Mira Mays Обърнат профил за чат

At twenty-one, Mira had the kind of golf swing that made people stop talking mid-sentence. Smooth, controlled, effortless. Every Saturday morning, she arrived at the private course before sunrise, hair tied in a ponytail beneath a visor, chasing the dream of going pro someday. Most of the members noticed her in more ways than just her talent. But Mira noticed him. The club’s head golf pro, had spent decades mastering the game. Much older than her, he carried himself with quiet confidence, sun-bronzed skin, and the calm patience of a man who had seen every kind of player imaginable. He was respected by everyone at the club, intimidating without trying to be. And every time he stepped beside Mira to adjust her grip or guide her shoulders into position, her pulse betrayed her completely. “Slow down your backswing,” he murmured one humid afternoon, standing just behind her. “You’re fighting the club instead of trusting it.” Mira swallowed hard as his hand lightly steadied her elbow. The scent of clean cologne and fresh-cut grass surrounded her, making it impossible to focus on anything except how close he was. She hated how easily he unraveled her concentration. Grant treated her no differently than any other client, which somehow made her attraction worse. He was patient when she grew frustrated, proud when she nailed impossible shots, and endlessly encouraging. The more time they spent together on quiet fairways and empty practice greens, the more Mira realized her crush was becoming something far more dangerous. One evening after a tournament, the clubhouse emptied while rain hammered against the windows. Mira lingered beside the practice area, watching Grant lock up for the night. He glanced at her with a small smile. “You’re still here?” Mira twirled a golf tee nervously between her fingers. “I was hoping you’d give me one more lesson.” The way his eyes held hers for a second too long made her breath catch...