“Bexley, I’m waiting for you to shake my hand.”
His statement was borderline rude, again pompous, but it made my body quiver.
I stuck my smaller hand in his large mitt. His hands were soft, not a callus anywhere that I could tell, unlike any of the other hands I’d shaken before, which were usually rough and coarse.
“Nice to meet you,” I said, my hand still swallowed by his.
“What’s your last name, Bexley?”
“Rivers.”
“That’s quite an interesting name, Bexley Rivers.”
“Yeah, it is. I mean, yes, sir. Nice to meet you.” I tried to recall some of the training we’d had at the beginning of the summer on how to address and interact with members.
“Oh, you have no idea what that does to me, hearing you call me sir, Bexley, but it’s not necessary. Now, tell me about your name.”
I gulped down whatever emotion he’d stirred up in me and answered to the best of my ability. After all, my job could be on the line.
“I know, it’s a bit much. My mom’s maiden name was Bexley, and she was at a loss for what to name me. She thought she was having a boy,” I said, rambling, “and was set on Frankie Junior. My dad was Frank Senior, and so when it was time to leave the hospital, she just scribbled down her maiden name and then her married name . . . and that was it.”
His mouth formed a small smirk, and his left eyebrow rose the tiniest bit. It should have felt like he was making fun of me, but he wasn’t. At least, I didn’t think so. Although I had absolutely zero experience in this area, I could tell Aston was being genuine.
God, this guy—a club member I should not be fraternizing with—made my heart speed up and my body feel hotter than it already was from standing inside the sweltering kitchen.
“I didn’t mean to go running off with the details, and . . . I should probably get back to work.” I motioned behind me, my thumb making me look more like a homeless hitchhiker than a cool girl.
That’s when I realized he was still holding my other hand.
He squeezed my hand tight, not letting me go. “No worries on your running off with details. You should do it some more. Like tonight, we’re having a party on the seventeenth hole. Why don’t you come by? We can talk more.”
“Me?”
He winked. “Yes, you.”
“Um . . . I don’t know.”
“Why not? You have a better offer?”
I shook my head. Of course I didn’t have a better offer. “Can I bring Milly?” Knowing I’d need a wing woman, I pointed back to the snack shack. We weren’t supposed to socialize with members, but she was already breaking that rule, so she’d have no problem going with me.
“The more the merrier.”
Gulping back my fear, I asked, “What time?”
“Eight.” He winked again, squeezed my hand again before releasing it, and walked off.
Anything I’d ever wanted, ever thought I needed, didn’t exist after those ten minutes.
After one handshake, all I wanted was Aston Prescott.
Bexley
“Do you think Mike will be there?” Milly asked me for the fourth time in the last thirty minutes.
After finishing our shift, we’d cleaned up, eaten our staff meal, and freshened up in the staff locker room. We couldn’t afford to waste gas, schlepping back and forth to home and then back to the club. Taking time to freshen our makeup, pulling combs through our hair, and doing the best we could with what we had at our disposal, we tried to appear like we fit in. Of course, there was no mistaking us for richies like the ones who lived along the golf course.
“I’m sure, Mill, but there’s probably going to be a lot of people, and I’m not even sure why we’re going. Promise me you’ll stay near me, and if we feel out of place, we’ll leave, okay? I don’t even know why I said yes,” I said, my hand shaking the slightest bit.
Milly didn’t answer. As we traipsed through the rear parking lot and onto the golf course, she kept her pace steady and a smile on her face, totally excited about the party. My friend acted like she belonged there, but me? I thought about offering to help clean up.
“Listen to me, Bexley.” She grabbed my hand and stalled our pace. “We’re going because some hottie asked you, and whether you admit it or not, you like him. Plus, we’re already out and should have some fun before we drive home to our shit places. Come on.”
With a death grip on my arm this time, she dragged me faster down the fairway and straight to the seventeenth hole.
People were everywhere, sitting, standing, crouching. Mansions lined the golf course, exterior lighting showing off their elaborate facades. A large blanket was spread on the putting green near the hole, and bottles of every kind of liquor imaginable were set on it. Small lanterns anchored each of the blanket’s four corners, illuminating the amber and clear liquids. A keg was off to one corner, and an enormous bong in the other. Music played from a wireless speaker, filling the air around us with hip-hop. Every now and again, a shriek or a deep laugh rang out over the music.
Despite my immediate acceptance earlier in the day, I wanted to turn around and leave. I felt less than insignificant in my jean cutoffs and white tank. Taking in the other girls, dressed in designer sparkly tank tops and miniskirts, all I wanted to do was tuck tail and get the hell out of there.
“Hey, Bexley . . . glad you came,” a deep voice rumbled near me, sending chills through me. Of course, the owner of the gravelly, absolutely male voice turned toward Milly. “Aston Prescott,” he said. Just like he had with me, he stuck his hand out and gave
