“Yes.”
“How do we fix it?”
“We don’t do anything. I do.”
“Okay, that’s fair.”
Silence landed hard.
A combination of things were happening with her—that he could see, anyway. Regret for snapping at him, anger with herself, overall aggravation, physical distress. So many emotions crossing her face at once, like watercolor paints running together—and it was probably a private moment, but Wells couldn’t seem to make himself leave.
“Can you handle this alone . . . without being alone?”
Her eyes slowly climbed to his in the mirror. “Sure,” she answered, guarded.
Relieved, Wells nodded.
“I know I’m making us late,” she said.
“That’s not important right now.”
She let out a breath, picked up the hairbrush, and put it back down. “I’ve given myself a correction, so I’m just waiting for my number to come back down. It will, but sometimes it’s slow. I can still function, though, so let me just get ready.”
“Let’s say we didn’t have to worry about making our practice time, because I’m a fucking golf god and practicing is for mortals. What else could you do to feel better?”
There.
A hint of a smile.
His pulse beat easier.
“I mean . . .” She shrugged. “Drinking water helps. And it’ll come down really fast if I run.”
He raised an eyebrow. Tipped his head subtly toward the main door.
“If you’re implying that you’d like to go for a run with me, no you don’t.”
“Why?”
“If you think I’m irritated now, watch me perform the activity that should be an option only if someone is chasing you with a hunting knife. Do you know your lungs release a little bit of blood when you run? They know it isn’t right.”
“I won’t say a word. We’ll just run.” He turned away from the bathroom and started to stretch, pulling his right heel up to his ass. “I’d really like you to feel better, belle,” he said casually, when he actually wanted to shout, Please feel better immediately. “You think I’m scared of a little irritation? There is a picture of me in the dictionary next to the word ‘irritation.’ And I’ve never once tried to save anyone from it, so why should you do me any favors?”
“That is a pretty good point.” She turned and leaned back against the bathroom sink, hesitating. “There is probably already a crowd outside. They’ll be watching us, wondering why we’re going for a random jog before tee off.”
Wells didn’t give a flying fuck what anyone thought, but . . . Josephine did. When it came to some things. Like her capabilities. Her strength. Needing a run for the sake of her health fell under both of those headings. She was strong because of her struggle, not in spite of it, but that was his belief. It didn’t necessarily match how she felt in a vulnerable moment. “Let’s run in the hallway. You don’t even have to change.”
She huffed a laugh. “Run in the hallway in a robe?”
“If it makes you feel better, I’ll go shirtless.”
A shoulder shrug from Josephine. “It wouldn’t hurt,” she mumbled.
“Stop trying to seduce me with flattery,” he said dryly, tossing his hat on the bathroom sink and stripping off his polo. “Come on.”
“My lungs are bleeding from excitement.”
Despite her irritable state, he didn’t miss the way she cataloged his chest and stomach. He might have even flexed a little, in the name of making her feel better. Whatever it took to get her out of the room and toward a fix—and he was not taking it for granted that she was allowing him to be part of the solution.
They positioned the brass hook to hold her door open, then stood side by side in the carpeted hallway, Josephine barefoot, Wells in the leather sneakers he usually wore until it came time to put on his spikes. “You ready?”
“No,” she said, starting to jog.
Hiding his smile, he caught up and kept pace with her. Down to the end of the hallway, where they touched the wall, turned and started back in the direction they’d come.
“Depeche Mode.”
“No,” she answered without missing a beat.
“Bad Bunny.”
“You’re casting a very wide net.”
“Give me the decade, at least,” he complained.
“Only because you’re shirtless.” She glanced over, lips pursed. “The sixties.”