Mine 'Til Monday Read Online Free Page B

backswing. Her body twisted in concert with his, and somehow the contact remained unbroken even as she arced the club behind her right shoulder.
    “Yeah, radium,” Mud repeated, making more adjustments to her feet by wedging his knee gently between her legs. “Important stuff. Sounds important, anyway. But what the heck did old Crowfoot-Hodgkin do?”
    Without warning he suddenly stepped back. Dorothy, twisted in an unnatural position, thought for a second she might plummet backwards. Not only was the club way past what seemed like a reasonable place for it to be, her limbs seemed to have lost their ability to act independently of his manipulations.
    But there was no way was she going to give him the satisfaction. He’d probably run dozens of women through this routine. A fairway seduction! Dorothy would bet most of them reacted the same way she had, melting into his skillful arms.
    Well, even if she was the kind of girl who went for this whole dumb jock routine, she wasn’t here for seduction. Hardly.
    “Any time now,” Mud called, his voice innocent, indifferent.
    Practically bored.
    It was bad enough that she’d almost fallen for his smooth moves. But for him to act like he was totally unaffected by their touch—
    Dorothy brought the club crashing down toward the hapless ball with all the force she could muster. It glanced off the ball, lodging into the turf instead. A clod of dirt flew a couple of feet, while the ball only rolled lazily to the left a few inches.
    Dorothy whirled around, jamming a fist to her waist. She bit her lip in frustration and embarrassment. Mud, on the other hand, seemed to be trying hard to contain a smirk.
    “Not that you would be able to comprehend this,” she sputtered, “but Dorothy Crowfoot-Hodgkin used x-rays to determine the structures of biologically important substances.”
    “Yeah? Well, she probably couldn’t hit worth beans either.”
    “That was my first shot,” Dorothy protested.
    “First of many,” Mud said, placing his hands on her shoulders and spinning her around. “Back in position. We’ve got two days, and we’re going to make the most of it. This is a seven. Say it.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “Say ‘seven iron’,” he repeated.
    “I don’t see how—”
    “Who’s in charge here?” Mud closed his hand on her wrist, and his hand slid lightly down her forearm. The breeze gusted slightly, and Dorothy could feel the fine hair on the back of her neck stand up again. Deep inside something melted even as her nipples hardened in response to the breeze.
    Or to Mud. Heaven help her. She yanked her arm away from his grip. “Seven iron,” she managed.
    “Better. Now. Like this...”
    As he guided her again through the motion of the swing, Dorothy vowed not to notice the warmth of his skin next to hers, the tantalizing brush of his denim-clad hips against her bottom.
    Right. It was going to be a long morning.
     
     
    “Hey, Pops, we’re nearly out of register tape.”
    Mud grimaced as the door creaked slowly shut behind him, the dim cool of the shop a welcome shift from the heat he hadn’t been able to shake since the driving range.
    “Hey there, Tony.” The rangy teen looked genuinely happy to see him. Wednesday afternoons usually weren’t a particularly busy time; poor kid was probably bored out of his mind. “It’s ‘Mr. Taylor’ to you,” he added in mock severity.
    “Hah! That’s a good one,” Tony hooted, pushing a stack of mail across the counter to him.
    “Yeah, well, ‘Pops’ makes me feel about a million years old.”
    “Sounds ‘bout right. Give or take a few years.”
    Mud shook his head. “Smart-ass,” he sighed. “I’ve just about given up making a dent in that thick skull of yours.”
    In truth Tony had been a God-send. Mud’s permanent staff consisted of himself and Gus Weaver, who’d spent the first half-century of his career selling shoes. Gus was a good old guy, but by the time afternoon rolled around, he needed to put