Bodie didn't come to Human Sexuality on Tuesday. Or Thursday.

I told myself it was a good thing he wasn't in class. It meant I was able to give my undivided attention to the lectures, since I wasn't busy glancing across the room every five seconds to glare at the back of his dumb head.

The week felt like it happened in slow motion.

But, inevitably, Sunday came.

I texted PJ in an attempt to mooch another ride to work, but her sore throat had turned into a full-blown case of the flu, which meant that—not for lack of trying—she was unable to get out of bed.

The bus would've taken hours.

I was left with no alternative.

I walked to the parking garage across the street from The Palazzo, climbed three flights of stairs, and got into my vandalized car.

Driving the LIAR-mobile in broad daylight was about a hundred times worse than the night it'd happened. Andre's sunglasses were my security blanket. I knew, of course, that people could still see my face—and they could definitely still see the word on my hood—but the tinted lenses felt like a shield against both public humiliation and UV rays.

I told myself I'd be alright. I would get through today. If I swung around the side of the clubhouse and parked in the very back corner of the employee lot, under that awful tree that perspired sap, then nobody would even see me.

It was a solid plan.

And it totally went to shit when, on the freeway, I glanced down at my dashboard and realized my engine was running on fumes.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck," I chanted as I took the next exit and pulled into the first gas station I could find. "Fuck—" I climbed out of the car, "—fuck—" I jammed my card into the machine, "—fuck!"

I only had the patience for half a tank.

Rebecca was going to have my head on a gold platter.

It was a full ten minutes into my shift when I pulled up to the clubhouse. As I maneuvered into the corner-most spot under the sappy tree (a tricky feat, considering Rebecca had parked her black Lexus in the adjacent spot with its wheel halfway over the white line) my phone buzzed twice in my cupholder.

I cut my engine, ripped my phone off the charging cord, and found a pair of texts from my boss.

where are you?

laurel if your sick get someone to cover for you

I uttered my twenty-seventh fuck of the morning, pocketed my car keys, and booked it to the workers' entrance by the kitchen.

I was all of two steps into the bar when Rebecca materialized before me like a polo-shirt-clad poltergeist. Her hair was slicked back into a tight ponytail. I could've sworn she was wearing eyeshadow and a light coat of mascara. I'd never seen her in mascara.

"Laurel," she said, followed by a phrase I never thought I'd hear come out of her mouth: "Thank God you're here."

"What's wrong?" I asked, because something had to be wrong.

"Get your caddy bib on. Please. Right now."

Yeah, something was up.

I'd seen Rebecca at her most stressed, her most frantic, her most irate. Never had she been desperate enough to pepper in a please.

"Is it the Sherwoods?" I asked.

Rebecca shook her head.

"We have a party of four," she explained as we hustled into the lobby, "and they're really, really important, and two of them want to walk the course. So I just need another set of hands."

I bit back a groan.

Caddying for old, benevolent retired couples usually meant I was a glorified chauffer. I just needed to get them and all their aching joints from one hole to the next.

It was rare that able-bodied golfers wanted to walk the course.

It meant I had to carry someone's bag. For miles.

My quads burned at the thought.

"Before you get out there," Rebecca said abruptly, "We need to have a quick chat about professionalism—"

The rubber soles of my sneakers squealed against the polished hardwood floors as I came to a jerking stop.

From the lobby, I could see clear through the dining room and out the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the golf course. There were four golf bags propped up on the cart path that looped around the practice putting green beside the first tee.

Two men stood among the knee-high miniature flags.

Their backs were to me. I recognized them anyway.

Truman Vaughn and President Sterling.

Neither of them had visited the country club since the article broke. We'd used the selfie one of the Real Housewives of Garland had taken with Vaughn in Cabo, so I imagined he'd chosen to steer clear of the places our sources frequented.

So why was he here now?

My first thought was, Because of me. But even if he'd stalked me on LinkedIn, he couldn't have known when my shifts were. And, given the state Rebecca was in, it didn't seem like he'd called ahead to coordinate their round with my work schedule.

She couldn't possibly want me to caddy. Not today. Not for them.

Wasn't there a walk-in closet somewhere she wanted me to go hide in, so Vaughn wouldn't have to be tormented by the reminder of my existence?

"I don't think—

"I know," she interrupted, huffing in her impatience. "I'm not asking you to caddy for Vaughn. I don't want you anywhere near him. But he's with three other VIPs, and half my staff is out sick. I'm out of options. Suck it up, put on your caddy bib, and bring a cart around."

I wanted to put my foot down. I wanted to ask her to see if one of the lifeguards or waitresses or groundskeepers knew anything about golf. I wanted to tell her I probably had the flu, too, and that I should really go home and get back in bed.

Rebecca clearly anticipated the barrage of excuses, because before I could pick one, she added, "I'll pay you overtime."

❖ ❖ ❖

I spent more time than was strictly necessary unlocking one of the golf carts and steering it out of the shed where we kept them.

The group was congregated on the practice putting green when I drove around the side of the clubhouse. Vaughn was working on his short game. James Sterling, the president of Garland University and one of the most successful private fundraisers in California, stood beside him with a putter in one hand and an honest-to-God cigar in the other, like some kind of mob boss.

There was a no smoking rule at the club.

Rebecca didn't seem worried about enforcing it today.

Beside Vaughn and Sterling stood Chester Gordon, with his copper hair and blonde eyelashes, who was busy rubbing sunscreen over his freckled forearms and the back of his already-sunburnt neck.

And, at the far corner of the putting green, lurking like a shadow, was a tall, broad-shouldered boy with a green baseball hat pulled low over his eyes.

My heart hiccuped.

Bodie.

His nose was still swollen. Dark purple bruises bloomed under his eyes, spreading out from the bridge of his nose like moth wings. He looked miserable. He looked beautiful. He looked, inexplicably, like Troy Bolton about to launch into an angsty musical number across the fairway.

What was he doing here? Wasn't he supposed to be resting?

I stopped the cart right next to the green.

Bodie didn't look up, which was how I knew he'd recognized me from a distance (despite the hideous khaki Bermuda shorts and shapeless polyester uniform polo, in which my own father probably could've mistaken me for a slightly overweight twelve-year-old boy).

Rebecca tossed her head back and laughed at something Vaughn had said. I doubted anything that came out of his mouth warranted her hysterics.

Their voices carried across the grass.

"—such an honor," Rebecca was gushing.

"Well, thanks for having us," Gordon told her.

The golf cart's parking break creaked as I kicked it into place.

Rebecca turned and grimaced, briefly, before she beckoned me up onto the putting green with a wave of her hand.

"This is my best caddy," she lied proudly.

Vaughn's eyes narrowed.

I refused to look at Bodie. Instead, I stared pointedly at Rebecca, hating that she'd offered up overtime pay knowing full well that I'd let her run me over in a golf cart for twenty bucks.

"So who wanted to walk the course?" she asked the group.

"We'll take the cart," Vaughn said, thumping a hand on Bodie's shoulder and jostling him.

Bodie winced.

I was so mad I didn't know what to do with myself. Mad at Vaughn, for being so rough with a boy whose broken nose he was responsible for. Mad at Bodie, for existing. Mad at myself, for being so relieved to see him alive and well after last weekend's game that I almost forgave the fact that he'd come to the country club with the very man I'd warned him he should steer clear of.

Vaughn slung the strap of his golf bag over his shoulder and stalked down to the cart.

Bodie started following after him, but stalled at my side.

I made the mistake of looking him in the eyes.

"Hey," he said, gently. Uncertainly.

Something about the broken nose made him look like a brutal mythological warrior, or a cologne model.

"I'm working," I blurted.

"I know," Bodie said with a wince. "I'm sorry. I didn't know you'd be here. I mean, I hoped you would be, but Vaughn just said he got offered a free round—"

"Bodie," Vaughn barked from the cart, "why don't you drive?"

At the same moment, Rebecca called, "Laurel, come take Mr. Gordon's bag!"

When Bodie met my eyes again, I had the oddest feeling that we were thinking the exact same thing.

What kind of star-crossed lovers bullshit was this?

_________________

It's part one of the double update! I am posting these about ten minutes apart because Wattpad can take a hot second to register a new chapter, and I do NOT want them getting mixed up. Full author's note to follow.

Your friendly author,

Kate