Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

“Great.”

Five minutes later, Josephine stepped into the most palatial, over-the-top hotel room she’d ever seen in her life. No, it couldn’t even be termed a “room.” It had three seating areas.

“Three?” She let go of her suitcase just inside the door and wandered through the suite in a daze. “But I only have one butt,” she muttered.

Her toes sank into the soft, rich burgundy carpeting. Soothing music played from the television, the air-conditioning taking her nerves away on an unseen breeze. A giant, jetted tub called to her from the bathroom and she made a short, breathy sound, her hands flying to her mouth. She bypassed the rustic four-poster bed sitting in its own separate room and went straight to the tub, twisting the hot water nozzle and stripping off her travel clothes. One did not simply pass up the chance to soak in a tub when one’s apartment shower was the size of a shoebox and had all the water pressure of a limp handshake.

Once the tub was filled to a steaming 60 percent, Josephine shook the black elastic band out of her hair, massaging the ponytail tension headache from her scalp, and stepped into the porcelain haven. She dunked straight under and emerged from the surface with a moan that could easily be interpreted by her neighbors to mean something else entirely. But so be it.

This was paradise. Traipsing all over a golf course and dealing with Wells’s surly attitude would all be worth it if she could return to this room at the end of each day. Josephine stayed in the bathtub so long, the water started to cool. So she added a little more hot, the soothing temperature enticing her loudest, most appreciative moan yet—and the noisy gurgle of running water muffled the sound of a door opening and closing.

Josephine shut off the nozzle with a frown, her head turning toward the bathroom entrance. Surely, that had come from next door.

Those footsteps, too. They were coming from the hallway, right?

All six feet two inches of Wells appeared in the bathroom entrance.

Josephine screamed, the piercing wail echoing off numerous marble surfaces.

“Jesus Christ!” Wells boomed, turning around quickly to give her his broad back.

But not before he saw her naked breasts. Looked right at them. Oh God. Oh God!

She lunged over the side of the tub for a towel and stood, wrapping it around herself. “What are you doing in here?”

“Funny,” he said evenly, despite the muscular tension in his shoulders. “I was just about to ask you the same question.”

“This is the room they gave me at checkin.” Finished securing the white, luxurious terry cloth about her body, Josephine smacked her forehead. “Once I saw the room, I should have known it was yours. I’m . . . this . . . ughhhh.”

Still facing away, Wells crossed his arms. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean, obviously this room is yours. The bathtub bamboozled me. Drew me in like a gator to a roasted ham or I would have pieced it together—”

“Can I turn around yet?”

“If you don’t mind that I’m in a towel?”

Briefly, he tipped his head back. “I think I can suffer through it, belle.”

“Then . . .” She glanced at her reflection over the bathroom sink and winced at the black half-circles of mascara beneath her eyes, the wet hair dripping onto her shoulders. “I guess so.”

A beat passed before he turned around again, focusing on a spot over her shoulder before finally making eye contact. Were his pupils bigger than before or was the steam distorting her vision? Because she could almost feel her own dilating to the size of salad plates over being in close proximity to this tall, sinewy athlete in the intimate setting of a bathroom. Wearing no clothing while he was fully dressed. Something about that contrast was sending an unwanted ripple of goose bumps down her spine, as was the fact that he looked a lot healthier than the last time she’d seen him. The cords of his colorfully inked forearms stood out like he’d gotten back into lifting weights, a very distracting biceps vein disappearing up the sleeve of his shirt.

Stop looking.

“I booked us the same kind of room. Yours should look exactly like this.” Did his attention drop to the knotted towel between her breasts, pricking every inch of skin below her neck? Or were her nipples puckering from the air-conditioning? “My name was on both reservations, so they must have given you my key by mistake.”

“Oh.” So . . . he had booked her this extravagant suite? Why? “I would have been happy with a normal room.”

“All that moaning you were doing in the bathtub suggests otherwise.”

Indignation snapped in her throat. “If you heard me moaning, why did you walk in here?”

“Did you hear yourself? You sounded like an injured animal. I thought someone was on the verge of death.” His gaze ticked to the tub, back to her. “Is this your first bath?”

“Says the man who almost needed a chainsaw to cut his hair last week.” They smirked at each other. “Women don’t just miraculously appear in your room.”

He propped a forearm on the doorjamb and raised a single eyebrow at her.

“Oh, I see. They do.”

Something about the realization made her skin shrink. But it wasn’t jealousy. No way. Sure, she couldn’t help but have a healthy appreciation for an attractive athlete with a prolific posterior, but that wasn’t why she’d supported him all those years. She’d been his number one fan because, at the height of his success, there was no one more exciting than him on the course. No one more daring and irreverent. He’d never been in it for the accolades—she’d witnessed love for the game in his every move and it had drawn her in.

Women could come stocked in his mini fridge for all she cared.

That spike lodged in her neck was simply a product of having her bath cut short.

“For some absurd reason . . .” Wells pushed off the door frame, running a hand down the back of his neck. “I feel the need to clarify. Women have appeared in my room twice—and both times, I called security. It wasn’t a welcome surprise, unlike a moaning redhead in my tub—”

“What are we going to do about the mix-up?” she interrupted, alarmingly relieved while still being distinctly embarrassed. “Should I call the front desk?”

Wells regarded her levelly for several moments. “No. You stay here. I’ll go down and get a key to the other room.”

Josephine pondered that. “But if the other room was meant for me, there could be a man waiting in my bathtub.” Batting her eyelashes, she slipped between Wells and the door frame, staunchly ignoring the butterflies that scattered in her stomach when he gave her mouth a prolonged look. “I should probably take it.”

He turned to face Josephine where she now stood in the living space, a muscle popping ominously in his cheek. “You’re here to focus on golf.” He gave her a meaningful look. “So am I.”

All at once, she became very aware that this man was now her boss—and he was right. They were in Texas to play golf. Getting into a bickering match with a golfer who could change her life by winning was not the wisest move, was it? And being that Wells was her boss, she should spend as little time as possible standing in front of him in an extremely brief towel. “I’m focused.”

“Good,” he said, back to having his arms crossed. Aloof.

“Are you?”

“I’m always focused. It just hasn’t translated into winning lately.”

“What are you focusing on?” she asked, even though she should probably shut up and get dressed.

“Golf,” Wells spat out. “I thought we established that.”

“What part of it? Your swing? The leaderboard? The shot you’re taking? The next hole?”

“We talked about the questions, Josephine,” he snapped.