Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)(59)

She gulped. “Yes.”

“One second, Chairman,” Wells called, yanking his shirt back on and leaving it untucked so it covered the . . . situation. Then under his breath, “You old cockblocker.”

Josephine smacked him in the shoulder.

Wells took his time crossing to the door, unlocking it with a palpable air of resentment and holding it open for the chairman. The older man came through the entrance with brown eyes twinkling, set deep in his age-lined, russet face. “You’ve caused quite a stir, you two.” Kip eyeballed Wells. “For the right reasons, this time.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Collings,” Josephine said, trying to calm her flustered state.

“Nice to meet you, too, young lady.” He jabbed a good-natured finger at Wells. “You’re keeping this one in line, I hear.”

She maintained her smile. “He’s gotten this far. He can keep himself in line.”

She felt, rather than saw, Wells turn a surprised look on her.

“Right.” The chairman considered them both. “Well, whatever magic you two are making together, keep it up.”

“Oh, it’s up,” Wells muttered.

Josephine kicked him in the ankle. “Yes, sir.”

The chairman chuckled, obviously missing nothing, but far from scandalized. “Our viewership doubled yesterday with the news of this possible comeback. And I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but a young woman as a caddie? Hell, people find that mighty interesting. I can’t say I blame them after seeing you two in action, but it’s more than that. Man or woman or otherwise, Miss Doyle, you’re damn good at reading a course.” Collings patted his pocket and pulled out a key. “Speaking of which, I personally saw to it that you have your own bag room going forward. I’m sorry you’ve gone three days without enough privacy.”

She waved a hand. “Oh, that’s not necessary, sir—”

“First of all, call me Kip, please.” Brooking no arguments, he pressed the key into her palm, nodding when she closed her fingers around it. “Second, I’m sure you’re worried about the others griping about double standards and favoritism and all that nonsense. If you catch wind of it, you send them to me. My granddaughters have schooled me well.”

Oh, she really liked this man. As soon as she got a free moment, she was going to call her dad and tell him about this conversation word for word. Minus the innuendo from Wells. “Thank you, Kip.”

Wells nodded, his expression one of rare gratitude. “We appreciate that, Chairman.”

The older man nodded and turned for the door, but not before patting Wells on the back. “Hang on to that one,” he said. “And give ’em hell out there.”

They both stared at the door for a beat after the chairman exited.

“I don’t suppose we have time to—”

“Nope.” Josephine sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall.

Wells hung his head a moment, before hitting her with open curiosity. “When he asked if you were keeping me in line, you could have made some smart-ass joke about my temper, but you didn’t. Why?”

“Easy.” With a wink, she sailed for the door. “No one trash-talks my golfer but me.”

She turned in the doorway to find him looking thoughtful—and maybe a little stunned—but he recovered quickly, forehead gathering in a frown. “And no one gets too close to my caddie but me. Stay beside me out there, Josephine.”

“Oh, I will. How else are people going to notice our matching outfits?”

His groan boomed down the hallway, followed by a peal of Josephine’s laughter.





Chapter Twenty-One




When they arrived at the first tee, a familiar figure stood beside a caddie, instructing the man on how to clean his balls properly. The sandy-blond superstar’s forehead was pinched in irritation, although when he turned to face the television cameras, his smile belonged in a mouthwash commercial. Buster Calhoun. What was he doing here?

“Please, belle. Tell me we’re not paired up with this shithead.”

“I . . . didn’t think we were.” Josephine gave the other caddie a sympathetic look as he cleaned the balls with a more vigorous approach. “There must have been a DQ. Or maybe a couple of dropouts? Something that made them restructure the pairings.”

That wasn’t true. Calhoun had dropped in the tournament ranks. Down to Wells’s level. But she didn’t want to say that out loud and remind him that, although they had a good chance of finishing in the money today, they had a long way to go before his name started appearing in the top ten again. Whereas the guys at the top of the leaderboard were going to walk away today with payouts in the millions or six figures, Wells would be doing well to take five. A far cry from his earlier days on the tour, but a vast improvement.

Now all she had to do was get him there. Get through this round without dropping a zillion shots and leave Texas with something he didn’t bring with him. Optimism.

Wells plucked off his cap and plowed five fingers through his hair. “Over fifty golfers remaining, and it had to be this leftover prom king.”

“I can hear you, Whitaker,” Calhoun remarked dryly over his shoulder.

“That was the plan,” Wells called back.