04 | who's your caddy?

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Oliver surveyed the hotel suite

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Oliver surveyed the hotel suite.

It was exactly the sort of room that his father would love. Heavy velvet drapes. Brown leather furniture. And glittering chandeliers, suspended from the ceiling like a woman's earrings. Outside, he could see the Old Course unfurling like a green banner.

God, it was good to be back.

St Andrews was exactly what Oliver remembered: three streets snaking towards a ruined cathedral, dotted with gravestones and itchy grass; seagulls swooping down to steal fat chips from unsuspecting tourists; and a stone castle crumbling into the frigid water, dissolving into sea foam and history.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come in," Oliver called. "It's open." A young man peeked his head into the room, and he paused. "Oh. Did I leave one of my bags in the lobby?"

"Er, no, sir." He rocked back on his heels. "I'm Brooks."

"Who?"

"Your new security detail." Brooks shut the door. "They told you I was coming, right?"

Ah. Oliver frowned. Well, yes, they had, but he hadn't been expecting this. He took in Brooks' close-cropped brown hair, his black tattoos, the spots breaking out along his chin. No, Oliver had been expecting someone a little...

Well. Senior.

"How old are you?" he asked.

"Twenty-two, sir."

Oliver winced. "Call me Ollie. Please." Christ; if Brooks insisted on calling him "sir" in public, he might as well send up a red flare with his name on it. "No offense, but aren't you a bit young for the job?"

"That's the point, si—" Brooks caught himself. "Er, Ollie. You want to blend in, right? I'm the only officer that can pass as your friend."

Oliver considered this. Then he shrugged, picking up a bag of golf clubs. "Fair play," he said. "Then I just have one question for you."

"Oh?"

He shoved the bag into his hands. "Tell me, Brooks: how good are you at golf?"

 "Tell me, Brooks: how good are you at golf?"

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