The barber whistled under his breath. “Brave.”
Josephine covered her wave of embarrassment with an eye roll.
“What?” Wells jerked a shoulder. “I’m not saying she isn’t . . .” He trailed off, visibly searching for a new direction. “I’m not saying she doesn’t have one. But if you had a boyfriend, I’m guessing he wouldn’t love the fact that you spend entire afternoons cheering me on so enthusiastically. That’s all I meant by guessing you’re single.”
“You’re saying I can’t be an avid spectator and have a boyfriend?”
He gave a brief headshake. “Not if I was your boyfriend.”
“No chance of that,” the barber commented. “You’re digging a pretty deep hole.”
“Could you mind your own business and just cut my hair?” Wells griped, before shifting in his seat and retraining his attention on Josephine. “Boyfriend or not, belle?”
“Not,” she said sweetly. “Thank God.”
Why did he seem weirdly pleased by that? “Now it’s my turn to ask what you mean.”
“I don’t really know what I mean,” she said honestly, after a short sifting of thoughts. Snippets of time she’d spent on dates or attempting relationships that never quite entered a comfortable phase. “I guess . . .”
Wells was watching her closely. “What?”
“Women are expected to be kind of . . . demure. Or grateful. Most of the time I’m neither of those things.”
“How is that?”
Josephine braced her shoulders against the wall and looked up at the ceiling, trying to put into words why she’d slowly let dating take a back seat to her job for the last couple of years. “I think it’s partly that I learned to challenge myself growing up, because no one was going to do it for me. I talked myself into trying things people cautioned me against—like playing sports or entering a dance contest. Challenging myself and succeeding made me feel good, so . . . I don’t know, maybe I falsely expect people to appreciate when I challenge them—”
“Trash-talk them, you mean?”
“Sometimes.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Also, I grew up on a golf course where the love language is trash talking. That’s how I communicate. And guys can dish it out, but they can’t take it.”
Wells snorted.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“No, really. What?”
The barber had stopped trimming Wells’s hair so he could listen to the conversation. Wells leaned back and raised a lazy eyebrow at the man, and he promptly got moving again. “You claim you want a guy who trash talks you, but your feelings would get hurt.”
“It sounds like you’re speaking from experience, Whitaker. Exactly how many women have you sent to therapy?”
“No idea.” He winced as the barber sharpened his blade. “I don’t conduct exit interviews.”
“Maybe you should start. It could be enlightening.”
“I’ve got a pretty good idea what they’d say. I don’t need to subject myself to—”
“Trash talk?” She let her smile expand. “Oooh. Yet another one who can’t take it.”
He let out an indelicate snort. “I can take it.”
She pursed her lips.
His features transformed with disgust.
A laugh wiggled around in her chest, begging to burst out of her mouth, but she put a lid on it. She’d wholeheartedly meant to needle him and wouldn’t be jogging back any of her statements anytime soon. However, she was having fun. Which was a lot more than she could say for the last, hmmm, eight men she’d gone on dates with. And there had been only eight, total, in her life.
She’d traded words with Wells on occasion at tournaments and their exchanges had been interesting. Snappy. Memorable. She couldn’t help but be kind of pleased to know they shared the same dynamic in real life. Not because she wanted to date him. Or because he was a shade sexier when he was in a foul mood—fine, several shades—but more so because his crabby disposition made her feel . . . open to challenge him. She’d never really experienced that before.
“Beyond that, I had this thing growing up. None of the other kids had it. So I doubled down to prove I was not only the same as everyone else, but stronger.”
Josephine couldn’t believe she’d said that out loud.
Actually, she wasn’t really sure she’d even acknowledged that truth to herself before. Now that she’d plucked at the thread, though, she felt compelled to keep tugging until the thought had been fully realized. “One time, in sixth grade, my class went on an overnight camping trip in Ocala. No parents. I think my mom and dad secretly got a hotel room nearby, actually, in case of an emergency, although they’ve never fessed up.” She shook her head. “Anyway, this one kid, Percy D’Amato, claimed he’d seen a black bear in the woods and everyone was freaked out.” She paused to remember. “I took out my flashlight and went out into the woods by myself. And you know what? There was a bear.”