Autumn Flame (Seasons #2 )

Chapter 20: The Final Putt

The sun is high in the sky, glinting off the Hudson River as I make my way to the Chelsea Piers Golf Club together with Sydney. She smiles up at me, her butterfly lashes fluttering, a smear of glitter on her eyelids. It's a beautiful day, the kind that makes you feel like anything is possible.

Mr. Beau strides ahead of us, his golf club slung over his shoulder. "We're right over here," he says. His shiny hair reflects the sun like hardened plastic, and we get a flash of white teeth as he calls back, "Nothing like a round of golf on a clear day to make you appreciate life."

As we reach the driving range, he deposits us into a booth prepared with canapes and drinks, and a server materializes to take our order.

"Someone's already here," Sydney murmurs, pointing at four half-empty glasses.

I look around for the missing owners of said glasses.

Mr. Beau rubs his hands together. "Alright. Who's ready to show off their swing?"

I grimace, eyeing the clubs warily. "I've never actually played before."

He claps me on the shoulder, his eyes twinkling. "No time like the present to learn, my boy." He speaks like he came out of those black and white movies in the roaring twenties and brought his side part and pressed khakis with him. He motions us to follow him into one of the hitting bays, sectioned-off windows opening into the driving range beyond, with nets as high as a five-story building and yachts on the water beyond it. I would be terrified to launch a ball that way, worried I'll smash someone's window. But rows upon rows of golfers are doing it comfortably, so it can't be that bad.

Mr. Beau sits down in a bench in front of one of these bays where an older golfer is swinging. "You're up after Mr. Ross," he tells me.

"Mr.... Ross?" I ask, my eyes traveling to the back of the man's gray head.

The man turns around like a tanker, and I instantly recognize the mustache. Sydney has no such recognition, and I'm tempted to fill her in, but then I imagine how well that conversation would go, and keep my mouth shut. She doesn't need to know he's Melanie's uncle or how I know that.

"My good friend from London, Mr. Benjamin Ross," Mr. Beau introduces him, then gestures to me. "Benji, meet the winner of the marketing contest and my upcoming intern in NYC, Mr. Rhys Colton."

"Call me Ben," he says gruffly and clamps my hand in his with the force of an industrial press. Sydney's eyes bulge when he clutches her delicate hand in greeting after me. "Have you met my niece already?" he says, swinging to his right where a girl is sitting on the bench in the neighboring bay. Her white golf skirt swings into motion as she rises. She brushes her red hair away with one white-gloved hand.

I swallow. "Yes, we've met," I say with a polite smile.

Sydney's eyes swivel to mine briefly, but she, too, smiles politely at Melanie and waves. "Hi, Melanie."

Mr. Beau beams at all of us. "Ben and his family are longtime friends of mine, and I thought it would be nice to have the interns meet in a more casual setting before joining our company this summer, so thank you, all, for accepting my invitation today."

Interns? Plural? I look at Sydney. What is he talking about?

Melanie averts her eyes, looking at the driving range with interest.

"Pardon, Mr. Beau," I say. "I thought I was the only one?"

"Oh you are," he exclaims. "You're the winner and you will be our intern in our headquarters in NYC. Melanie here was one of the front-runners—spectacular showing with your project, darling, really—" he tells her before returning to the story, "and seeing how she's living in London, we decided to offer her an internship in our London headquarters." Mel's uncle beams proudly at her and pulls her in, and she smiles obligingly at him while still avoiding my eyes.