Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)(93)

Was it his imagination or did Josephine’s smile falter a little bit?

Yeah. Definitely. But the change had been fleeting. Maybe being the subject of their question had just caught her off guard, because she was back to being her usual serene self now. “Why don’t you ask her?” Wells jerked his chin toward where Josephine hovered inside the entrance. “She just showed up.”

Every head turned at once.

A few camera flashes popped. Murmurs carried down the rows of reporters.

Someone in a headset rushed out onto the stage with a second chair and Wells stood, holding it for her. “And it’s her birthday week, so everyone better have something to say about it.”

A chorus of baritone happy birthdays rose from the gathered media while Josephine smoothed her dress and climbed the three stairs onto the stage. “Hey,” she whispered, her green eyes turning any remaining waves inside Wells into a placid lake. “I was going to come see you last night, to say thank you, but Tallulah and I didn’t stop talking until they closed down the bar. Like, we were physically removed.” She took a shallow breath and released it shakily. “Wells, I’ll never receive a better present as long as I live. I don’t know what to say.”

He didn’t, either.

Who had filled his chest with sand?

“Uh-hmm.” He grunted. Pulled her chair out farther. “Nice dress.”

Her sides shook with silent mirth. “Thank you.”

Another grunt, as they both took their seats.

Jesus, are you okay?

Was he feeling unbalanced because he hadn’t kissed her yet?

“Miss Doyle! Do you think you’ll inspire more women to become caddies on the PGA Tour?”

“I hope so.”

“How has the reception been toward you on tour?”

“No complaints.” She hedged. “I mean, there’s always a little ball-busting in the locker room setting, but it helps that I don’t have any balls to bust.”

Laughter boomed through the tent—and some of it came from Wells.

There was nobody like Josephine.

In the wake of her joke, she turned and smiled at him, her eyes twinkling like twin lakes beneath a sunset, and he lost his ability to speak.

I’m in love with you, Josephine.

“I’ve got a question for both of you,” said a man standing at the back of the tent. “The internet seems pretty determined to prove you’re a pair on and off the golf course. How do you feel about the speculation about your relationship?”

Wells’s ability to speak came roaring back. There was his opening. He leaned forward to speak into the group of microphones. “She’s my professional partner. My equal partner. That’s the only relationship that concerns anyone in this tent.”

“What do you mean by ‘equal partner’?” pressed the reporter.

“I mean, she’s just as responsible for any success out there as I am.”

Several beats of silence followed. They were visibly nonplussed.

“Are you going to give her fifty percent of the winnings, too?” asked the man, dryly.

Skeptical snorts followed that question. Most of the press, however, looked peeved by the reporter. A couple of them even threw crumpled-up paper cups at the man, which he batted away.

“Wells . . . ,” Josephine whispered. “Ignore him.”

He covered the microphone with his hand. “Do you trust me?”

Her brow wrinkled. “Of course.”

Victory bobbed in his throat. She’d said it faster this time than last time.

Wells dropped his hand from the microphone. “I don’t give her anything. She earns it. She’s that good at reading a course. Making calls based on strengths and weaknesses I didn’t even know I had. Hell, her drive is better than mine. To say I’m lucky to have her on my team would be an unforgivable understatement.” He pressed his thigh against hers, where no one in the tent could see. “That’s why I am giving her fifty percent of my winnings.”

Silence abounded.

Josephine’s head turned slowly, her eyelashes fluttering a mile a minute.

Everyone started talking at once, taking pictures and shouting questions, but he didn’t have time for any of that. He needed to be alone with his girl.

“No more questions, you beady-eyed pack of vultures. We’re out of here.” He stood abruptly, sending his chair skidding across the podium, and waited for Josephine to rise, as well.

Which she did. On visibly wobbly legs.

He tried to gauge her reaction. Did she understand why he’d done it? She’d asked him to refrain from trying to correct the media’s misconception of her and her so-called victim/hero relationship with Wells, because he might make it worse. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t stand by and let people believe Josephine wasn’t the hero in this situation. And he hoped, maybe, once people stopped seeing her otherwise, their relationship could thrive out in the open.

Not now, obviously. Someday.

But Wells was shocked down to the soles of his feet when—right there in front of everyone—she reached out and took his hand, winding their fingers together tightly. Lights flashed, feet stomped, more questions were shouted, but they ignored all of it, communicating with nothing but their eyes.

I can’t believe you did that, said hers.