She held a black rubber band above her shoulder. “Here.”
“Thank Christ.” He blew out a breath. “This part is stressful.”
“I know!”
“There are bumps no matter what I do,” he growled, wrapping the band, twisting, wrapping again, feeling like he was using someone else’s hands.
“Yup. They look like shark fins.”
A laugh bounded out of him. “Oh my God, Josephine, that’s exactly what they look like.”
Their gazes locked in the mirror and his heart whipped around like a car doing donuts. “You feel better, belle?”
“Yeah.” She turned her head slightly and kissed the inside of his wrist. “Thanks, Wells.”
No. He should be the one thanking her, right? She’d already started transforming him into a better golfer, but allowing him to help this morning? With something so personal and important to her? Fuck. That made him feel like a human. A human worth his salt.
Her faith sat welcome and heavy on his chest. And he wanted more of it.
Not knowing what to say, Wells leaned down and kissed the side of her neck, breathing through the need to do more. Touch her everywhere. His eyes closed on a rough exhale when she pushed her butt back into his lap. He gripped her hips and—
His phone rang in his pocket.
No. Noooooooo.
In tandem, they slumped, Josephine’s sweet ass ending its temptation campaign as she smirked at him in the mirror, moving slightly out of his reach.
Grating a curse, he pulled out his phone. Nate was calling. Again.
There could only be one reason.
Comeback.
Wells could already hear the word curling in his ear. Did he want to hear it?
For Josephine’s sake, yes. He did.
But for him? All that attention and accolades were fleeting. He knew that all too well now.
What had Josephine said to him a few days ago? It’s not always about the next thing you do. Sometimes it’s about what you already did. He’d been thinking about that a lot. And maybe . . . she was right. Maybe he could learn to let go of the pressure that came from comparing his rank to everyone else. Being critical of his swing. Stressing about the next tournament before he even finished the one he was playing. Maybe he could be in the moment, enjoying the game for what it had once been for him.
An escape.
“It’s my manager,” he explained.
“Take it.”
Wells flipped his phone over in his hand a few times, then called Nate back. Finally.
“It’s about time, champ!” greeted the bastard.
“Okay, that greeting was transparent, even for you. What do you want?”
“Is that how you talk to an old friend?”
“Last time we spoke,” Wells drawled, his eyes locked on the pulse of Josephine’s neck, “you called me a royal prick.”
“Ah, ah, ah. I said you behaved like one.”
Wells implored the ceiling for patience. “My practice round is starting. Why are you blowing up my phone?”
“You want to get down to brass tacks. Sure.” Keys clicked in the background. “I bring you a wealth of opportunities this morning, young man. And just to get the ugly fine print out of the way up front, I’ll be collecting fifteen percent on all of these sexy opportunities.”
“Wow.” He ran a hand down Josephine’s ponytail, smirking when she mouthed the word “fetish.” “Too bad you don’t work for me anymore.”
“We can change that quite easily, comeback kid.”
Wells sighed.
“Have you turned on the Golf Channel lately? Hell, even ESPN is putting coverage on you, man. The big turnaround story. You’re hitting the ball like Wells of yore—and you’ve got a beautiful caddie, to boot? The media is lapping it up like hungry little kittens.”
“They . . .” His pulse spiked like he’d just fibbed on a lie detector test and his arm wrapped around Josephine’s waist of its own volition, pulling her back against his chest. “What are they saying about Josephine?”
“Nothing bad, obviously. There’s nothing bad to say!”
Josephine turned in his arms and tipped her head toward the bedroom. “Going to get ready,” she whispered. “Finish your call.”
He kissed her forehead, nodded.
Like a husband sending his wife off to work.
After the morning they’d shared, it just felt oddly . . . natural.
He waited until Josephine was out of earshot and he’d shut the bathroom door to continue the conversation. Because he knew Nate well and he’d recognized the man’s tone of voice. “What are they really saying about her?”