“Yes, I do know that about you.”
“Good.”
Leaving that single word hanging in the air, Wells waded into the water left standing in the shop, charting the damage from beneath a furrowed brow. Josephine was grateful for the break in conversation, because now that her initial shock over Wells Whitaker appearing out of the blue had worn off, she was remembering all the reasons she’d made the painful decision to relinquish her fangirl status.
True, fangirls didn’t quit. They were loyal to the end. But that day on the golf course, when he’d torn her sign in half, he’d ripped apart something inside her, too.
Apparently there came a point when a fangirl needed to be more loyal to herself.
And she didn’t deserve to be treated like yesterday’s garbage.
Her faith in that decision was stronger than ever that morning, faced with the potential loss of something that truly mattered—her family’s legacy and livelihood.
“Have you called the insurance company yet?” Wells asked, hands propped on his hips, slowly bringing his attention back to her. “Were they able to give you a timeline?”
“Um.” Oh no, her voice was shaking. She swallowed the thick feeling in her throat and looked down at her hands. “Um . . .”
“Hey.” He stabbed the air with a finger. “Uh-uh. Are you crying?”
“I’d give it a sixty percent chance,” she said on a sucked-in breath, blinking rapidly at the ceiling. “Can you please go?”
“Go?” She heard him shifting in the water. “I see what you’re doing here. You’re telling me to leave this time. You’ve gotten it out of your system, okay? We’re even.”
“I’m not keeping score. I just have a lot of important things on my mind and you are not one of them.”
He caught that statement on the chin, his jaw giving a sharp flex. “Tell me the important things on your mind,” he said in a lower tone.
“Why would I do that?”
“I’m asking you to.”
“Do you even remember what happened last time I saw you?” Her curiosity was genuine. Did he think he could just walk into her shop and demand that she detail the way her life had taken a catastrophic left turn? She couldn’t even tell her own parents. “Do you?”
Briefly, his gaze flickered down to the water. “Yes, I remember.”
“Then I don’t think it should come as a surprise that I’m kicking you out.” How symbolic that her attention should be drawn to a framed poster of Wells on the other side of the shop. His image was water damaged to the point of distortion. “I’m not your fan anymore.”
Chapter Five
Wells stared down at the green-eyed girl who was—very inconveniently—even prettier than he remembered, a corkscrew winding into his chest cavity. He kept his jaw tight, gaze unconcerned, but let’s face it, he was starting to get pretty damn concerned.
Unusual for him. To say the least.
Wells Whitaker didn’t need anybody. After his parents got jobs on a cruise ship and started sailing nine months out of the year, he’d been raised by his NASCAR promoter uncle, who didn’t take much of an interest in his nephew beyond allowing him to sleep on the pullout couch in his one-bedroom apartment in Daytona Beach. Wells had engaged in a lot more than the typical childhood mischief growing up, shoplifting and fighting his way to two school expulsions, and his behavior only escalated when his parents decided he wasn’t worth the constant aggravation.
After getting caught with a stolen bike he’d intended to pawn in order to buy a new pair of sneakers, he’d ended up in juvenile court and the judge had given him one more chance to turn his act around. Since he was sixteen, that included getting a job. Looking back, that judge could have come down a lot harder on Wells, and he appreciated what the man had been trying to do. Getting that job shagging balls at the local course had led to his career, his mentor-apprentice relationship with Buck Lee, and eventually his spot on the PGA tour.
And he’d let himself begin to need that friendship. That bond.
He’d allowed himself to need the roar of the crowd after sinking a putt.
But their attention had been quickly diverted to the newest hotshots on the tour.
At the end of the day, though, Wells was pissed only at himself. For believing that people were capable of anything unconditional. There were always contracts or understandings that allowed your colleagues and “friends” to wiggle out, if you turned up lacking one day. He’d fallen victim to the classic has-been plight and that, more than anything, pissed him off.