She fumbled the muffin. “You’re going to . . . call my dad to talk golf?”
Wells shrugged. Bit into his muffin. “Purely to brag about my genius play.”
“Right. I’ll text you.” Backing away, she gave him a little wave. “See you at tee time.”
“Yup.” He tipped his chin at her as they parted ways. “Is it Rihanna that makes you dance?”
“Nope.”
“Something disco era, like the Bee Gees?”
“Wrong.”
He cursed as she disappeared. Which freaking band?
The text arrived as Wells was crossing the threshold into his room. Of course, it was accompanied by an abundance of smiley face emojis. He waded through the cheerful yellow circles and tapped the number, holding the phone to his ear. Both of Josephine’s parents answered on the second ring. Was this a . . . landline?
“Yes, hello. This is Wells Whitaker.”
Silence.
“Is everything okay with Josephine?”
Oh God, they thought he was calling with bad news. Not surprising, since he sounded like an undertaker with bronchitis. Which probably had something to do with how unnatural it felt to do something for purely unselfish reasons.
He hadn’t always been this self-centered, had he? No, toward the beginning of his career, he’d routinely volunteered at local after-school programs, mostly for troubled youth, since he’d been one of them once upon a time. He’d sent tour tickets to his uncle every time he was in Florida. At the very least, he hadn’t snarled at everyone he met. But when his game started to decline two years ago, he’d taken a wrong turn. Well, maybe being around Josephine was pushing him back in the right direction.
Sure, he was out of practice caring about anyone but himself. But he couldn’t help but watch Josephine give herself insulin and wonder if she couldn’t use a second set of eyes. Not help, necessarily. Just some backup. Even if he was totally out of his depth.
Maybe he needed to walk past the hole a little, instead of being so limited.
“Josephine is fine, apart from her terrible taste in muffins.” He walked to the window and looked out over the course, his gaze dropping to the hole where he’d stood only minutes earlier with his caddie. “First of all, please don’t let her know I called about this. As far as she knows, we talked about Pebble Beach.”
A slight pause. “Sure, son,” her father replied.
“Second . . .” He swiped off his ballcap and scrubbed at his forehead. “Could you tell me what I need to know to help her take care of herself? Please.”
Josephine’s mother burst into noisy tears.
Great. I’m already regretting this.
But he didn’t, really. Not even a little.
Chapter Twelve
Josephine stood outside of the door to the “bag room,” so marked with a golden plaque, where caddies arrived to retrieve their golfer’s clubs before tee off. Loud laughter reached her from the other side of the door. All men. Obviously, she’d known that would be the case—there were no other women caddying on the tour. Having grown up on a golf course, this male-dominated world was familiar territory. But she wouldn’t be working behind the counter of a pro shop today or giving someone’s teenager a golf lesson.
This was the highest rung on the professional ladder.
She’d absorbed every ounce of knowledge there was to soak in on this sport. She’d lived, eaten, and breathed it for years. Technically, though, one could make the argument that she hadn’t quite earned a spot this lofty—and she was positive that argument had already been made by the other caddies. Possibly even expounded on.
Deep breath.
Deep breath.
She would earn the right to be there. Starting today.
Josephine ran a finger over the golden plaque and started to push the door open—
“Hey.”
At the sound of Wells’s voice, her insides joggled. She turned to find him approaching, obviously having come from the player’s locker room, located on the other side of the clubhouse . . . and wow, time was doing nothing to dull the impact of him. She’d seen him only a matter of hours ago. And she’d seen him a ton over the last five years. But there was something about having all of that glowering energy directed at her that made certain parts of her anatomy bat their eyelashes. “Hey,” she responded. “I was just going to grab the bag and meet you at the starting point. I’m not late!”
A riot of laughter blasted through the door.
Wells looked at it. Then back at Josephine.