Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)(27)

“Nothing is almost going to happen again,” he corrected.

Stop nodding so hard. “I mean, where could it have led? Kissing? Under the romantic moonlight? Absolutely not. That isn’t going to happen.”

“Right.” He looked thrown by the words romantic moonlight. “No kissing. No anything.”

“Good.”

She definitely hadn’t come to Texas with the intention of forming a romantic entanglement with the professional golfer. It hadn’t even crossed her mind. Fine, she was attracted to him. And baths made her feel more sensual than usual. The fact remained that this was not on the agenda. There was the not-so-little matter of rebuilding her pro shop.

Furthermore, they had this man’s career to resurrect.

When he had said near kisses wouldn’t happen again, she should have been relieved.

“Good?” Wells echoed, before quickly shaking his head. “I mean, right. Good. Our arrangement might be unusual, might be temporary, but the fact remains that I am employing you, Josephine. How I perform determines your paycheck.”

“I agree. The lines are blurry. Nothing good can come from blurring them even more.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘nothing good,’ but I get what you’re saying.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘nothing good,’ either. Maybe kissing would feel good. Who knows? Maybe I’m the best kisser you’ve ever met in your life. You’re not going to find out.”

“Definitely not,” he rasped, clearing his throat hard. “Hold on . . . what?”

“Let’s get a good night of sleep and kick some butt in the morning.”

She held up a hand for a high five. He observed it with a look of pure disgust.

“Eight fifteen tee time, belle. Don’t you dare show up late.” He backed down the hallway toward the elevator. “And don’t you dare arrive cheerful, either, or I’ll send you home.”

“No, you won’t.”

He stopped at the end of the hall. “No, I won’t,” he said, without turning around.

Then he was gone. Leaving Josephine staring after him in a daze.





Chapter Eleven




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.