Wells Whitaker was done with golf and everything that came with it.
Including green-eyed optimists who made him wish he could win again.
Chapter Three
Three weeks after quitting the tour, Wells cracked open one stinging eye and had no idea what day it was. It might have been June or December. For all he knew, he’d gone backward in time. He’d disconnected from reality as soon as he left that golf course in Palm Beach Gardens and returned to his condo in Miami. Drinking. Lord Jesus, there had been so much drinking, his lungs and guts felt like they were caked in fresh tar.
Despite the wicked stepmother of headaches currently crushing his skull beneath the toe of her boot . . . his limbs were kind of jumpy. An indistinct memory poked the back of his neck like a bony finger. He needed to get out of bed and do something. But what? There was no tee time, no practice round, no press conference. Nothing to do but get lit again.
Hurricane Jake.
“Fuck.”
His arm shot straight out to grab the remote control, his body twisting around in the sheets to sit up. There was a hurricane last night. Apart from some strong winds and lashing rain, he hadn’t really felt the effects in his high-rise condo. Last thing he remembered, it was going through Palm Beach and goddammit, he’d thought of her. Josephine. She lived there, right? My family owns a little pro shop nearby. He recalled her saying that. So if she didn’t live in Palm Beach, then close. Close enough to get hit.
And he must have been a stupid level of drunk, because he’d had the irrational worry that she might still be standing on that golf course watching him leave when the hurricane landed. A ridiculous notion that he wasn’t any less stressed about in the light of day.
He had no obligation to that woman.
It wasn’t as though he’d formally invited her to be his number one fan.
His only fan.
At this point, she’d probably started cheering for someone else.
Good.
Stomach gurgling with acid, Wells turned on the seventy-inch flat-screen opposite his bed and flipped to the news, his heart sinking like an anchor when the destruction appeared. The coast had been clotheslined by hundred-and-fifty-mile-an-hour winds, torrents of rain. Blackouts and flooding. Cars overturned. The sides of buildings had been ripped clean off.
Was she affected?
Wells muted the television and fell back against the headboard, his finger tapping anxiously on the remote. This wasn’t his problem. There were emergency services who helped people after weather disasters. Not to mention, he wasn’t in any shape to help anyone.
He needed the help.
Cautiously, he turned his swimming head and glanced around the room. Discarded clothing, bottles, glasses, and plates holding half-eaten food. He’d gone full rogue, abandoning his protein diet and exercise routine. Also, shaving and showering and productivity. A few nights ago, he’d forced himself to venture outside, but that decision had led to yet another bar fight with some clown who’d lost fantasy sports money thanks to Wells’s bad performance. So his right eye was purple and swollen. It provided little comfort that the other guy looked worse.
Getting sucker punched hurt like hell, but the brawl itself was a relief. He’d grown up fighting. In school, he’d spent more time in the principal’s office than the principal herself. An angry kid—that’s what he’d been. Resentful over being abandoned by his parents. Turbulent and hot-tempered.
Then Buck Lee had gotten ahold of him.
The summer Wells turned sixteen, he’d scored a job shagging balls at the local golf course and mainly, he’d been excited for an opportunity to silently mock the rich kids while he earned a few bucks. Where would he be now if he’d never picked up that driver and smashed a ball three hundred yards while Buck watched from the clubhouse?
Probably not sitting in a five-million-dollar condo.
Stressing about a girl he barely knew.
Wells’s Belle.
A pressing sense of responsibility had him growling and reaching for his phone. His manager had quit weeks ago and they’d had zero communication, but he’d bite the bullet for some information. Otherwise, he’d always wonder if something bad had happened to her on his watch—
On his watch?
“Stop acting like she’s your girlfriend. She’s a fan.”
Big, optimistic green eyes shining up at him.
I’ll stay right here until everyone comes back.
“Dammit.” Was his head pounding with the force of his hangover or was it something else? Wells didn’t know, nor did he care to explore the reason he felt a responsibility to a certain redhead. So he just dialed.