Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)(53)

She slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

“It’s not funny. I’m asking you nicely—since nice shit is apparently so important to you—to please not go traipsing around the resort before sunrise anymore. Call me and I will come get you. Please.”

“Wow. I don’t know if traipsing is the right word . . .”

“Josephine.” Wells advanced on her, hesitating with a curse when their bodies were a breath apart. But then he pushed forward the remaining distance, flattening her against the door, making both of them exhale shakily, their bodies shifting together. Closer. “Let me be careful with you, belle. Let me worry without asking a bunch of questions, okay?”

“You hate questions,” she whispered.

“Yeah. But I really, really don’t hate you.” Eyes closed, he rolled his forehead against hers. “Deal with it.”

Why was it that this man saying he didn’t hate her was the equivalent of another man promising to build her a kingdom? “When you retire from golf, you could consider poetry.”

He made a frustrated sound, kissing her hard as he slapped both of his hands down on the door above her head. “If you make me wait one more second to hear your agreement to be careful, Josephine, I swear to God.”

“I don’t know,” she said, her breath beginning to shallow, need causing her thoughts to run together in one high-pitched, continuous note. “It’s kind of fun making you wait.”

Going still, he searched her eyes, and laughed low under his breath at what he saw.

Challenge. Excitement.

Wells looked up and down the hallway. Clearly checking for other guests.

Making sure they were alone.

Then in one swift move, Wells lowered his hips and pressed up roughly between her thighs, lifting her feet off the floor. “You like teasing me?” he rasped into her neck.

Did she?

Yeah . . .

“Maybe a little.”

“I could bring you inside,” he said, circling his hips slowly, making sparks dance in front of her eyes. “Convince you to give me my prize a day early.”

“You could try,” she gasped, the thick base of him rubbing her clit.

He stayed right there, pressing tight. Tight. Tight. Until she screamed in her mouth.

“I could succeed.” He swooped down and consumed her lips in a hungry kiss, drawing her tongue into his mouth with suction, then giving it back and licking deep, groaning with fervent approval. Snagging her bottom lip between his teeth with a growl before letting it go. “But I want to look you in the eye while I’m coming and know I fucking earned it. And I’m not talking about money, I’m talking about . . . you being proud. Of me.”

She could only stare at him, shaken. In fact, he seemed a little caught off guard himself. “I’m already proud of you.”

“Then I want more of it, Josephine.” He kissed her softly and tensed, wincing as he let her feet meet the floor again. “A lot more,” he said, stepping back and adjusting himself with a pained laugh. “I need to go before I change my mind. Are you going to stay put or not?”

Her nod was unsteady, thanks to all her bones transforming into gelatin. “You’re lucky there’s a bathtub.”

“There will always be a bathtub, Josephine.” He plowed his fingers through his hair again and turned, groaning up at the ceiling on his way to the elevator. “Good fucking night.”

The corner of her lips tilted. “Good night, Wells.”

She drifted into her room in a daze and plopped down on the carpet, staring into space, replaying the kiss while her fingers traced her lips. Was she falling for Wells Whitaker? Like the real man and not the persona she’d always admired from afar?

Yes.

Safe to say she was definitely slipping down a steep slope with no brakes.

There had to be good reasons to put them on, but in that moment, she couldn’t fathom a single one. Maybe she wouldn’t until one was staring her right in the face.





Chapter Nineteen




Wells knew something was wrong as soon as Josephine answered the door the following morning. Her ponytail was crooked and she sort of mumbled good morning. None of her chipper, insightful encouragement or words of wisdom. More like a muffled g’mornhey. Once again, she was wearing her white hotel bathrobe and her lack of actual clothing was going to make them late for their designated practice period. Intuition told him not to mention that.

Not this time.

This was not the Josephine he’d left blushing at her door last night.

“Everything okay?” Wells asked cautiously, entering and closing the door behind him.

“I’ll be ready soon,” she called from the bathroom.

Then she said something under her breath to the effect of some of us don’t get to just put on a fucking hat.

Wow. Tough but fair.

There was a lot of truth to that complaint.

Despite the risk of having a hairbrush leveled at his head, he rested his shoulder on the inside of the bathroom doorframe, watching in the mirror as Josephine fashioned another ponytail and ripped it back out, her arms falling back to her sides like they weighed a hundred pounds each. “Yes, but is everything okay, Josephine?”

“It’s stupid. I should know better.” She spoke very concisely. “I ordered room service last night and I didn’t give myself enough insulin for the burger bun. I always underestimate the carbs in burger buns. Always. And I woke up with my blood sugar in the three hundreds.”