He’d worked out more this week than he’d done since the start of his career. Studied the course at Torrey Pines, poring over yardage books and perusing highlights from last year’s tournament when, coincidentally, he’d sucked too hard to even make the cut. Not an easy thing to watch, but he was going to finish higher than he had in San Antonio. End of story.
Josephine was getting rich whether she liked it or not. Call it revenge for making him feel nothing but disappointment in his God-given right to beat off.
Finished working his core, Wells got to his feet and moved to the bench press. But instead of lying down, he slipped his phone out of his pocket. Whistling to himself, he pulled up a news segment he’d watched too many times. Not the one that had upset Josephine their last night in San Antonio. No, this one was from earlier that day. When he’d finished in the money and she’d jumped into his arms.
Please, God, don’t let anyone trace these nine hundred views back to my IP address. Did phones even have an IP address? He didn’t know, but surely the FBI could trace how many times he’d watched the same scene play out. How she’d smiled up at him with visible pride.
His jugular squeezed in the most alarming way.
What an angel.
Three more ridiculous days apart. Every second was absurd.
He was going to buy a new condo and move, just to have something to do besides working out and watching YouTube clips and calling Josephine’s father, for Chrissake.
Wells hauled back, preparing to throw his phone across the room.
He stopped short when it started to ring.
No joke, he almost fell off the leather bench, thinking Josephine might be calling. She changed her mind about taking time apart. She’s coming to Miami and I’m about to raid a fucking Bath & Body Works to get ready for her.
It wasn’t Josephine, however.
It was Burgess Abraham. Also known as Sir Savage.
His professional hockey–playing friend, though neither one of them would admit they were friends. It was a completely healthy relationship.
Wells tapped the button to answer. “What?”
A low grumble of sound filled the small home gym. “Someone’s in a mood.”
“That’s right.”
“I live with a moody eleven-year-old now. Believe me, I don’t need your shit, too.”
Wells watched his own eyebrows rise in the mirror. “Your kid is living with you now? Like, full time?”
“Part time. And yet the whole apartment never stops smelling like Sol de Janeiro.”
“What the hell is that? And how are things with her mom?”
“I didn’t call to talk about this.” Burgess sighed.
Wells chuckled. “Who’s moody now?”
“Go to hell.”
“Nice to hear from you, too.” Wells switched the phone to his other hand. “Are you coming to Torrey Pines this week for the tournament?”
A hum came down the line. “I don’t know. Do eleven-year-old girls like golf?”
“Christ, I don’t know.” Wells paused, trying to swallow the protrusion forming in his throat. “Josephine probably liked golf when she was eleven.”
Even though Burgess didn’t make a sound, Wells had a feeling he was amused by the abject misery in his tone. “Ah. The caddie.”
Wells grunted.
Burgess made a thoughtful sound. “Can you ask her if it’s advisable to bring Lissa to the tournament?”
“I could if she was here.” He dug a knuckle into his eye and twisted. “Which she is not.”
“You don’t sound very happy about that.”
“Nope!”
The hockey player was silent for several seconds. “She the one?”
“The one what?”
“Really?” Leather creaked in the background. “Don’t make me say it.”
“I’m afraid I need clarification.”
Burgess cursed under his breath. “This always happens to me. The young people in my life think I’m wise because I’ve got a few gray streaks in my beard and I get stuck explaining romance and giving advice on how to handle women, when I’m obviously not qualified to do either one of those things.”
“Hence the divorce.”
“Remind me why I stay in touch with you?” Before Wells could answer, Burgess kept going. “Is she the one? As in, the one you want to be with forever. Or until she asks for a divorce with no warning, whichever one comes first.”
Wells stared hard at his reflection in the mirror.
Was Josephine the one? It hadn’t occurred to him to think of her that way, because he’d never expected to find the one. Hell, he’d never considered that the one existed. That term was a bullshit romantic notion that was used to sell Valentine’s Day cards, right? But his bones were telling him—and they were dead certain—that he could spend the rest of his life walking the planet and never come across anyone that made him feel a fraction of the way Josephine did. Being away from her was making that all too obvious. “Yes. She’s the one. Minus the divorce.”