fun?”

“I am, Samuel,” Craig said. “This film marries absurdity with real emotion. Helen Hunt is a revelation. She wears gigantic dinosaur barrettes. A dude somersaults through a window into a party. This film has something for everyone.”

“Well, good,” Sam said. “We aim to please.”

“No, you don’t.”

“That’s true. We don’t.” Sam handed Craig his popcorn.

As Craig headed into the screening room, Sam kept an eye on the door. Tinka had promised last night, when she and the girls had come over to make cookies, that she’d be here tonight. She was the reason Maurice was showing Girls Just Want to Have Fun, actually, because Sam had suggested the film. It had been Tinka and Karen’s favorite movie growing up. They used to watch it at least once a month.

Maybe he’d done too good a job convincing Tinka that their kiss last Friday night had meant nothing. He’d fretted for days about pushing her away, that he’d been too persuasive about his feelings for her being only platonic.

But when he’d shown up outside the pro shop on Tuesday and heard her saying those really nice things about him, he’d hoped maybe they were about to admit their feelings to each other. Then she’d made it a point to drop his arm and call him her “fake boyfriend,” which told him for sure where he stood. He was a tool to keep Dylan at bay, nothing more. It was the part he’d agreed to play, and he’d continue doing it, no matter how much it hurt.

Maybe he was a fool, but the agony was worth it, if it meant keeping Tinka in his life.

The door to Maurice’s opened and a herd of girls pushed in—Dottie and her friends. She was once again in her movie ticket dress and the expression on her face suggested vengeance. “Where’s your girlfriend?” she asked as Sam gathered the group’s popcorn and beverages.

“She’ll be here,” Sam said.

“Whatever.” Dottie pressed her lips closed as her friends marched to the back of the store. Then she said, “You’re like all the rest of them—picking style over substance.”

He hadn’t picked style over substance, though. Tinka had both of those things. Dottie, on the other hand, well, if she thought Sam had rejected her based on her looks, that wasn’t the truth at all. He’d rejected her based on her personality. Totally justified.

“Your girlfriend likes style, too, you know. I saw her flirting with Dylan Greene at the golf course the other day. I was delivering cookies for an event, and there he was, fondling her.” Dottie mimed squeezing a set of boobs. “And she liked it.”

Sam’s stomach plummeted, but he shook his head. “He wasn’t fondling her. He’s her golf coach.”

“Potato, po-tah-to.” Dottie snatched up her popcorn and headed into the screening room.

Minutes before movie time, Tinka rushed in with Jane and Karen. Tinka beamed at him, but he couldn’t return the gesture. Fabricated Dottie story or not, he couldn’t stop picturing Dylan Greene with his hands all over Tinka. What game were they playing? He wasn’t sure anymore.

Obviously, Tinka had been trying to thwart Dylan’s advances earlier in the week, but maybe she’d changed her mind about him. Maybe she’d decided she was okay with Dylan—Prince Eric in the flesh—running his hands all over her. Sam couldn’t be mad about it. He and Tinka weren’t actually together. She could do whatever she wanted with whomever she pleased. But, in that case, she should let Sam off the hook and allow him to get on with his life.

Tinka rested her elbow on the counter. “Sorry we’re late. My parents took us out for dinner and it ran long.” She glared at the front door, through which Dylan was now entering. “And my dad’s BFF followed us here.”

“I told you guys to wait for me.” Panting, Dylan sidled up to Tinka, who shifted away, but not too far. Dylan feigned surprise at seeing Sam. “Hey, man.”

“Hey.” Sam busied himself with the popcorn machine. His brain kept insisting all of this was totally normal, but his heart burned with jealousy, anger, sadness, and several other emotions that science had yet to identify.

Dylan grabbed his stuff and headed into the back room with Karen and Jane, but Tinka hung back, waiting for Sam, who was still avoiding her eyes.

“You know, you can sit with him if you want,” Sam said. Thank God he hadn’t told her his real feelings at the party. He’d be at least ten times more embarrassed now if he had.

“I don’t want,” Tinka said. “Ignore Dylan. He was just being an ass.”

“I mean, you’re under no obligation to sit with me.” He glanced around the empty room. “It’s not like we’re really together,” he whispered.

She furrowed her brow. “Are you trying to get out of sitting with me?”

“No. We’re supposed to sit together, right? To keep up the ruse.” Also, there was nothing he wanted more in life than to share one of Maurice’s make-out couches with Tinka. It may have been a recurring dream since he’d met her, no big deal. “But I want to let you off the hook, if you feel like doing something else.”

She reached across the counter like she was about to grab his arm, but instead she grabbed the salt shaker and traced its pattern of raised squares with her finger. “I have no desire whatsoever to sit with Dylan, or anyone else for that matter. I want to sit with you.” Her wide eyes locked on his.

He tapped his molars against each other in a quick rhythm. He had to keep his cool and remember his motivation. Tinka would run away fast if she knew how he really felt. Sam shrugged. “Fine. We can sit together, if you want.”

The movie was starting when they entered the back room. There was an empty couch on the right side, near Jane and Karen, who were sitting with Eric Joyce and his brother, Ken. Sam plopped down on the empty love seat, right next to one armrest, and Tinka hugged the other one. Their containers of popcorn sat between them as a barrier. But a few minutes into the movie, when Sam reached for some kernels, his hand brushed Tinka’s and his breath caught in his chest. She tickled his fingers.

He should’ve pulled away, but he didn’t. He let her fingers dance across his. He was prepared to let them dance for as long as they wanted.

She leaned over and whispered, “I feel like we’re being watched.”

Sam glanced around the room. At least two sets of eyes were squarely fixed on them—Dottie’s and Dylan’s.

“You’re right.” Ah, so that’s what this was. She was putting on a show. Well, so could he.

Tinka lifted up the popcorn between them and moved the containers to the floor. “May I?”

Sam nodded and she scooted toward him, leaning hard against his side. His heart sped up as he wrapped his arm around her and she rested her head against his chest. Suddenly the room emptied. He no longer saw Dylan or Dottie or Jane or Karen. No one else existed except Sam and Tinka, the weight of her head on his chest, her hair teasing his cheek, her scent of vanilla and orange shampoo. He pulled her in tighter and she nuzzled into him.

“We could kiss again.” She was looking up at him with big eyes that were gray in the darkness. “I mean, because it’s what people expect. That’s what happens here on Saturday nights.”

“Too true.” The cool, indifferent Sam who’d told Tinka their first kiss had meant nothing to him could totally handle another one. The real Sam, the one who was having trouble forming words with his mouth because his entire consciousness was full of Tinka, would not walk away from this unscathed.

She rested her hand on his chest, and any possibility of Sam staying rational tonight fled the room. “I’m only saying this,” she said, “because, obviously, when the two of us kiss, it’s no sexier than a handshake.”

This conversation was sexier than a handshake. Sam took a deep breath and squeezed her arm. He would be cool, indifferent Sam, because cool, indifferent Sam got to kiss Tinka. “Obviously. I believe I compared kissing you to kissing my sister. It’d be transactional, like using an ATM.” An ATM that dispensed rainbows and hearts and heat and completely took his breath away.

“So?” Her lips parted, inviting him to her. He could stop this. Maybe he should stop it. Or maybe he should stop thinking and see where it went, even if his head knew this had the potential to end in disaster.

Well, screw you, brain. Disaster or not, the rest of Sam really wanted this.

He leaned down and touched his lips to Tinka’s. She straightened up, improving the angle of their kiss, and wrapped her arms around his neck. Sam was fully prepared for her to pull away after a few seconds, after they’d proven their point, and he was ready to let her, but she didn’t. She deepened the kiss, her tongue searching his mouth, and his searching hers. Sam’s heart slowed down, but his breath sped up.

He shuddered with pleasure as she left a trail of kisses from his mouth to his ear, where she whispered, “We are really good at this fake kissing thing.”

“So, so stinking good at it.” And then his mouth was on hers again and his hands were in her hair and the two of them stayed like that for the rest of the movie—tasting each other and nibbling earlobes and touching necks and arms and hands—until the credits rolled and the lights came up.

Tinka pulled away, panting. Her eyes met his. “Wow,” she said. “Well.”

“I hope that convinced them,” Sam said.

She hesitated a second, then leaned in and whispered, “I think it may have convinced me.”