Sleep never came easy for Wells the night before a tournament—and last night was no exception. As soon as the digital numbers read 5:00 A.M., he swung his legs out of bed, sat up, and dragged his hands down his face. Can’t believe I’m back here.
What happened to being done with this sport?
It was the wrong question to ask himself when he’d spent the last eight hours trying not to think too hard about Josephine. Also known as the reason golf had dragged him back in.
He could still feel the shape of her hip in his hand.
He’d been tempted to kiss his caddie in front of players and association members alike because he’d been completely oblivious to their surroundings. That kind of romantic gibberish didn’t happen to him. Especially sober. But the thing he couldn’t seem to stop wondering was . . . would she have kissed him back? God, most of all, how did that mouth taste?
Maybe I’m the best kisser you’ve ever met in your life. You’re not going to find out.
Wells groaned on his way to the bathroom, going through the motions of shaving, showering, and finger brushing his hair before slapping a hat down over the whole mess. He’d go out and walk the course, clear his head, acquaint himself with the terrain. Sleep would serve him a hell of a lot more, but rest wasn’t in the cards.
Not with the redhead on his mind.
Not when he’d be back in front of the cameras today—an experience that had become more and more humbling over the last two years. This time, though, there was more than his career and finances on the line. He was playing for Josephine, too, and that added a whole, scary level of responsibility that he’d been flat-out reckless to take on. Because there was every single chance that he was going to let her down.
He’d been letting everyone down for two years. What made him think this time could be any different? He wasn’t going to step out onto the green and find his stroke had magically been restored.
I won’t give up on you as long as you don’t give up on yourself again.
Those words rang in Wells’s head as he descended in the empty elevator and strode through the sleepy lobby. A couple of organizers were running around setting up cardboard advertisements for luxury cars and wealth management groups. Not a Coca-Cola or Bud Light sign to be found.
Wells rolled his eyes at a floor-to-ceiling banner depicting Buster Calhoun behind the wheel of a Mercedes and walked faster out of the lobby, exiting into the humid morning air. The sun was creeping up over the horizon, ready to wash the course in Texas gold. A few staff members and the odd caddie were watching it happen. They looked at Wells curiously as he passed, probably noticing that his polo shirt didn’t have a sponsor logo on it, since nobody wanted to put their money behind him.
“Aren’t you glad you put your trust in me, Josephine?” he muttered, stepping onto the dewy course and wading into the mist, slowly inhaling the scent of freshly cut grass.
I won’t give up on you as long as you don’t give up on yourself again.
His chin jerked up when a figure appeared in the mist in front of him, a person coming in off the fairway for the first hole. As they came closer and took shape, he realized it was a woman—and unfortunately, he knew that shape very well.
“Belle?” He moved into the mist, intending to meet her halfway. “What are you doing out here by yourself?”
When they drew even, she blinked, obviously surprised to see him. Rays of sunshine stabbed through the moist air around her, like they were harkening the Second Coming. “Walking the course. What are you doing?”
“The same, obviously.”
“Oh.”
He flicked his gaze downward, taking in her sleep shorts and T-shirt. They were covered in smiling giraffes. “You’re wearing pajamas, Josephine.”
She winced. “I thought I would sneak back into my room before anyone saw me. Couldn’t you sleep?”
“No,” he half shouted at her, since his lack of rest was largely due to her mouth, how she’d looked in that green dress, and a million other annoying reasons, most of which originated with her.
“Well.” She moved to stand at his side, so they were both looking out over the course, though their height difference meant her view didn’t reach as far. “If you have the jitters, this is a good time to remind yourself that it’s about the game.” Man, her voice was . . . soothing. “Not the people and shouting and cameras. Try to remember the course just like this when all the noise starts. A big, quiet field. It’s here to be enjoyed, not feared.”
“Are you my caddie or my Zen master?”
“Get you a woman who does both, Whitaker.”
He snorted and the sound almost, almost, turned into a chuckle.
They stood in the silence for a few moments, watching the sun rise in the distance.
“You know . . .” She tucked a stray piece of hair into her ponytail. “If you have something on your mind, now would be a good time to let it off. We have golfer-caddie confidentiality. Legally, I can’t repeat anything you tell me.”
“That’s not a thing, Josephine.”
“I just made it a thing.”
“I have nothing on my mind.”
This time, she snorted.
He turned a frown on her.
Damn, she was annoying. And the rising sun was picking up secret strands of gold in her hair and amber flecks in her eyes. Annoying. All of it. “Why don’t you tell me what I’m thinking, since you woke up with so much wisdom this morning?”
She pursed her lips and Wells had to look away. Or risk reaching over and tracing the bottom one, so he could know once and for all if it was as smooth as it looked.
It is. You know it is.
Those lips would slide down his stomach like chocolate sauce on a scoop of ice cream.
The exact last thing he should be thinking about right now. Or ever.
She wasn’t there to hook up. She was there to save her family’s shop.
Her health was on the line, goddammit.
If he didn’t take this tournament seriously, that made him a bastard.
Since when did he care about being a bastard?
Wells cleared his throat hard and let words leave his mouth unplanned. “Buck was there last night. And I guess every time I see Buck, I remember how he gave me this opportunity to be great and I pissed it away. To the press, he used to say, ‘All the kid needed was a chance,’ but maybe . . . I don’t know, maybe I take chances and set them on fire. Buck isn’t the first one to get sick of my shit and bail.”
“Who else was there?”
He laughed without humor. “You never see any proud parents standing on the sidelines cheering me on, do you? No, because I was nothing but a delinquent growing up. They couldn’t wait to get work on a cruise ship and sail away. I don’t blame them for it, either.” He paused to drag in a breath. “Maybe I don’t have the right . . . tools to handle success, you know? Maybe I have this skill—and that’s it. None of the character that makes me deserve it. Nothing . . . else.”
At first, he was simply trying to distract himself from inappropriate fantasies about Josephine’s mouth, but he was shocked to find a knot inside him loosening as his confession wore on. A knot he’d been completely unaware of.
“Wow,” she whispered, staring straight ahead. “That’s a lot to unpack. I thought you were just going to tell me to shut up.”
He narrowed his eyes at her.
“That’s not to say I’m unhappy that you told me,” she rushed to add, reaching over to squeeze his elbow. Regarding him in silence for a beat. “Wells, don’t you realize? You did a lot with your chance. Getting a tour card in itself takes a miracle. It’s not always about the next thing you do. Sometimes it’s about what you’ve already done.”
His chest knit together and pulled, compromising his vocal cords. “Garbage.”
“It’s not garbage. And that whole thing about having parents on the sidelines . . .” She shook her head. “I have that in my life. So, I can’t really see things from your perspective. But I know for a fact that character doesn’t come from one single place. Success is more complex than that, and we’re in control of it. Do you think I was your number one fan solely because of your golf game?”
That drew his attention sharply. Mainly because of the way she’d phrased the sentence. Was your number one fan. Was. “Weren’t you?”
She grinned over piquing his interest, a dimple popping up in her cheek, as if he didn’t already have enough to deal with. “The first time I saw you play was at a charity invitational. Down in Orlando for the children’s hospital. You acted like a big grumpy bear the whole time. But you . . .” She trailed off, as if needing a moment to compose herself. “I saw you give your whole bag of clubs to one of the kids in the parking lot. After all the cameras had gone home and no one was watching.” She dropped her voice. “I caught you displaying more than enough character.”
Wells remembered the kid’s smile like he’d seen it yesterday. “Must have been another golfer. That never happened.”
“Yes, it did. That’s why I started coming to watch you.” She nudged him with her shoulder. “Everyone drifts from their path once in a while. But your path is still there waiting. It’s a perfectly good one.”
This woman was like one of those farm tools that churned up the hardened earth, turning over soil that just wanted to be left alone. Or thought it did.
“Should I expect one of these unbearable pep talks every morning, Josephine?”
“Only if I’m feeling generous.” She paused, fiddling with her ponytail again. “What did Buck want to speak to you about last night?”
“You mean, while you were off charming the masses.”
“Why, yes.”
Wells cursed. “He told me to play nice with the press. It’s one of the conditions for letting me back on the tour.”
A giggle bubbled out of her, turning into a full-fledged laugh.
“It’s not funny, belle,” he muttered. “I’d rather hammer a rusty nail into my forehead.”
She sobered. Sort of. “Do you even know how to play nice with the press?”
“You already know the answer to that.”
“Forget golf, we should practice smiling.”
He stabbed a finger into the air. “I am not smiling. I’m here to play golf, not become the next spokesman for Mercedes.”
“Oh, I think we can mark ourselves safe from that hellish possibility,” she murmured, before clapping her hands together. “Are you up for a quick challenge?”
“Did you forget why we’re here?”
“Not golf. Not exactly. Something else.” She gripped his wrist and tugged him into the lifting fog, toward the green of the first hole. Why he was allowing this freakishly positive woman to drag him around, he had no idea, except that he didn’t want to be anywhere else and he was reluctantly enjoying himself. So confusing. “Okay,” Josephine said, positioning him approximately ten yards from the hole. “Take out your phone and close your eyes.”
“No.”
“Do it,” she growled.
“Fine. Jesus.” Sighing with irritation, despite the ridiculous lightness in his sternum, Wells took out his phone and shut his eyes. “Now what?”
“Without opening your eyes, put your phone into the hole.”
“Sounds perfectly normal.” He tipped his head back to implore the heavens for patience, then gave in to the absurdity of it all, taking a few strides forward in the direction of the hole. When he judged himself reasonably close, he slowed down and shuffled forward at a slower pace, before bending over and—
“Mmmm,” Josephine hummed behind him, the noise dissolving into what sounded suspiciously like an appreciative sigh.
His lips twitched. “What was that, belle?”
“Nothing,” she said, way too quickly.
Wells tucked his tongue into his cheek to subdue a grin. Josephine was an ass girl. Good to know. He might not be the best golfer on this tour, but hell if he didn’t have the best butt.
“Set the phone down,” she instructed. “Let’s see how close you came.”
He dropped the device onto the grass and opened his eyes, dismayed to find himself a full two feet from the hole. “I already know I’m going to regret asking, but what was the point of this little exercise?”
She appeared in front of him, stooped down, and picked up his phone, placing it in his hands with a slap. “You could have walked past the hole, if you wanted. You didn’t have to stay between the pin and where you started. You’re not in the box. Look at this whole giant field . . .” Passion flickered in her green eyes and he couldn’t help but feel an answering spark inside himself. “Don’t limit yourself. Don’t live in a stressful little box. Go as far as you want. That was the point.”
With that, she gave him a cheerful smile, folded her hands behind her back, and walked away. Just dropped that mindfuck on him and skipped off toward the resort lobby entrance, like she hadn’t just dropkicked his brain.
“I’m going to get a muffin, if you want one,” Josephine called over her shoulder.
Goddamn right he wanted a muffin. After that eye-opening lesson, he wanted to eat enough carbs to kill an ox. And then another, equally pressing thought occurred to Wells and he found himself stomping after her in something of a daze. “You shouldn’t be by yourself when you’re wearing pajamas.”
Without halting her stride, she spun around, giving him a look that implied he was smoking the good stuff. “Giraffe pajamas are probably a great conversation starter.”
“You’re my caddie. I’m the only one you need to have conversations with.”
“Sounds bleak.” She pushed through the double doors that ran along the side entrance to the lobby, sauntering toward the coffee counter, where the employees were still in the process of setting up. “Can you order me a muffin while I do my stuff?” She scanned the glass case. “Cranberry orange.”
“They invented that flavor in hell, but sure.”
The kid behind the counter asked Wells what he’d like, but he was distracted by Josephine swinging around the small cross-body bag and taking out the green object that looked like a pen. When she uncapped it, he could see that it was a needle. Insulin. She was eating, so she had to give herself insulin so her body could process the carbs. How easily he’d thought about consuming a mountain of them without worrying how it would affect his body, the way it would Josephine’s. Biting her lip, she clicked a wheel on the end to a certain setting.
His heart lurched up into his mouth when she lifted her shirt and jabbed the needle into her stomach, two inches to the right of her belly button.
“Sir?”
“Uh . . .” Why couldn’t he swallow? Did taking the shots hurt? He’d never actually seen her—or anyone—do it before. “One cranberry orange muffin, one blueberry, and . . .” Coffee? he mouthed at her.
“Water,” she said back, smiling, tucking her tool back into her pouch.
A moment later, Wells handed Josephine her breakfast, wanting to offer her a lot more. Anything. Needing badly to make her life easier.
Maybe . . . he could?
Not that he would let her know. If Josephine realized he cared as much as he apparently did—according to the heart still stuck behind his Adam’s apple—things could get messy and complicated. His focus needed to be on winning for her.
“Listen,” he said, before they could part ways in the elevator. “Text me your father’s number. I forgot to tell him something about that shot I made at Pebble Beach.”
She fumbled the muffin. “You’re going to . . . call my dad to talk golf?”
Wells shrugged. Bit into his muffin. “Purely to brag about my genius play.”
“Right. I’ll text you.” Backing away, she gave him a little wave. “See you at tee time.”
“Yup.” He tipped his chin at her as they parted ways. “Is it Rihanna that makes you dance?”
“Nope.”
“Something disco era, like the Bee Gees?”
“Wrong.”
He cursed as she disappeared. Which freaking band?
The text arrived as Wells was crossing the threshold into his room. Of course, it was accompanied by an abundance of smiley face emojis. He waded through the cheerful yellow circles and tapped the number, holding the phone to his ear. Both of Josephine’s parents answered on the second ring. Was this a . . . landline?
“Yes, hello. This is Wells Whitaker.”
Silence.
“Is everything okay with Josephine?”
Oh God, they thought he was calling with bad news. Not surprising, since he sounded like an undertaker with bronchitis. Which probably had something to do with how unnatural it felt to do something for purely unselfish reasons.
He hadn’t always been this self-centered, had he? No, toward the beginning of his career, he’d routinely volunteered at local after-school programs, mostly for troubled youth, since he’d been one of them once upon a time. He’d sent tour tickets to his uncle every time he was in Florida. At the very least, he hadn’t snarled at everyone he met. But when his game started to decline two years ago, he’d taken a wrong turn. Well, maybe being around Josephine was pushing him back in the right direction.
Sure, he was out of practice caring about anyone but himself. But he couldn’t help but watch Josephine give herself insulin and wonder if she couldn’t use a second set of eyes. Not help, necessarily. Just some backup. Even if he was totally out of his depth.
Maybe he needed to walk past the hole a little, instead of being so limited.
“Josephine is fine, apart from her terrible taste in muffins.” He walked to the window and looked out over the course, his gaze dropping to the hole where he’d stood only minutes earlier with his caddie. “First of all, please don’t let her know I called about this. As far as she knows, we talked about Pebble Beach.”
A slight pause. “Sure, son,” her father replied.
“Second . . .” He swiped off his ballcap and scrubbed at his forehead. “Could you tell me what I need to know to help her take care of herself? Please.”
Josephine’s mother burst into noisy tears.
Great. I’m already regretting this.
But he didn’t, really. Not even a little.
