She waved a hand. “Oh, that’s not necessary, sir—”
“First of all, call me Kip, please.” Brooking no arguments, he pressed the key into her palm, nodding when she closed her fingers around it. “Second, I’m sure you’re worried about the others griping about double standards and favoritism and all that nonsense. If you catch wind of it, you send them to me. My granddaughters have schooled me well.”
Oh, she really liked this man. As soon as she got a free moment, she was going to call her dad and tell him about this conversation word for word. Minus the innuendo from Wells. “Thank you, Kip.”
Wells nodded, his expression one of rare gratitude. “We appreciate that, Chairman.”
The older man nodded and turned for the door, but not before patting Wells on the back. “Hang on to that one,” he said. “And give ’em hell out there.”
They both stared at the door for a beat after the chairman exited.
“I don’t suppose we have time to—”
“Nope.” Josephine sighed, glancing at the clock on the wall.
Wells hung his head a moment, before hitting her with open curiosity. “When he asked if you were keeping me in line, you could have made some smart-ass joke about my temper, but you didn’t. Why?”
“Easy.” With a wink, she sailed for the door. “No one trash-talks my golfer but me.”
She turned in the doorway to find him looking thoughtful—and maybe a little stunned—but he recovered quickly, forehead gathering in a frown. “And no one gets too close to my caddie but me. Stay beside me out there, Josephine.”
“Oh, I will. How else are people going to notice our matching outfits?”
His groan boomed down the hallway, followed by a peal of Josephine’s laughter.
Chapter Twenty-One
When they arrived at the first tee, a familiar figure stood beside a caddie, instructing the man on how to clean his balls properly. The sandy-blond superstar’s forehead was pinched in irritation, although when he turned to face the television cameras, his smile belonged in a mouthwash commercial. Buster Calhoun. What was he doing here?
“Please, belle. Tell me we’re not paired up with this shithead.”
“I . . . didn’t think we were.” Josephine gave the other caddie a sympathetic look as he cleaned the balls with a more vigorous approach. “There must have been a DQ. Or maybe a couple of dropouts? Something that made them restructure the pairings.”
That wasn’t true. Calhoun had dropped in the tournament ranks. Down to Wells’s level. But she didn’t want to say that out loud and remind him that, although they had a good chance of finishing in the money today, they had a long way to go before his name started appearing in the top ten again. Whereas the guys at the top of the leaderboard were going to walk away today with payouts in the millions or six figures, Wells would be doing well to take five. A far cry from his earlier days on the tour, but a vast improvement.
Now all she had to do was get him there. Get through this round without dropping a zillion shots and leave Texas with something he didn’t bring with him. Optimism.
Wells plucked off his cap and plowed five fingers through his hair. “Over fifty golfers remaining, and it had to be this leftover prom king.”
“I can hear you, Whitaker,” Calhoun remarked dryly over his shoulder.
“That was the plan,” Wells called back.
Josephine shook her head at Wells.
What? he mouthed, dropping into a stretch.
Dammit. This curveball was the last thing they needed this morning. Wells might be playing better by leaps and bounds, but his progress was shaky. Fresh. He was learning to walk again. Being paired up with the number one golfer in the world, whom he didn’t get along with, was the obstacle she hadn’t seen coming.
As Josephine filled in the pertinent details in her scorebook, a shadow appeared on the ground in front of her. Without looking up, she knew those perfectly white Nike cleats belonged to Calhoun. His name stitched into the swoosh sort of tipped her off. “Well, if it isn’t the woman of the hour, the lovely Miss—”
“Nope,” Wells shouted, coming up beside her. “She’s busy. Forever.”
Calhoun laughed. “Oh, come on now, Whitaker, I’m just making polite conversation.” His voice was as smooth as glass, but an ugly glint lurked behind his blue eyes. “I’ll admit to thinking you were some kind of gimmick when this tournament started. Or maybe bringing in an amateur caddie was just another way for Whitaker to belittle the tour. You’re the real deal, though, aren’t you, Miss Doyle?” He winked at her. “I’ve been paying attention.”