The lack of space put them in close quarters. Enough that when the elevator jolted and began traveling downward, he had to brace a hand above Josephine’s head or risk their bodies colliding. From his vantage point, the bow of her upper lip was even more distinct. There was also a little freckle buried in the right side of her hairline. And God, her skin . . .
Christ. Get it together, man.
Now would be a good time to recognize one very important fact. Technically, Josephine worked for him. Meaning, he needed to stop wondering if she had a sensitive neck. Or if she’d touched herself in the bathtub. Shit like that was off limits. He might not be the most ethical of golfers—or human beings—but he would not take advantage of his position as her boss.
So if she could stop smelling like flowers and sneaking looks up at him with her beautiful green eyes, that would be fucking amazing.
“What pit of hell did the nickname Joey-Roo come from?” Wells grumbled.
He regretted his tone when she choked a little. “Oh. Well, they started calling me Joey when I was a baby, which as you know, is what they call a baby kangaroo. Hence, Roo.”
“Ridiculous.”
“It’s better than all of your nicknames.”
“Which are?”
“The Prick of Putting, the Doomsday Driver. And my personal favorite, Unhappy Gilmore.”
Someone behind him snorted. Another coughed.
Josephine bit her lip, her body shaking with mirth. Would she still be laughing if he backed her up tight to the wall and took over the job of sinking his teeth into that lip?
You’re not going to find out.
Although . . . was she thinking the same thing? His caddie’s gaze skated down to his lips, before zipping away, a flush creeping into her cheeks. Was he utterly insane for putting himself into a situation where he would be spending hours upon hours upon days with a woman he found this attractive, while also having her on his payroll?
“Wells,” she said huskily. “It’s our turn.”
He shot a look over his shoulder to find the entire elevator had been vacated and they were the only remaining occupants. Meanwhile he was still towering over Josephine in the corner. Music and laughter from the party had invaded the tiny space and somehow, he hadn’t heard a thing. Cursing inwardly, he backed up, gesturing for her to precede him.
“After you.”
“Oooh.” She sailed by with a smirk. “Careful, they’ll start calling you the Gallant Golfer, the Princely Putter—”
Wells snorted, catching up to her in one stride and walking beside her down the lantern-lit hallway. “I just don’t want to deny you the fashionably late entrance you so desperately wanted.”
“How long exactly are we going to dwell on this? Until you find something else to tease me about?”
They paused outside of the entrance to the ballroom, waiting for the group in front of them to give their names to the clipboard-toting young woman. “That sounds about right. Got anything good?”
“I’m a treasure trove of material, Whitaker, but you’re going to have to work for it.”
Wells suddenly wished he’d blown off the pointless party and taken Josephine to dinner, instead. Maybe it wasn’t too late? Sharing a meal with one’s caddie was the furthest thing from unusual. In fact, it was normal. Expected. And Wells was dead positive that he would enjoy talking to her more than anyone on the other side of those doors. “Listen, the food in there is going to be fancy and bite-sized. Maybe we should—”
Josephine gasped and gripped his forearm, her attention focused on something inside the event. “Oh my God, it’s Jun Nakamura.”
He was forced to switch gears. “What about him?”
“What about him? Oh nothing, just a couple of major titles.” Stars sparkled in her eyes. “His precision is incredible.”
She was . . . fangirling? For another golfer?
Envy dug into his throat like a rusty nail.
“What happened to Wells’s Belle?” he half-shouted.
“Maybe if he has an earlier tee time than us tomorrow, I’ll go see him in action. What do you think I should write on his sign?”
“Nothing, Josephine. You’re not making him a sign.”
Slowly, her mouth spread into a grin. “I thought you said you could take a little trash talk. The vein in your forehead leaves me skeptical.”
Wells stared down at her.
His heart dislodged itself from behind his jugular, moving back into place, but still pumping at an uncomfortable rate.
She’d been teasing him about cheering for another golfer.