“Why are you standing out here?” Danger flickered in his eyes, muscles tensing, as though preparing for a fight. “Are they not letting you in?”
“No, nothing like that. I was just taking a second.”
He relaxed. Slightly. “Why do you need a second?”
There was no way on God’s green earth that she was going to tell her boss she was having a rare moment of intimidation. He needed to have full confidence in her now or he wouldn’t be able to trust her out on the course. “I was admiring the plaque.”
“Josephine, you’re such a fucking golf nerd.”
“I know.” She took a hard swallow. “Meet you down there?”
“Yeah.” He started to move, then stopped. “Do you want me to ask the tournament director for a separate bag room? No one would question it. And I guess . . .” He rolled a shoulder. “I would prefer it.”
“Why?”
“Might be some shirtless guys in there.” He glared at the door, then Josephine. “Just so we’re clear, this is not a jealousy thing. I’m just trying to preserve your modesty.”
“My hero,” she breathed. “Protecting my innocent nature one hairy nipple at a time.”
“Quit that.” He adjusted his stance and hesitated before asking, “Do you not like hair on a man’s chest, or . . .”
Why was he asking? Did he have a lot of the stuff?
Did he like it when a woman twisted it? Or would he rather twist a woman’s hair?
The breath seemed to get trapped in her lungs until she could slowly let it out.
Whatever Wells had underneath his shirt, he probably owned it. Just swaggering around in unbuttoned jeans, wet hair, and bare feet like a cowboy after a one-night stand, the very picture of confidence.
“I don’t deem men dateable or undateable based on body hair,” she said, trying successfully to rid herself of that far too appealing vision. “But I am very picky about feet.”
A dark eyebrow shot up. “Feet?”
“Yup.”
Briefly, his attention dropped to his cleats. “What are your judging criteria?”
“It’s not really something I can put into words,” she mused. “Cleanliness is very key, obviously, but . . . I don’t know. I guess I’m not overly partial to those long, skinny bones being visible at all times.” She shivered. “It helps that every man in Florida wears sandals.”
“That way, you can weed out the poor bony-footed saps.”
“Precisely.”
Frowning, he shook his head at Josephine. “Christ.”
Ignoring his obvious disapproval, she tipped her head toward the door. “You know I have to go in there or I’m going to be called a high-maintenance princess for the rest of the tour.”
Wells was already nodding. “That’s the only reason I didn’t already ask for the separate bag room when I entered us. It would have been bullshit, belle, but I didn’t want you having to deal with that. And let’s face it, I’d probably break someone’s nose and get us booted.”
For some reason, his use of the word “us” flushed her with warmth. As did his protectiveness of her. Funny, she always thought a man threatening violence on her behalf would be a turn off. Coming from Wells, it only made her feel embarrassingly giddy. “I’m glad you didn’t ask for a separate room.” She pushed at his shoulder. It didn’t budge an inch. “Go take some practice swings. I’ll try to survive the hairy-nipple forest.”
“Is that before or after the bony-foot fountain?”
And so, Josephine was giggling like a middle schooler as she walked into the bag room. When a hush spread through the packed gathering of dudes, she wasn’t thinking about their estimation of her. She was wondering if Wells had timed his visit and made her laugh on purpose, so she wouldn’t be nervous entering the testosterone zone. That wasn’t possible.
Was it?
Josephine scanned the wall for Wells’s name, which would appear over a designated locker holding his clubs, along with her official uniform.
“Over here, Josephine,” called a familiar voice.
Ricky, the caddie she’d met at the party last night. He stood toward the back of the bag room, indicating the locker beside his own.
“Thanks,” she murmured, sidling up beside him and opening the door to find a fresh, white mesh vest with the name Whitaker on the back. Her inner fangirl must still have been lurking deep down, because a squeal threatened to burst from her throat. Forcing herself to be all business, she tugged the loose vest on over her head, satisfied that it paired well with her pleated black skort, and she shouldered the heavy leather bag. “Are you heading down?”