Wells grinned. “I’m not.”
Tallulah grabbed Josephine by the wrist and hauled her toward a space between tables that was decidedly not a floor designated for dancing, but they were obviously determined to make it one. Both of the women gestured enthusiastically for Lissa to join them. When the eleven-year-old responded by bounding out to turn the duo into a trio, Burgess couldn’t seem to hide his shock. In no time, Lissa was stepping side to side between Josephine and Tallulah, if a little self-consciously.
The Beach Boys.
A little old-fashioned, uplifting, positive, revolutionary, warm.
It fit Josephine so well, he should have guessed it before.
“Wow. Look at you. You’re a goner,” Burgess remarked into his beer.
“I’m well past gone, man.” Wells managed to tear his eyes off a joyful Josephine long enough to spear the hockey player with a look. “Looks like you’re headed in the same direction. Enjoy the trip.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“The only part of your new nanny you’re supposed to check out are her references.”
Burgess seemed to realize he was staring at Josephine’s friend and ripped his gaze downward, growling into his beer. “She’s too young for me. Probably . . . eight? Ten years?”
“Yup.”
“Look, I play hockey, I raise Lissa, I stay home. I don’t people watch. I definitely don’t party,” he spat, like the very idea was laughable. “She’ll probably have a boyfriend—her age—before she’s fully moved into my place.”
“Okay.”
Burgess bared his teeth. “Stop giving me one-word responses.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“I don’t know what the redhead sees in you.”
Wells laughed. Just let the happiness escape him in the form of a sound without trying to smother or temper it and Josephine met his eyes, her own softening at the sight of him enjoying himself. “Me either, man, but I’m not questioning it.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
They finished in eighth place at Torrey Pines with five under par.
Out of 128 golfers.
Not too shabby. Especially when Josephine did the math on 50 percent of those winnings, got overwhelmed by the six figures of it all, and immediately attempted to give it all back while they packed their suitcases to return to Florida.
“It’s too much, Wells. I can’t accept it,” she called through their open adjoining doors.
His chuckle drifted into her room. “You can.”
“No, thank you.”
“You have two options, belle. Take the money you earned. Or leave it with me and watch in horror as I spend it on you in the most frivolous ways.”
Josephine paused in the act of sliding her toothbrush into her toiletries case. “Such as?”
“A skywriter comes to mind. Just think, you could see ‘Wells’s Belle’ written in the clouds over your apartment building every day for a month. That’s one option.” He wasn’t finished. “Maybe instead of buying every kind of bubble bath they sell at Bath and Body Works, I’ll just buy you a whole franchise. Maybe a private concert from the Beach Boys—a cover band, at the very least. You want to hear more possibilities?”
“No, that’s quite enough to prove you’re financially reckless.”
“See? Taking the money is the responsible thing to do. I can’t be trusted.”
Her phone signaled an incoming text and she picked it up off the bed, swiping to find a text from Jim. There were no words, just a picture of her father in front of the construction taking place at the Golden Tee, giving a thumbs-up—and Josephine’s stomach dropped to her knees when she saw how much progress they’d made in just five days.
Drywall had been installed, shelves were in place. There was a crate in the background and she could see it contained the freestanding fireplace—decorative only, because hello, this was Florida. The windows were new, stickers still on the glass. Boxes containing the new display stands and furniture she’d ordered stood waiting to be opened. By her.
The shop was going to be done sooner than expected.
If Josephine was in Palm Beach right now, she would be putting together furniture, directing traffic, ordering stock from their supplier. Getting ready to open the doors. But she wasn’t there—she was in California. And she’d agreed to fly into Miami and spend the week leading up to the Masters with Wells.
While the sweat cooled on their bodies in the dark last night, he’d kissed her neck and talked about all the places he wanted to show her in Miami. Restaurants, golf courses, the beach. His bathtub. When she’d hedged, preparing to tell him no, that she needed to get back to Palm Beach to check on the progress of the Golden Tee, he’d hit her with the knockout blow.