Call Me Irresistible by Susan Elizabeth Phillips Page B

stood guard between racks of neatly organized golf clothes, shoes, and visors bearing the club logo. The shop was empty except for a clean-cut guy behind the counter who was frantically punching at his cell. As she came closer, she read his name tag. mark. He wasn’t quite her height, in his mid- to late twenties, with a slight build, neatly cut light brown hair, and good teeth—a former frat boy who, unlike her, was at home in a polo shirt emblazoned with a country-club logo.
    As she introduced herself, he looked up from his cell. “You picked a heck of a day to start work here,” he said. “Tell me you’ve caddied before, or at least play the game.”
    “No. I’m the new cart girl.”
    “Yeah, I understand. But you’ve caddied, right?”
    “I’ve seen Caddy Shack. Does that count?”
    He didn’t possess a great sense of humor. “Look, I don’t have time to screw around. A very important foursome is going to be here any minute.” After last night’s conversation, she didn’t need to think hard to identify the members of that important foursome. “I’ve just found out that all but one of our caddies is laid up with food poisoning, along with most of the staff. The kitchen put out some bad coleslaw yesterday for the employee lunch, and believe me, somebody’s going to lose a job over that.”
    She didn’t like the direction of this conversation. Didn’t like it at all.
    “I’m going to caddy for our VIP guest,” he said, coming out from behind the counter. “Lenny—he’s one of our regular loopers—hates coleslaw, and he’s on his way in now. Skeet’s caddying for Dallie, as usual, so that’s a big break. But I’m still short one caddy, and there’s no time left to find anybody.”
    She swallowed. “That nice man watering the roses by the flagpole . . .”
    “Doesn’t speak English.” He began steering her toward a door in the rear of the pro shop.
    “Surely there’s somebody else on the staff who didn’t eat the coleslaw.”
    “Yeah, our bartender, who has a broken ankle, and Jenny in billing, who’s eighty years old.” As he opened the door and gestured her through it, she felt him assessing her. “You don’t look like you’ll have any trouble carrying a bag for eighteen holes.”
    “But I’ve never played golf, and I don’t know anything about it. I don’t even respect the game. All those trees chopped down and pesticides giving people cancer. It’ll be a disaster.” More than he could imagine. Only minutes earlier, she’d been contemplating how she’d stay out of Ted Beaudine’s sight. And now this.
    “I’ll talk you through it. You do well, and you’ll earn a lot more than you can driving the drink cart. The fee for a beginning caddy is twenty-five dollars, but all these men are big tippers. You’ll get at least forty more.” He held the door open for her. “This is the caddy room.”
    The cluttered space held a sagging couch and some metal folding chairs. A bulletin board displaying a no gambling sign hung above a folding table scattered with a deck of cards and some poker chips. He turned on the small television and pulled a dvD from the shelf. “This is the training video we show the kids in the junior caddy program. Watch it till I come back to get you. Remember to stick close to your player, but not close enough to distract him. Keep your eye on the ball, his clubs clean. Carry a towel at all times. Fix his divots on the fairway, his ball marks on the green—watch me. And don’t talk. Not unless one of the players talks to you.”
    “I’m not good at not talking.”
    “You’d better be today, especially when it comes to your opinions about golf courses.” He stopped at the door. “And never address a club member as anything other than ‘sir’ or ‘mister.’ No first names. Ever.”
    She slumped onto the sagging couch as he disappeared. The training video came on. No way was she calling Ted Beaudine “sir.” Not for all the tip money in