Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)(23)

He wasn’t tall or short, falling somewhere in between, his bald head covered by a tweed newsboy cap. He walked with several tour golfers, all of whom Josephine recognized, since they were all leaderboard regulars, including Chance Montgomery, Ryan Kim, and Buster Calhoun. As one, they slowed to a stop in the middle of the room and basked in the crowd’s undivided attention, before breaking off into smaller groups.

Buck’s eyes settled on Wells and Josephine, as if he’d known they were there all along, but was simply taking his time acknowledging them. Wells didn’t move a muscle, but there was a sudden electrical charge in the air.

“Are you two on speaking terms?” Josephine ventured.

“Sure.” Wells’s tone was one of forced nonchalance. “He ran interference with the powers that be to get me back on the tour.”

You got your answer. Let it drop. “Things just seem a little strained.”

Or just invade his privacy.

“I’d rather not talk about it, Josephine.”

She nodded. That was fair. “Okay.”

“I guess I just expected my mentor to be a little more . . . constant. In my life. But I guess my losing streak was making him look bad. Can’t really blame him for wanting to keep up appearances,” he finished dryly.

“It sounds like you do. Blame him.”

Wells cut her a look. “He knew what he was getting into. The day he met me, I had a black eye and two pockets full of silverware from the country club restaurant. I’ve never pretended to be anything other than exactly what I am.”

Josephine chewed that over. “Good to know. What are you planning on robbing from the premises tonight?”

“What?” He snorted. “Nothing.”

She quirked a brow. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not the same person . . . I was.” A low whistle from Wells. “Wow. I walked right into that, didn’t I?” Slowly, he rocked back on his heels. “Are you implying that what happened with Buck was my fault?”

“No,” Josephine said firmly. “How could I do that? I wasn’t there. And if I’m being totally honest, I’m always going to default to being . . .”

“What?”

“On your side,” she said as fast as possible, trying not to enjoy the way the lines around his mouth softened. “I just think hurt feelings might cause a person to see a situation differently.”

“Do I strike you as the kind of guy who gets hurt feelings?”

“I am very sorry to inform you that everyone has feelings.”

“I’m going to deeply regret hiring you.”

“No, you’re not.” A lot like they’d done in the hotel room earlier, Josephine and Wells seemed to gravitate toward each other when having a conversation, until their toes were pressed together and she had to tilt her head back. And she couldn’t help but wonder if it looked . . . intimate to the rest of the party.

Of course it did. Because it was.

There was no other word for feeling his body heat through her clothes.

And reacting to it with skips of her pulse.

In the interest of professionalism, Josephine eased away, ignoring the way he frowned over the move. He regarded her curiously for a moment, then said, “You told me trash talk doesn’t hurt your feelings. What does?” A thought seemed to occur. “And please say something besides ‘bitter assholes who rip my signs in half’ because I just stopped seeing it every time I blink.”

He really just let that roll off his tongue. Like it wasn’t a big deal that he’d been dwelling. “You’re nicer than you think, Wells.”

“No, I’m not.” He grunted. “What has hurt your feelings? He better not have a name.”

“Okay, do you want to make me a list of unacceptable responses?”

“Go ahead. I’m done.”

Josephine shook her head at him, then took a moment to think. “The summer I turned twelve, my neighbor wouldn’t let me help with her garden. She’d just moved in next door to us and immediately, she had a tractor come dig up the concrete slab in her backyard. All these white trellises were installed and she tied purple bougainvillea to them, so they would climb the side of her house. It was like an explosion of color happening outside of my bedroom window. So I went over one day and asked to help. I wanted to learn how to garden so we could make our backyard just as pretty—and she said no. That hurt my feelings. It’s why my parents went out and bought a hundred houseplants. They made me an indoor garden.”

She didn’t expect Wells to be hanging on her every word, especially over a story about flora that was long dead by now, but he appeared to be . . . rapt? “So, what? Your feelings get hurt when someone rejects your help?”

“Yes,” she said simply, remembering the way her neighbor had noticed her glucose monitor and gotten nervous, like she didn’t want to be responsible for a medical emergency.

He hummed in his throat and continued to watch her. “Are you good at accepting help?”

“No.” Heat slowly built on her cheeks. “Wow. I walked right into that, didn’t I?”

He tipped back his beer with a little too much gusto. “Afraid so.”

“You don’t have to look so smug.”

“I’m sorry, I have no control over my face right now.”