“I . . . I mean, that sounds amazing,” she started, visibly caught off guard by his offer. And why wouldn’t she be? He’d just taken the postcoital leap from sex to spending nongolf time together. He’d prodded the relationship bear. At least she looked mildly interested in saying yes to coming to Miami. Right? “But I just . . . I really have to get repairs started on the shop—”
“Of course, you do,” Wells rushed to respond. “That’s . . . yeah. Obviously. The shop.” Wells slid out of Josephine with a wince and pulled up his pants. He might have taken a moment to enjoy looking at the mess he’d left on her inner thighs, but he was in this odd place of feeling possessive, bonded with her, exposed. Was this how women felt after sex? Emotionally skinned alive and needing some kind of label stamped on the whole situation that said permanent?
Fuck, it was terrible.
Wells backed into the small bathroom and found a hand towel, returning to clean her up, compelled by some almighty force to kiss her shoulders as he did so.
All right, she didn’t want to come to Miami. Maybe he could go to her? Help fix up the Golden Tee? But what if she wanted distance from him in between tournaments? Considering he was a mega asshole 90 percent of the time, that would be completely reasonable.
Why did the thought of Josephine wanting distance make him feel queasy?
He’d just test the waters to find out where they stood. “Today is Sunday. We’ll need to leave for the Dominican Republic on Wednesday. That doesn’t give you much time to sort out repairs on the shop.” He let out a breath he’d been holding. “Maybe you need some help—”
“The Dominican Republic?”
Josephine had gone pale.
Wells’s brows drew together. “That’s the location of the next tournament.”
“Oh my God.” She pressed a hand to her forehead, slumping back against the lockers. “Wells, I’m such a ding-dong.”
“I promise you, that’s not true.”
“I don’t have a passport.” She opened her mouth, closed it. “My parents were always afraid to take me out of the country in case we lost my supplies or had an emergency . . . I just . . . it never even occurred to me we’d have to leave the States.” She crossed her arms over her tits, like maybe she was cold, so he found her bra and shirt, handing them to her, watching in fascination as she worked tiny, little clasps and straps, eventually pulling the garment on over her head. “I totally understand if you want to find a different caddie—”
His insides nearly became his outsides. “What?”
“Just for the next tournament.”
Why did his pulse feel like it was going to pound straight through his skin? “It’s you and me, Josephine. Or nothing. Period.”
“But you won’t be able to play in the next tournament,” she pointed out. “There’s no way to get a passport in three days.”
“Then I’ll withdraw, and we’ll skip it.” He thought for a moment, which was very hard to do when she’d just proposed that he find another caddie. “California is on the schedule after the Dominican Republic. We’ll pick up there.”
“But Wells.”
“This conversation is over, Josephine.”
She glared up at him, stubbornness on full display, and he couldn’t stop himself from bringing their foreheads together, rolling right, then left. Licking gently into her mouth and kissing her, increasing the rhythm in degrees until their lips were moving at an eager tempo, her hands fisting in the front of his shirt in a way that proved she was affected as much as Wells, thank God. “A week and a half should give you time to make decent headway on the shop,” he said gruffly, their lips damp and rubbing together. “I’m only sorry you’re going to miss me so much.”
She laughed softly. Shook her head at him.
What the hell did that mean?
Was it laughable that she could miss him?
Probably.
Definitely.
Maybe he needed a week and a half to get his heart in check. Because he’d most definitely fallen harder than a motherfucker for this woman, and he had no idea if she wanted anything with him beyond a professional relationship . . . that occasionally involved life-altering, rating-scale-shattering sex.
How was he going to last a week and a half without knowing where they stood?
God, she’s beautiful. Those eyes. Her voice. Everything about her.
Nope.
A week and a half wasn’t happening. Life would be hell without some clarity. So he was getting some. Tonight.