And he’d swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker.
A lot of things occurred to Wells at once. The fact that he really liked Josephine, probably too much, was first among them. Second, he started to wonder if he might grow to trust her. Like, actually trust her. One of the reasons he never kept a caddie around for long was his inability to believe that （a.） someone might know more than him. Or （b.） want the best for him.
The one time he’d experienced those things was with Buck Lee. The one time he’d trusted anyone had been with his mentor, too. But Buck’s friendship had been conditional. Dependent on Wells’s continuing to win.
Wells swore he’d never place that kind of faith in anyone again.
And he wouldn’t.
But for the first time in a long time . . . he was tempted.
In more ways than one.
Chapter Ten
Walking into the welcome party for the Texas Open was Josephine’s version of going backstage at the Grammys. It was a veritable who’s who of golf. The athletes she’d been watching either on television or from the sidelines were suddenly inches away, yucking it up in business casual, surrounded by tasteful sconce lighting and vases of lush, white peonies. In the interest of being honest with herself, no one revved her fangirl engine like Wells Whitaker, her perpetually aggravated escort, but he didn’t need to know that.
Now that she was his caddie, any fanlike behavior would be unprofessional.
After five years of devotion, however, she couldn’t quash Whitaker fever completely, so she’d painted a tiny tribute on her toenails, just to keep the spirit alive. Which was safe, because there would never be a situation where he saw her barefoot.
Er . . . another one, anyway.
She’d make sure of it.
Caddying on the PGA Tour was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and she wouldn’t blow it by noticing . . . things about Wells. Things about him she never would have known before spending some time with him. For one, he was very sensitive about his former mentor. When the topic of Buck Lee came up in conversation, he looked down at the ground. Like an automatic tic. Another trait she’d noticed was that Wells did nice things, like accompany her to the party, offer her a dream job, check her mini fridge for juice . . . but he seemed to feel the need to balance out those kind deeds with a lot of growling and complaining.
Josephine’s thoughts were interrupted when Wells plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray and handed it to her, gruffly asking the waiter for a nonalcoholic beer. He raised an eyebrow at Josephine, as if inviting a comment, but she only returned his stare.
“Thank you,” she said, setting the flute down on a nearby table. “But I’ll pass tonight. There’s a dance floor and no one wants me to end up there.”
“Oh,” he said, coughing. “I disagree.”
“No, really. It’s a whole situation.”
“As your employer, I should know up front what we’re dealing with.”
They traded a silent look over the word employer. Their relationship, as it was now, didn’t necessarily feel like a boss-employee relationship, but that could very well change in the morning once competition started. Josephine let out a breath. “There is only one musical act that can make me dance. If that group comes on, it’s finger guns and hip thrust city.”
This was the closest to laughing that she’d ever seen Wells. “You know I’m going to ask which band.”
“And I told you, you’re going to have to work for things to tease me about.”
“It’s the Spice Girls or something, isn’t it?”
“Cold.”
“Timberlake.”
“Freezing. You’ll never get it. Sorry.” Josephine pursed her lips and looked around the room, noticing for the first time that nearly every head was turned in their direction. “I guess it’s going to be up to us to mingle, since none of your friends are approaching.”
Wells accepted the nonalcoholic beer from the waiter and tipped it back, drawing Josephine’s attention to the strong lines of his throat, before she determinedly dragged it away. “You think I have friends?” He used the back of his wrist to swipe moisture from his upper lip. “That’s adorable.”
“There isn’t even one person in this room you can tolerate?”
“I’m tolerating you, aren’t I?”
She couldn’t possibly be sensing a flutter in her belly over that. Tolerating someone didn’t pass as a compliment. “Besides me.”
“Nope.”