Everything inside Josephine went on the highest of alerts, her nerve endings blaring like miniature alarms, her mouth parting with the sudden desperation to inhale his exhales, breathe him in, despite the argument taking place. His body was so firm and hot against hers, his height and strength making her wonder if he could do anything but manhandle a woman in bed. Would he try to be gentle and lose it toward the end? Or never bother with gentle at all?
“You don’t want games? Fine. I wasn’t visiting anyone in Palm Beach. I came for you.” Those four words glazed her eyes and made her heart twist like a crank. “I’m sorry I hung up on your friend,” he said, very precisely. “I was standing there listening to all the reasons I knew you were going to fucking quit, belle—”
“I’m not,” she whispered, battling the urge to either bite his mouth or kiss it. Or both.
“We’ll see.”
Like, was he . . . not going to kiss her?
People didn’t engage in mere conversations with their mouths an inch apart. Right?
Maybe he really wanted to drive home his apology?
Goodness. His eyes were . . . so beautiful and rich from this distance, his hand so assertive in her hair that she couldn’t help wanting to offer him the whole package. Even if she was mad. Maybe because she was mad.
With his eyes fastened on her mouth, he slowly dragged his tongue along the inside of his bottom lip. The breadth of his chest dipped and swelled. “Get some rest,” he rasped. “You have a long day of putting up with me tomorrow.” He released her with obvious regret and stepped back. “I’ll wear my tightest pants.”
“Thanks,” she said, dazed. “I mean—”
“Good night, Josephine.” He turned and swaggered down the hall. “Enjoy watching me go. You earned it.”
“I take it back. I quit.”
His booming laughter echoed as he entered the elevator, then was gone altogether.
Josephine all but sleepwalked into the room, the words I came for you repeating in her head until she finally fell asleep.
Chapter Thirteen
Wells stood outside the bag room Friday morning, arms crossed, index finger tapping against his opposite elbow. Josephine was in there and he needed a word before day two got underway.
Well. Technically, he didn’t need a word. He didn’t owe anyone explanations.
So . . . what. After last night and the way she’d called him out in an eerily accurate manner, he wanted Josephine to understand him better?
That didn’t make a lick of goddamn sense, either.
Except that if she understood him better, there was a chance their golfer-caddie relationship could become stronger. He’d never given a second thought to that kind of thing in the past. Wells played how he wanted. He didn’t need a second opinion when it came to hitting a ball into a hole. He just got it done. Except that he wasn’t getting it done anymore.
And that suddenly mattered a lot, because when he lost, so did Josephine.
Of course, that had been the same deal with caddies in the past, but he’d never taken anyone on exclusively. His caddies of tournaments past were well established and had financial security. Other options. This was different.
The other not-so-tiny detail that set Josephine apart from his former golf partners was that he wanted to fuck her so bad, he’d woken up growling her name and thrusting in his closed fist. Imagining her auburn hair spread out on his pillow, her nails scraping down his back, her tits bare and bouncing. Damn, he’d come as hard as a bullet train. And truth be told, he’d felt guilty as sin about it afterward, especially considering he was her boss, for all intents and purposes.
But doubly so, because he’d ruined her night.
Hung up on her best friend.
Even now, thinking about what he’d done—and her devastated reaction—made his chest feel like a hollow cavity. He’d spent three hours last night tracking down an email for Tallulah at the research facility and God himself couldn’t keep Wells from making up for that mistake. No matter how long it took. Otherwise, he’d be haunted by the memory of Josephine’s unshed tears until the day he died.
A totally normal way for a golfer to feel about his caddie.
Wells dragged a hand down his unshaven face. One more minute of waiting and he was going in there to get her. Why was it taking her so long to collect his bag?
Finally, the door opened and there was Josephine, ducking beneath the arm of the man who was holding it open for her. Same guy she’d been sitting with at the bar last night.
Was something going on there?