Love on Tour

Los Angeles, CA II

Los Angeles, California

Thursday

You're still wondering how you got here.

You're dressed in leggings, a thermal white long-sleeve, a Portland hat, and sneakers. You're pouting and getting no attention. You see, Harry brought you golfing. If only your ancestors could see you now.

You stand there watching Harry as he thanks the worker for providing a set of clubs. Clearly, they're for both of you. Not that you'd be any good, you think.

"Why are you upset?" Harry asks, walking up to you, white-gloved hands carrying his clubs in the provided bag. If you asked Harry, you're sure he'd give you a name for it, so you don't ask.

"You tricked me," you pout.

"No." He's biting back a grin.

"You asked if I wanted to go mini-golfing."

"Yeah, we'll golf for a mini amount of time," he corrects you.

"Ugh... you're the worst."

"Bel," he laughs, "I've never seen you throw a tantrum."

You scoff, "This isn't a tantrum."

"Mhmm...tell you what." You ignore him deciding to adjust your hat, blocking the sun from hitting your face. "You can drive the golf cart."

You turn to look at him, eyes shining bright with hope, "really?"

He grins, nodding. "Yes."

Harry holds up the keys, which you happily accept. You lean in and press a kiss on his cheek.

"My hero."

You slide it, trying your best to contain your excitement. Already having forgotten why you were annoyed with Harry.

"It's that first hill, start there and make our way."

This would be fine. You'd get to see Harry stick his ass out for you and take swings of balls, giving you a nice view of his forearms. That's two wins.

Harry starts strong, hitting the ball way off but clearly in the right direction as he guides you to where the hole must be. He jumps off and finishes the round. He tries to explain, but it's useless, especially when playing alone.

You've made it through two more holes when Harry persuades you out of the golf car something about lemon blueberry pancakes for breakfast. He knows your weakness and uses them well.

He hands you a golf club; it's shiny and looks like it's never been used.

"You know, I heard it's better to start with a professional to teach you."

Harry frowns, "who told you that?"

"This Irish fellow I met in a bar when I was filming in Ireland a few years back told me," you throw out casually.

"Blonde?"

You shake your head, getting a feel of the golf club he handed you. "Brunette."

"I know an Irish brunette." He follows right behind.

You know he wants to ask more, but you don't let him. You're not what this club is called by feels comfortable. Moving your hands forward, having your trail hand rest under your lead hand, falling on top of it. It feels comfortable. Harry gets you in position, knees apart, shoulders back, and tells you to swing. You swing, arms extending and legs popping back like you had seen him do.

"That was really good," he says, not hiding his shock.

You bite back a smile and get into position. This time prepared to send the golf ball in the air.