Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

No one had spoken to Wells like that. Not since Buck.

Not since those early, early days when he’d picked up the club and felt magic race all the way up into his shoulder and a sense of purpose in his fingertips.

It was like coming up through the surface of the water and taking a deep breath.

Her honesty was oxygen.

But breathing it? That part was terrifying.

“You think you could show me better? I had no idea you were a professional.”

“I might not be a professional—”

“No. Because if you were, you would know that once you lose your stroke, getting it back is like trying to find a needle in a haystack. I’ve looked, Josephine. One day, a player has formula and the next, he’s forgotten how to pronounce the ingredients. That’s why these greats go on winning streaks that seem endless, but they always end. Success in golf is finite.”

“Do you really believe that or are you just making excuses to be a quitter?”

“I don’t need this shit.”

“Then leave.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I will.”

He didn’t move an inch. The dumbest, most harebrained idea of his life was occurring to him and the more he allowed it to invade his mind, the more oxygen he breathed. Her oxygen. She was an endless supply, standing right in front of him and, Jesus, he couldn’t walk out of there knowing the obstacles she’d have to face by herself. Leaving her to deal with everything alone would haunt him day and night, along with her . . . mouth. God, her mouth. It was the most stubborn and kissable mouth he’d ever seen.

Whatever you do, don’t voice this ridiculous idea out loud.

It probably wasn’t even possible. The longest of long shots.

But maybe . . .

Maybe one last time, he’d swing like he had nothing to lose.

“If I can get back on the tour, if they’ll allow me back on, why don’t you put your money where your mouth is and caddie for me? Since you know so goddamn much.”

Josephine went so perfectly still, she might have transformed into a mannequin. “Wait . . . what? Wh-what did you say?”

“You heard me. Next stop on the tour is San Antonio. You in?” He crossed his arms in defense of her shock. Hell, his own shock. “If you won’t just take my money, earn it, instead.”

She stepped back from him, her chest rising and falling. “Are you messing with me?”

“Let’s get one thing straight, belle. You will never wonder where you stand with me or if I’m bullshitting you. You get exactly what you see. I don’t mess around with people, but especially you.”

Heat singed the back of his neck.

Fuck.

That last part had slipped out.

“Because I’m potentially going to be your caddie,” she tacked on, mercifully. “There can’t be any secrets or pretenses between a golfer and his caddie. A caddie is a chauffeur, coach, and priest all in one package.”

“Is that a yes?” Wells asked gruffly, holding his breath.

“I . . .” She looked around the flooded pro shop, as if searching for someone to talk her out of his wild idea. “I mean, I would have a couple of conditions.”

“Name them.”

“I can’t caddie for you indefinitely. When and if I make enough money to remodel the shop the way I’ve always wanted, I’ll have to . . .”

Wells waited. And waited. “You can’t even say the word ‘quit’ can you?”

She made a face. “I’ll have to come home, is what I’m saying.”

“Got it. What else?”

Green eyes zeroed in on him and he sensed the gravity of what came next. “I meant it, Wells. I won’t be pitied. Okay? I’ve been coddled and treated like a charity case many times before, all because of my T1D. But I’m not one. If we make this agreement, it’s because it’ll benefit us both. Not just me.”

Whether this arrangement would benefit him remained to be seen—nothing he’d tried to bring his game back on line had worked, so why would this? But he’d bite. Hell, he didn’t want her to feel like a charity case, either. “Done.”

“Then . . . I don’t think I can say no.”

Wells tried not to be obvious about his breath escaping. “Fine.” He shrugged. “Good.”

“Do you really think you can get back on the tour?”

“You let me worry about that. You just show up and carry the bag.”

Several beats of silence passed while she looked at him, almost appearing bewildered.

“What is it, Josephine?”

“You didn’t even . . . consider that diabetes might make it hard or impossible to carry your bag all over a golf course for eighteen holes.”

“You’ve done harder things than carry a bag. Haven’t you?”

God help him, the sheen that appeared in her eyes made him utterly fucking determined to get his ass back on the tour, even if it meant swallowing his pride—and he’d be doing that by the mouthful. “Yes,” she finally answered. “I . . . yes. Thank you.”

Before Wells could do something out of character, like ask if she perhaps needed a tissue or a comforting shoulder pat, he turned and stomped out of the water.

“Wait!” She splashed after him. “I have one more condition.”

“What now? A kidney?”

“Maybe later,” she responded, without missing a beat. “For now, let me take you to get a haircut and shave. I’m not being seen on national television with a guy who looks like he just survived six months in the Amazon.”

Wells cast her a dark look over his shoulder, despite the bubble of amusement lurking near his collarbone. Honestly, he shouldn’t have given up any more ground, but the PGA wouldn’t allow him onto the green looking like an ungodly mess, anyway, so might as well concede the point to Josephine. “Is that the final item on your list?”

“Yes.”

He sighed. “Fine. Let’s go. I’ll give you a ride.”

“A ride? Didn’t you say you walked here?”

“What did I say about questions?” Sliding on his shades, he unlocked the door of his Ferrari with an expensive-sounding beep. “Get in and hold on.”





Chapter Six




Watching the barber whip a teal cape around Wells’s shoulders and fasten it behind his neck was nothing short of surreal. Wells was a mysterious celebrity creature she observed from a safe distance or on television. Now she was watching him gripe under his breath about being required to take his hat off. A moment later, it became obvious why.

He looked like he’d miraculously survived a trip to the electric chair.

His chocolate-bark hair was flat in some places, pointing like a broken spring in others.

And still, still, he managed to retain his beastly attractiveness.

Not that she would let him know that.

“Wells.” Josephine walked to the front of the barber’s workstation and laid a gentle hand on the reflective surface. “Let me introduce you to this incredible, new invention called a mirror.”

He flashed her his teeth. “Did I hire a caddie or a comedian?”

“Seriously.” She let her hand drop. “When is the last time you brushed your hair?”

“I’ve been busy.” He waved a hand at her, disrupting the fall of the cape. “Sit down and be quiet, would you? You’re distracting the barber.”

Josephine remained standing. “I’m going to take a shot in the dark and say you don’t have a woman in your life.”

“Thank God.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, tilting her head.

Wells glanced around. “You’re answering your own question by dragging me to get a haircut.”

“I should have let you be your own worst enemy in peace?”

“Exactly.”

She hummed while trading an amused glance with the barber. “Don’t forget to shave his neck.”

A few beats of silence passed, the spritz of the spray bottle filtering in between the sound of hair dryers and muted conversations throughout the salon. Wells flicked her a curious look and sat up a little straighter, earning him a sigh from the barber. “What about you? You got a boyfriend, or what, Josephine? I’m guessing not.”

The barber whistled under his breath. “Brave.”