...Greg feels a touch on his hand and a man behind them speaks. “Excuse me. I believe that’s mine.”

Greg turns. He’s been leaning back against the table, his hand resting on it to steady himself, and now finds an attractive young man pointing at the nametag under his fingers. For a moment, Greg can only stare. The man is a few years younger than himself, with broad shoulders that fill out a loose-fitting polo shirt and a narrow waist accentuated by crisp khakis cinched with a leather braided belt. The flat plains of his chest and stomach hint at a band of thin muscle hidden beneath that shirt. His hands are large, his arms strong and tanned, the hair pale, as if bleached by long days spent in the sun.

Eye contact, Greg reminds himself, forcing his gaze to rise from the front of those khakis, up over that firm chest. A thin gold chain winks in the open collar of the man’s shirt. Above that, his face is smooth, giving him a boyish appearance, and something about him pings Greg’s memory. That thin top lip that curves back when he smiles, the pert button of a nose, the warm eyes like twin pools of melted milk chocolate. Greg knows him somehow, or has met him before, maybe at an earlier tournament. Somewhere. Sweet Lord, how could he ever forget a face like this?

The guy smiles as he plucks his nametag from Greg’s nerveless fingers. He lowers his head, holding the lanyard open wide to get it on over the baseball cap he wears. His hair is dark and long, brushing the back of his collar, and he flips it up to get the lanyard situated. Greg’s gaze drops to the nametag and he gasps.

JOHNS.

“Wait, I’m sorry.” This isn’t Mr. Johns, at least not the one Greg knew. Nodding at the tag, he asks, “Is that yours?”

The guy picks up the nametag and turns it around to read it. “Yep. Thanks.” He flashes Greg another of his winning smiles, then falters when he really gets a good look at Greg. One hand reaches out, forefinger extended, pointing. “Oh, my God. Greg? Gregory Chennault? Is that really you?”

Confused, Greg nods. Who is this guy? Should he know him? Hell, can he, please?

The hand opens, offered. When Greg doesn’t move, he finds his own hand grabbed in both the stranger’s own and pumped vigorously. “I’m Trevor’s son.”

“Junior?” Greg can’t believe it. Trevor Johns Junior had been a gawky, awkward kid of fourteen when Greg saw him last. He’d never thought that shy, clumsy boy with the skinny legs would grow up so damn sexy.

“It’s Trey now.” The hands holding Greg’s have grown warm but don’t relax in the slightest. Instead, Trey covers Greg’s thumb with one palm, encasing his hand completely. Greg is very aware of the heat generated between them, and the faint touch of Trey’s fingers where they rest along his wrist. “God, it’s good to see you. How the hell have you been?”

With a self-conscious shrug, Greg murmurs, “Oh, fine.” Then, before he can stop himself, he gushes, “You look amazing.”

Trey laughs. “You’re one to talk! They say some things only get better with age.”

A thin blush rises in Greg’s cheeks, heating his face. Four years apart in age, Junior had always followed Greg around, toting a kid’s set of golf clubs as he trailed behind Greg, who carried Mr. Johns’ bag. While his father played a hole, Junior would set up his own tee nearby and swing voraciously. “Watch me, Greg,” he’d cry out, interrupting the other golfers’ concentration. “Greg, watch this! Watch!”