Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)(16)
“I knew you weren’t going to believe me,” Josephine called over their guffaws.
“She brought a suitcase as a prop and everything!” Evelyn hiccupped, before turning slightly serious. “Oh, Roo. It’s not that we don’t think you could caddie for Whitaker, but how in the world would that ever happen?”
Josephine debated telling them he’d arrived at the Golden Tee out of the blue, but they wouldn’t believe that, either. Frankly, she was still trying to decipher the logistics of his unannounced arrival at Rolling Greens. “Just watch the tournament kick off on Thursday morning, okay?” She pointed at their entertainment center, which was used primarily to hold plants, but there was a television somewhere among all the greenery. “You’re going to see me on TV. It’ll be live coverage, so I won’t be able to answer phone calls. Okay?”
“You’re too much.” Jim chuckled. “Where are you really going?”
“Did you pack an extra test kit?”
“Yes.”
“What about your emergency shot? Are you traveling with someone who knows how to use it?” Her mother stood, hands clasped beneath her chin. “Are you meeting Tallulah somewhere? She’s always so good about making sure you have a sugar stash for lows.”
“Tallulah is in Antarctica, remember? And I’m good, Mom,” Josephine called over her shoulder, already wheeling her baggage to the front door. If she stayed, Evelyn would inevitably beg her to open the suitcase so she could perform a medical supply checklist and it would never suffice. Packing an actual doctor in her carry-on wouldn’t be enough to make Evelyn stop worrying. “Don’t forget. Thursday morning.”
“Ohhhh-kay!” Evelyn and Jim singsonged simultaneously.
“You betcha,” tacked on her mother.
Josephine gestured to the Uber waiting for her at the curb. “I’m leaving for Texas now. As soon as I stop at home to get a dress, I’m going to the airport.”
“To caddie for your idol, Wells Whitaker,” Jim said, with an exaggerated wink.
“That’s right.”
She closed the door of the Uber on the sound of their laughter.
Chapter Eight
Wells had done it.
Somehow, he’d convinced the golf gods to bring him back on tour.
When Josephine arrived at the resort in San Antonio, she went straight to the clubhouse with her carry-on—now containing a dress and heels—because she wasn’t going to bother checking in to her room if Wells hadn’t succeeded. The ornate, Spanish-style building with high-domed ceilings was a hive of activity when Josephine walked in, sports reporters everywhere, caddies she recognized from television commiserating in groups—all of them men.
Imposter syndrome blocked her progress and she almost turned around and ran straight back out the door. It helped to remember that she’d yelled you suck at some of those caddies at one time or another while watching them on television. And she’d meant it. Thoroughly.
Garnering her courage, Josephine moseyed up to the desk clearly marked caddie checkin, relieved when the woman behind the computer monitor gave her an open, friendly smile. “Hello. How can I help you?”
“Hello.” Josephine pushed down the handle of her carry-on suitcase. “I’m checking in. I’m caddying tomorrow for Wells Whitaker.”
A good half of the conversations in the room seemed to die at once.
The woman’s kind expression froze on her face, her eyes ticking to the rest of the room briefly, before landing back on Josephine. “Wells Whitaker. I just want to make sure I heard you correctly. The acoustics in here can be a challenge.”
“That’s all right. Yes, I said Wells Whitaker.”
“Oh.” A jerky nod. The poor woman was probably pressing a button beneath the table to alert security. Silence was spreading in the room like a ripple in a pond and all Josephine could do was stand there, bite the inside of her cheek, and let the fire climb the back of her neck. What had she done? Flown all the way to San Antonio after two text messages? To caddie for a highly unreliable man? “Okay, let me just pull up his information . . .” The woman reared back in her seat. “Oh! Here he is. I thought . . . well, I didn’t know he was competing.” She scanned the screen for a moment. “You’re Josephine Doyle?”
The air flat-out vacated her lungs.
It was real. This was really, actually happening.
“Yes, that’s me.”
The woman nodded, giving her a once-over that was almost . . . proud? “Well. I’ll definitely be tuning in to watch tomorrow, Josephine.” She turned to face a rolling file cabinet behind her, seeming surprised to find a blue folder with Josephine’s and Wells’s names printed on the top. She handed it across the desk with a flourish. “Here is your schedule for the next five days. Your official pass should be in there, to be worn around your neck at all times during competition. You’ll need it to gain access to the caddie locker room, where you’ll find your uniform tomorrow morning. There’s also the almighty scorebook in the folder, course yardage charts, and some drink tickets for the welcome cocktail party tonight.”
“Welcome cocktail party?” Josephine repeated. That explained the dress.
“Why yes, it’s tradition. We have to give the golfers a chance to rile one another up before they tee off. Makes things interesting.” She reached across the desk and gave Josephine a conspiratorial arm squeeze. “Don’t let them rattle you.”