Alicia Martinez is determined to keep a low profile. After a tough year, she deletes all of her social media and retreats to the small coastal town of St Andrews in the hopes of starting over - and avoiding her tumultuous past.
Oliver Hogarth is a...
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Alicia's mailman was beginning to hate her.
Over the past week, Alicia had received four bouquets of flowers, two greeting cards, and even a package of Medjool dates along with a note saying, "Please Date Me?" None of it had been signed. But she knew who it was from. Obviously.
And that was just the beginning.
Oliver had sent a string quartet to the driving range. He had even projected a red heart on to the wall outside the golf shop with the message "Alicia — Don't Break My Heart." Steve had chuckled to himself, snapped several photos of the spectacle, and posted it on the company Instagram without her permission. He claimed the stunt would help pull in business.
"Put the poor wee lad out of his misery," Steve chortled, shaking his head. "Anyway, ye've not exactly got suitors queuing up for you, love."
Alicia resolved to put laxatives in Steve's coffee.
Hattie was also pretty outspoken on the matter, and it was clear that she was firmly Team Oliver— Alicia's feelings be damned.
"Just go out with him," Hattie said, adjusting her sewing machine. "He's only asking for one date." She jabbed a needle into a pincushion. "And you fancy him."
"I do not!"
"Oh, really?" She smiled smugly. "Then why have you started doing your hair before work?"
And Alicia — who hadn't been able to deny it — growled something unpleasant and stormed out of the room.
The only time that Alicia forgot about Oliver entirely was at the driving range. She spent hours whacking golf balls into the field, occasionally tweaking her grip. Tiger Woods' golf coach, Butch Harmon, once allegedly said that it took 1,000 swings for your muscles to remember what you altered, which she privately thought was a load of bullshit.
It took much longer than that.
10,000 swings, maybe.
She ran into Antony McIntosh at the driving range most days, and — much to her relief — she was now able to form coherent sentences around him. He had even stopped by to give her a few pointers.
"Drive more with your right hip, sugarplum." He poked her side. "You'll get more power that way. And your club face is too open; you need to close it."
Alicia nearly passed out.
Antony McIntosh had touched her. Actually touched her. She might as well have been blessed by the God of Golf.
When Alicia wasn't at the driving range or working, she had taken to wandering around the town. Sometimes, she strolled down Lade Braes, following the well-beaten path to Hallow Hill or the duck pond just beyond it. Other times, she turned in the opposite direction, starting towards the Cathedral.
Like now.
She paused outside the ruins. The moonlight cast odd shadows over the gravestones, transforming them into sleeping stone mice. The East tower — pronged like a fork — loomed over it all, like a silent, watchful cat. Mist made the air thick as soup.
