Love In Arizona (The Love In 50 States Series Book 3)

by Gates, Shelby

  I unpacked my bags, tucking my clothes in the low, white dresser across from the bed. I set my toiletries in the bathroom and, after a moment of hesitation, tucked a few condoms in the nightstand drawer. Better safe than sorry, I thought. With everything unpacked, I decided my first course of action would be to check out the pool. It was hot and I wanted to cool off and bake in the sun and relax. I stripped out of my clothes and changed into my bikini. I pulled on my coverup over my suit, shoved a bottle of sunscreen and my phone into the small beach bag I'd packed, and headed out.

  The heat slammed into me again, but it was different from Alabama. The Gulf heat was thick, wrapping around every inch of me like a hot, wet blanket. The desert heat of Arizona was suffocating, too, but in a different way. My nose and throat tightened as I breathed in the dry, searing air and my fingers craved lotion. 'It's a dry heat' was not a myth.

  The pool loomed large as I made my way toward it, an oasis of cool, blue water just within reach. The white concrete pool deck was filled with chaise lounges and bright blue umbrellas, most of them empty. The pool, however, was not.

  I grabbed a towel from the towel station as I walked in and picked a chair closest to the edge of the pool. I set my bag down and fished out my sunscreen, wondering if I could get it on fast enough before my skin blistered from the heat.

  A girl wearing a white Paradise polo and black shorts appeared at my side. Like the guy who parked my car and the guy behind the desk, she was impossibly tan.

  “Good afternoon,” she said. “Can I get you something to drink or eat?”

  “Oh,” I said, surprised. “Yeah, that would be fantastic. How about twelve bottles of water?”

  “I could do that,” she nodded. “Or I could bring you something else. Like a margarita or pina colada.”

  They both sounded divine. And infinitely better than bottled water. “A pina colada would be fantastic.”

  “I'll be right back with it,” she said.

  Pampering wasn't going to suck at all.

  The pool waitress was back with the drink in three minutes. I gave her my room number to add it to the bill and then took a long sip. Then I stood and walked over to the wide steps of the pool, unable to stand the sun any longer without water to temper it. I dipped my toe in, then sat down on the steps and sipped at my frosty alcoholic drink in the middle of the day.

  I gazed at the view in front of me. For all the emotional upheaval I'd endured over the previous two weeks, I also knew I was lucky. Lucky that I could travel. Lucky that I could afford it. Lucky that I had friends who supported me. I wasn't stuck in financial straits or the depths of some post divorce depression. I might not have had the direction I wanted, but I was in pretty good shape.

  “You look lonely,” a voice said above me.

  I twisted on the steps and Eric, the guy from the desk, was looming over me.

  “I'm just taking this place in,” I said.

  He squatted down so we were eye level. I didn't see how he could have a blazer on and not be covered in sweat. His teeth were so white they nearly blinded me.

  “It's a pretty cool place,” he said, glancing at the pool.

  “Seems like it.”

  He grinned. “A lot more fun to take it in when you're with someone.”

  “Don't you have to, like, work or something?” I asked.

  His smile widened. “I am. Right now, I'm checking to make sure our guests are enjoying themselves.”

  “So part of your job description is to walk around and tell guests that they look lonely?”

  “Not exactly,” he said, chuckling. He brushed his hair off his forehead and I saw a fine sheen of sweat on his skin. “Let me rephrase. Are you enjoying yourself?

  I nodded.

  “How's the drink?” he asked, motioning to my half-empty plastic glass.

  “Great.”

  “And you have enough sunscreen?”

  “Plenty.”

  His expression was playful. “Need any help putting it on?”

  He was flirting. Hard. I was flattered. He was good-looking and probably a couple years younger than me, which were two things that did wonders for me ego. But I just wasn't feeling it.

  “None at all,” I told him cooly.

  “Alright,” he said, slapping his hands to his thighs. “I just wanted to make sure. I'm a terrific sunscreen applier.”

  I tried to bite back a smile but it found its way on to my lips. “I'll bet you are.”

  He lifted his sunglasses and winked at me. “You have no idea. I'll see you around.”

  He straightened, his hands sliding down his sides, smoothing his jacket. He repositioned his sunglasses and walked out of the pool area, his gait casual and deliberate. I wondered if he knew I was watching him.

  And I wondered if he knew that, if he kept up his pursuit and found me in a vulnerable moment, I would probably end up being a sure thing for him.

  FOUR

  I needed something to do.

  I'd been at the pool for an hour. I'd finished my drink, swam and laid out in the sun. That lasted for all of ten minutes before I hurried back to the water, sinking myself up to my shoulders in the shallow end to cool off.

  My eyes drifted to the golf course. I wasn't sure how it was possible but there were more people on the course than there were in the pool. Golf carts puttered across the green grass and, every once in a while, I'd see a ball aloft in the air. Men sifted through golf bags attached to the backs of their carts and tilted back bottles of water, wiping their faces with small white towels. If they were hindered by the heat, they didn't let on. They kept playing, more carts driving into view as the other ones disappeared.

  And I was intrigued.

  I had almost zero athletic ability, but that simple fact had never kept me from playing sports. I'd never tried out for a team but I'd always been the first one to pick up a frisbee or rise to the challenge of a backyard volleyball tournament. Golf, however, was something I'd never tried. Vermont's weather wasn't conducive to playing more than a couple months out of the year and Brian had never been interested.

  I remembered what the bellman had said as he walked me to my room, rattling off all the amenities. In addition to the professional course, he'd said there was a practice area...and that each guest was entitled to a free bucket of balls.

  I stood up, the water now waist-deep. My trip wasn't just about finding myself and sleeping with men.

  It was also about trying things I'd never done before. I stole another quick glance at the course. If all of those people could withstand the heat and spend a few hours playing an entire round of golf, I could certainly tolerate a half hour on the practice course.

  So I packed up my bag, dropped my towel in the bin and headed back to the room so I could change my clothes and try my hand at a little golf.

  Thirty minutes later, dressed in shorts and a collared shirt, I walked into the clubhouse at the course. I'd gone to the front desk to grab the shuttle, prepared to fend off Eric again, but he was nowhere to be found. His colleague, Emily, was happy to call the shuttle to get me to the clubhouse. I opened the massive stone doors to the clubhouse and walked tentatively past a bar and the restrooms. Off to the left was a small shop filled with golf clothes and golf clubs and I wandered inside.

  A tall skinny kid was leaning against a desk. He wore a white polo, like the pool waitress, along with a visor that had the Princess logo on it. He held up a hand in greeting. “Hey there,” he said in greeting. “Have a tee time?”

  “A what time?”

  He smiled. “Tee time? To play?”

  “Oh, no,” I said, feeling my cheeks color a little. “Do I need one?”

  “Well, we're pretty slow,” he said, glancing at his computer screen. “We can probably get you out. Nine or eighteen?”

  It was my turn to hold up my hand. “Hang on. I feel like I need to let you know this is the first time I've ever been to a golf course. I have no idea what you're asking me.”

 
He chuckled and stuck a pencil behind his ear. “Well, I was asking if you wanted to play nine holes or eighteen holes. But I'm guessing you'd just like to use the range instead.”

  The only ranges I was familiar with were mountain ranges and the open range from old Westerns my grandpa had forced me to watch. “Is that the practice place?”

  “It is,” he said, nodding. “See? You're figuring it out.”

  “You're just being nice to the golf idiot,” I told him. “But yes. I think I'd like to hit some golf balls.”

  “We can help you out with that,” he said. “Do you have clubs?”

  “Again. First time ever.”

  He chuckled again. “Right. My bad. Okay. Let's get you fitted.” He picked up the phone and looked at me. “Left or right handed?”

  “Right,” I said, glad I could finally answer a question with some confidence.

  He nodded and punched a button on the phone. “Hey, Ted. Can you get me a set of ladies right handed rentals and set 'em out on the range at...” He turned and looked out the window. “At number one? It's empty right now, except for the lesson Cooper's doing down at the end. Alright, thanks man.” He hung up and smiled at me. “Okay. Clubs will be out there.”

  I looked at the sleeves of balls behind him. “Do I need some of those?”

  He laughed and shook his head. “No. Come on. I'll get you set up.”

  I followed him to a door off to the side of the desk and he held it open for me. It led to a patio lined with misting fans and beyond the mist was a long swath of grass that looked like a rolling football field. Small pyramids of balls were stacked perfectly every eight feet. Down at the end, at the last pyramid, a guy in a green polo and khaki shorts was laying his hands on an older gentleman's shoulders and helping him turn.

  “These are yours,” the kid from the desk said, gesturing at the bag that was standing off to the side of the first pyramid of balls. Then he eyed me. “Have you ever hit a golfball before?”

  I shook my head.

  “Okay, cool,” he said. “Let me show you a couple things.”

  He explained the clubs in the bag, showed me where to put my hands on the club and pointed in the direction of where I wanted to hit the ball. He showed me how to place the ball on the ground and gave me a very simple lesson in how to swing the club. Then he set his hands on his hips.

  “What do you think?” he said. “Anything I forgot?”

  “I honestly wouldn't know.”

  He smiled. “Good point. Look, just have fun with it. It won't come all at once. Any contact is good.” He pointed his thumb back over his shoulder. “I'll keep an eye on you from in there. Water's on the patio. Come and get me if you need anything.”

  “Thank you so much.”

  “My pleasure,” he said, then pointed at me. “And remember. Have fun.”

  I nodded and watched him jog back to the clubhouse.

  He'd suggested that I start with the club with the nine on it, telling me that one might be the easiest to swing. I pulled it out of the bag, put my hands on it the way he'd showed me and set a ball on the grass. I took a couple of awkward practice swings, then got set behind the ball. I took a big back swing and swung hard at the ball.

  And missed it completely.

  My cheeks flushed, not from the heat. I repositioned myself and took a deep breath and swung again. It took me four more swings before I made contact and sent the ball squirting out to the right.

  I set up another ball and missed that one three times before I sent it squirting off to the left. I snorted. My dreams of sending the ball up into the air in a long graceful arc were quickly dashed.

  I set up another ball and on the first try, launched it right down the middle, about ten feet away from me.

  Small victories.

  I was missing more than I was hitting when a voice behind me said, “You've got too much wiggle.”

  I turned around. It was the guy in the green polo and shorts who'd been helping the old guy.

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  He shook his butt back and forth. “You're wiggling too much. Try to hold steady.”

  “Thanks,” I said, then focused on the ball at my feet, uncomfortable that I now had an audience.

  I swung and missed.

  “You need to be quiet down low,” he said. “You've got too much Elvis in you.”

  I set another ball at my feet. I tried to lock my hips. I swung.

  The ball actually lifted off the ground about four feet and went further then any other one I'd hit.

  “Whoa,” I said. “It went up.”

  The guy chuckled and walked over to the pyramid. “Feels good, doesn't it?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Especially after whiffing on most of them,” he added.

  “Thanks,” I said, not feeling thankful at all.

  He shrugged. “Hey. Gotta start somewhere.” He held out his hand. “I'm Cooper.”

  “Jess,” I said.

  I shook his hand. He was maybe ten years older than me and had dark hair flecked with gray. His nose was slightly crooked, his eyes a soft gray eyes set in a complexion that had seen a lot of sun. The name tag pinned to his shirt said “Golf Professional” beneath his name.

  “You staying at the resort?” he asked, leaning on the one club he had with him.

  “Yeah, I just got here today,” I told him.

  “Where from?”

  “Vermont,” I said, thinking it was easier to just tell him what my home state was rather than where I'd just come from.

  “I'd trade you a lesson for some maple syrup,” he said.

  “I'm fresh out.”

  “Damn,” he said, smiling. “Well, maybe you can send me some.”

  He had an easy way about him and I found myself smiling back, enjoying his light banter.

  “I'm not sure it will ship well. Might spill.”

  “Man,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “You're making this tough for me to give you a free lesson.”

  “Maple candy,” I said, arching an eyebrow. “I could send you some of that.”

  “Candy is good,” he said, nodding. “So you just got here today. What else have you done?”

  “I checked in, had a drink at the pool and ended up here,” I said.

  “So you decided to take up golf today?” he asked, his own eyebrows lifting in amusement.

  “'Take up' sounds like there was some thought behind it,” I said. “I was at the pool. I was bored. I wanted to try it.”

  “Bored? How is that even possible here?”

  I didn't want to tell him that I was looking for diversions, something to keep my mind off what I was really supposed to be doing in Arizona: looking for someone to hook up with.

  “Bored is probably the wrong word,” I conceded. “I was looking to keep myself busy. You know, trying to choose from all the different amenities.”

  “Fair enough,” he said, nodding. “You mind if I give you a couple tips?”

  “Besides getting rid of my wiggle?”

  He chuckled. “Well, you have a great wiggle, but it won't help your game.”

  It was a cheesy line, but it made me laugh because I think he knew it was cheesy, too.

  Cooper proceeded to show me what he meant by keeping my hips steady, not moving my head and how to take the club back behind the ball. Within five minutes, I was hitting the ball every time I swung and it almost looked like I knew what I was doing.

  “Shoot, you might just have it in you,” he said, stepping away from the pyramid. “That swing doesn't look half bad.”

  “But does it look half good?”

  He smiled. “Don't get ahead of yourself. But you're doing fine for your first time out.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I think.”

  “Now, let's get the ball in the right place,” he said, gesturing at my feet. “You're way too close. Take a half step back.”

  I slid my feet back. “There?”

  “Yep,” he sai
d. “Now move to your right just a bit so the ball is in the center of your stance, like right down from your nose.”

  I did as he said.

  “Now hit the crap out of that thing,” he said, smiling.

  I took the club back and swung through the ball. The white dot jumped off the club, high up in the air and flew out onto the range into a big sweeping arc. I watched it land seventy yards away and bounce forward.

  I turned to him, unable to contain my excitement. “I did it!”

  His club was on the ground and his hands were shoved in his pockets. “I know. I was watching.”

  I looked back at the ball out on the range. “Wow.”

  “Do it again,” he said.

  I set up another ball and got my feet in the right position. I swung.

  And missed.

  “Shit,” I said.

  He chuckled. “It was your head that time. You wanted to see how far it was gonna go before you hit it.”

  I didn't respond, just stared down at the ball. I swung and caught it this time, sending it up in the air and out onto the range.

  I turned to him and smiled. “You're a good teacher.”

  “So I've been told,” he said. He didn't sound smug or over-confident, just matter-of-fact.“Now, one more thing and I'll leave you alone. Stand up just a bit straighter. Ball in the same place, head steady, no wiggle and up a little straighter. And hit the crap out of that little sucker.”

  I set another ball up. I did everything he said and swung and missed.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Head again.”

  “I didn't think I moved it.”

  “You did.”

  “Hmm.”

  I steadied myself and swung again. And missed again.

  “Dammit,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Head again.”

  “My head was fine.”

  “You looked like a bobblehead.”

  I frowned at him. “Now you aren't helping.” I turned out to the range. “I want another ball to go right on top of that other one.” I squeezed the club and took it back fast, ready to smack the hell out of it.

  And heard him yelp.

  I spun around. He was on his knees, his hands covering his eye.