“No.”
“Do it,” she growled.
“Fine. Jesus.” Sighing with irritation, despite the ridiculous lightness in his sternum, Wells took out his phone and shut his eyes. “Now what?”
“Without opening your eyes, put your phone into the hole.”
“Sounds perfectly normal.” He tipped his head back to implore the heavens for patience, then gave in to the absurdity of it all, taking a few strides forward in the direction of the hole. When he judged himself reasonably close, he slowed down and shuffled forward at a slower pace, before bending over and—
“Mmmm,” Josephine hummed behind him, the noise dissolving into what sounded suspiciously like an appreciative sigh.
His lips twitched. “What was that, belle?”
“Nothing,” she said, way too quickly.
Wells tucked his tongue into his cheek to subdue a grin. Josephine was an ass girl. Good to know. He might not be the best golfer on this tour, but hell if he didn’t have the best butt.
“Set the phone down,” she instructed. “Let’s see how close you came.”
He dropped the device onto the grass and opened his eyes, dismayed to find himself a full two feet from the hole. “I already know I’m going to regret asking, but what was the point of this little exercise?”
She appeared in front of him, stooped down, and picked up his phone, placing it in his hands with a slap. “You could have walked past the hole, if you wanted. You didn’t have to stay between the pin and where you started. You’re not in the box. Look at this whole giant field . . .” Passion flickered in her green eyes and he couldn’t help but feel an answering spark inside himself. “Don’t limit yourself. Don’t live in a stressful little box. Go as far as you want. That was the point.”
With that, she gave him a cheerful smile, folded her hands behind her back, and walked away. Just dropped that mindfuck on him and skipped off toward the resort lobby entrance, like she hadn’t just dropkicked his brain.
“I’m going to get a muffin, if you want one,” Josephine called over her shoulder.
Goddamn right he wanted a muffin. After that eye-opening lesson, he wanted to eat enough carbs to kill an ox. And then another, equally pressing thought occurred to Wells and he found himself stomping after her in something of a daze. “You shouldn’t be by yourself when you’re wearing pajamas.”
Without halting her stride, she spun around, giving him a look that implied he was smoking the good stuff. “Giraffe pajamas are probably a great conversation starter.”
“You’re my caddie. I’m the only one you need to have conversations with.”
“Sounds bleak.” She pushed through the double doors that ran along the side entrance to the lobby, sauntering toward the coffee counter, where the employees were still in the process of setting up. “Can you order me a muffin while I do my stuff?” She scanned the glass case. “Cranberry orange.”
“They invented that flavor in hell, but sure.”
The kid behind the counter asked Wells what he’d like, but he was distracted by Josephine swinging around the small cross-body bag and taking out the green object that looked like a pen. When she uncapped it, he could see that it was a needle. Insulin. She was eating, so she had to give herself insulin so her body could process the carbs. How easily he’d thought about consuming a mountain of them without worrying how it would affect his body, the way it would Josephine’s. Biting her lip, she clicked a wheel on the end to a certain setting.
His heart lurched up into his mouth when she lifted her shirt and jabbed the needle into her stomach, two inches to the right of her belly button.
“Sir?”
“Uh . . .” Why couldn’t he swallow? Did taking the shots hurt? He’d never actually seen her—or anyone—do it before. “One cranberry orange muffin, one blueberry, and . . .” Coffee? he mouthed at her.
“Water,” she said back, smiling, tucking her tool back into her pouch.
A moment later, Wells handed Josephine her breakfast, wanting to offer her a lot more. Anything. Needing badly to make her life easier.
Maybe . . . he could?
Not that he would let her know. If Josephine realized he cared as much as he apparently did—according to the heart still stuck behind his Adam’s apple—things could get messy and complicated. His focus needed to be on winning for her.
“Listen,” he said, before they could part ways in the elevator. “Text me your father’s number. I forgot to tell him something about that shot I made at Pebble Beach.”