rich country club!connie x spoiled!reader
tags: golf level pettiness, designer sunglasses & lemon drops, reader is a trust fund baby, husband-era Connie.
↳ 𝑰𝑰 , 𝑰𝑰𝑰
𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
You’re lounging in the plush cream leather seat of Connie’s custom gold-trimmed golf cart, one long leg stretched out and the other crossed delicately over your thigh. Your lemon drop martini sweats slightly in the afternoon sun, condensation slicking the glass as you swirl it lazily. The slice of sugared lemon clinks against the rim as you take a sip, the tart sweetness tickling your tongue.
Out on the green, Connie’s in rare form—fitted navy polo hugging his chest, designer belt cinched perfectly, those tailored golf pants doing things that should be illegal in this kind of daylight. His swing is clean, practiced, effortless. He grins as the ball sails across the fairway, his boys hyping him up like it’s the Masters.
“Atta boy, Connie!” Jean calls, raising a beer can from the next hole over. “Flex on us again why don’t you.”
Connie just winks, tongue in his cheek, before turning slightly to glance back at you. He adjusts his cap—custom embroidered with his initials, of course—and gives you a smirk that says ‘I see you, baby’.
You blow him a kiss behind the rim of your martini glass, your diamond tennis bracelet catching the sun just right. You know the cart girls saw it—hell, that was the point. They’ve been circling like golf-course vultures all afternoon, all batting lashes and bending over a little too far to hand Jean or Reiner a Gatorade.
But not Connie.
No, your man hasn’t looked at a single one of them. Not when he’s got you in the passenger seat with your glossy lips, your fresh set, and your platinum card he pays off every month just because he can.
“Is that the same girl from last weekend?” you whisper to Sasha, who’s parked beside you in Reiner’s cart. “The one with the fake baby voice?”
Sasha leans closer, snorting into her mimosa. “That’s her. ‘Y’all want ice-cold bevvies?’” she mocks in a sickly-sweet drawl. “Like girl, no one’s buying it.”
You both laugh loud enough for her to hear, not that you care. You sip your drink prettily, adjusting your oversized Dior sunglasses as you lean back and let the sunlight soak into your skin.
Connie walks past with his club over his shoulder, his eyes dipping to the hem of your little white skirt.
“Keep lookin’ at me like that,” you purr just loud enough for him to hear, “and we’re not making it to dinner.”
He grins like a devil, mouth curling wickedly. “You say that like it’s a threat.”
Behind you, the cart girl fumbles a bottle of water.
You take another sip of your martini. Life is good.
