“Hello.” Josephine pushed down the handle of her carry-on suitcase. “I’m checking in. I’m caddying tomorrow for Wells Whitaker.”
A good half of the conversations in the room seemed to die at once.
The woman’s kind expression froze on her face, her eyes ticking to the rest of the room briefly, before landing back on Josephine. “Wells Whitaker. I just want to make sure I heard you correctly. The acoustics in here can be a challenge.”
“That’s all right. Yes, I said Wells Whitaker.”
“Oh.” A jerky nod. The poor woman was probably pressing a button beneath the table to alert security. Silence was spreading in the room like a ripple in a pond and all Josephine could do was stand there, bite the inside of her cheek, and let the fire climb the back of her neck. What had she done? Flown all the way to San Antonio after two text messages? To caddie for a highly unreliable man? “Okay, let me just pull up his information . . .” The woman reared back in her seat. “Oh! Here he is. I thought . . . well, I didn’t know he was competing.” She scanned the screen for a moment. “You’re Josephine Doyle?”
The air flat-out vacated her lungs.
It was real. This was really, actually happening.
“Yes, that’s me.”
The woman nodded, giving her a once-over that was almost . . . proud? “Well. I’ll definitely be tuning in to watch tomorrow, Josephine.” She turned to face a rolling file cabinet behind her, seeming surprised to find a blue folder with Josephine’s and Wells’s names printed on the top. She handed it across the desk with a flourish. “Here is your schedule for the next five days. Your official pass should be in there, to be worn around your neck at all times during competition. You’ll need it to gain access to the caddie locker room, where you’ll find your uniform tomorrow morning. There’s also the almighty scorebook in the folder, course yardage charts, and some drink tickets for the welcome cocktail party tonight.”
“Welcome cocktail party?” Josephine repeated. That explained the dress.
“Why yes, it’s tradition. We have to give the golfers a chance to rile one another up before they tee off. Makes things interesting.” She reached across the desk and gave Josephine a conspiratorial arm squeeze. “Don’t let them rattle you.”
“I won’t.” Easier said than done. She could still feel a dozen sets of eyes piercing into her back. “Do you know if Wells has arrived?”
“Impossible. I would have heard everyone gossiping like middle schoolers.”
“Or alerting the local authorities.” Her new friend laughed, and Josephine gave her a grateful look. “Thanks for your help.”
“There’s more where that came from. I’m Beth Anne and I’ll be here all week.”
Josephine turned from the desk to find the entire room full of caddies staring at her.
Some of their smirks were curious, others were an obvious intimidation tactic, but they were all smirking in one way or another. If they’d overheard she was caddying for Wells, their reaction wasn’t the least bit surprising, since he’d won the unofficial award for Biggest Dick in Golf five years running.
One of the reporters had noticed interest spiking in Josephine’s direction and was furiously flipping through her notes, obviously trying to make sense of the newcomer, and Josephine’s head swam at the very idea of being questioned by the press, so she tucked the folder beneath her arm, yanked up the handle of her carry-on, and beelined for the exit.
Josephine arrived at the buzzing hotel lobby a few minutes later, intending to check in and get the key to the cheapest room in the resort, which she’d booked earlier in the week. Leaving that sort of thing to Wells didn’t seem wise and she wasn’t going to lose this opportunity over a few hundred dollars.
But when she gave the clerk her name, he only looked at her in confusion.
“I have two reservations for you, Miss Doyle.”
“Oh.” A tiny bit of pressure ebbed from her chest. “He did it. He booked me a room.”
“Yes . . .” The young man’s eyes ticked between her and the computer monitor. “I’m going to go ahead and give you the room I think will make your stay most . . . comfortable.”
“Great.”
Five minutes later, Josephine stepped into the most palatial, over-the-top hotel room she’d ever seen in her life. No, it couldn’t even be termed a “room.” It had three seating areas.
“Three?” She let go of her suitcase just inside the door and wandered through the suite in a daze. “But I only have one butt,” she muttered.