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back to her desk, waited a moment or two more, then casually got up and walked across the hall to J.D.’s office.
    J.D. peered up from his desk when he heard the knock on his door.
    “Got a sec?” Payton asked pleasantly. One never knew who was watching.
    “For you, Payton—anytime. How can I be of assistance?” he asked.
    Payton stepped into his office and shut the door behind her. They both instantly dropped the charade.
    She held out the agenda accusingly. “You told me we were having dinner with the Gibson’s execs tomorrow evening.”
    J.D. eased back in his chair, gesturing to the agenda. “And as you see, we are.”
    “But you’re also playing golf with them tomorrow afternoon. Why wasn’t I invited?”
    “Do you play golf?”
    “No, but you didn’t know that.”
    J.D. grinned. “Actually, I did. I overheard you mention it to Ben last summer.”
    Stunned by the overt snub, Payton opened her mouth to respond. She clenched her fist as she searched for some response, some insult, anything, and a moment passed, and then another . . . and—
    Nothing.
    J.D. smiled victoriously. “Tell you what—why don’t you think about it for a while? Come back when you’re ready—make it a good one.” Then he ushered Payton out of his office and shut the door behind her.
    She stood there in the hallway. Staring face-to-face with that stupid nameplate, J. D. JAMESON, which she was seriously tempted to tear off the wall and chuck straight at his face.
    It was true, she didn’t know squat about golf; she had never even swung a club. Her avoidance was purposeful. She had distinct opinions regarding the sport and, more important, those who played it.
    Payton considered her options. On the one hand, she hated the idea of J.D. getting the better of her. And she really hated the idea of looking like a clueless novice playing golf in front of Jasper and the Gibson’s team.
    On the other hand, the thought of being left out for the entire afternoon was not appealing. With the partnership decision looming, she needed to ensure she was an integral part of the effort to land Gibson’s as a client. And she simply didn’t think she could stomach playing the part of the little woman sitting back at the office while the men talked shop at the twenty-fifth or whatever tee.
    So as far as Payton could see, she had no choice.
    Despite the fact that she was already worrying over how she was going to squeeze in a quick at-least-I-won’t-look-like-a-total-jackass golf lesson that evening—she strode confidently into J.D.’s office.
    He glanced up from his desk as the door opened, surprised by her sudden entrance. “That was fast.” He leaned back in his chair and beckoned with his hand. “Okay, let’s hear it, Kendall. Give me your best shot.”
    Payton saw the stapler near the edge of his desk and had to fight the urge to take him up on his offer.
    “I’ll do it,” she declared. “Count me in for tomorrow’s game.”
    J.D. appeared surprised.
    Payton nodded in response to his silence. “Good. That’s settled, then.” She turned to leave, her mind already running in a hundred different directions. She needed to find a set of clubs; perhaps Laney had some she could borrow. And of course there was the matter of attire—should she wear shorts? A polo shirt? A jaunty little cap, perhaps? Were special shoes required? The details surrounding this event were—
    “You can’t go.”
    J.D.’s words stopped Payton right as she reached the door. She turned around to face him. “You can’t be serious. You’re that desperate to get some alone time with the Gibson’s reps?”
    “No, that’s not it,” J.D. said quickly. He hesitated, and for the briefest second Payton could’ve sworn he looked uncomfortable.
    She put her hand on her hip, waiting for him to finish. “Then what, exactly, is it, J.D.?”
    “We’re golfing at Butler,” he said.
    Butler? Oh . . . of course, Butler , Payton thought sarcastically. That meant