Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

“What?” He snorted. “Nothing.”

She quirked a brow. “Why not?”

“Because I’m not the same person . . . I was.” A low whistle from Wells. “Wow. I walked right into that, didn’t I?” Slowly, he rocked back on his heels. “Are you implying that what happened with Buck was my fault?”

“No,” Josephine said firmly. “How could I do that? I wasn’t there. And if I’m being totally honest, I’m always going to default to being . . .”

“What?”

“On your side,” she said as fast as possible, trying not to enjoy the way the lines around his mouth softened. “I just think hurt feelings might cause a person to see a situation differently.”

“Do I strike you as the kind of guy who gets hurt feelings?”

“I am very sorry to inform you that everyone has feelings.”

“I’m going to deeply regret hiring you.”

“No, you’re not.” A lot like they’d done in the hotel room earlier, Josephine and Wells seemed to gravitate toward each other when having a conversation, until their toes were pressed together and she had to tilt her head back. And she couldn’t help but wonder if it looked . . . intimate to the rest of the party.

Of course it did. Because it was.

There was no other word for feeling his body heat through her clothes.

And reacting to it with skips of her pulse.

In the interest of professionalism, Josephine eased away, ignoring the way he frowned over the move. He regarded her curiously for a moment, then said, “You told me trash talk doesn’t hurt your feelings. What does?” A thought seemed to occur. “And please say something besides ‘bitter assholes who rip my signs in half’ because I just stopped seeing it every time I blink.”

He really just let that roll off his tongue. Like it wasn’t a big deal that he’d been dwelling. “You’re nicer than you think, Wells.”

“No, I’m not.” He grunted. “What has hurt your feelings? He better not have a name.”

“Okay, do you want to make me a list of unacceptable responses?”

“Go ahead. I’m done.”

Josephine shook her head at him, then took a moment to think. “The summer I turned twelve, my neighbor wouldn’t let me help with her garden. She’d just moved in next door to us and immediately, she had a tractor come dig up the concrete slab in her backyard. All these white trellises were installed and she tied purple bougainvillea to them, so they would climb the side of her house. It was like an explosion of color happening outside of my bedroom window. So I went over one day and asked to help. I wanted to learn how to garden so we could make our backyard just as pretty—and she said no. That hurt my feelings. It’s why my parents went out and bought a hundred houseplants. They made me an indoor garden.”

She didn’t expect Wells to be hanging on her every word, especially over a story about flora that was long dead by now, but he appeared to be . . . rapt? “So, what? Your feelings get hurt when someone rejects your help?”

“Yes,” she said simply, remembering the way her neighbor had noticed her glucose monitor and gotten nervous, like she didn’t want to be responsible for a medical emergency.

He hummed in his throat and continued to watch her. “Are you good at accepting help?”

“No.” Heat slowly built on her cheeks. “Wow. I walked right into that, didn’t I?”

He tipped back his beer with a little too much gusto. “Afraid so.”

“You don’t have to look so smug.”

“I’m sorry, I have no control over my face right now.”

“Maybe I’ll lose control of my finger and poke you right in the eye—”

“Wells,” came a voice to their left.

It was Buck Lee. Holding out his hand for a shake.

Wells cleared his throat. “Buck.”

It wasn’t lost on Josephine that when Buck eyeballed the nonalcoholic beer label in Wells’s hand, he appeared somewhat skeptical. He didn’t bother to hide it, either, and she couldn’t help but be disappointed in the legend. She definitely wouldn’t be mentioning this to her father, who owned a commemorative set of Buck Lee pint glasses laser-engraved with the man’s face. “This must be your new caddie,” said the older man, extending a hand in Josephine’s direction.

“Buck, meet Josephine Doyle,” Wells drawled, his smooth tone contradicting his tense demeanor.

They shook. “Looking forward to tomorrow,” Buck said. “Ought to be . . . interesting.”

Josephine willed the champagne glass back into her hand. Weirdly, it didn’t appear. “Yes. Heard we’re getting a little rain tonight. The ball should be sticking.”

“Indeed.” Buck gave her a blithe smile. She worked on a golf course, so it was far from the first time in her life that she’d been discounted straight off the bat because of her gender, but just like always, she would let her results do the talking. “Mind if I have a word alone, Wells? Nothing major, just a little business.”

Wells glanced at Josephine, a vein ticking in his temple. “It can’t wait?”

“Already too busy for the old friend who installed you back on the tour?”

“I didn’t say that,” Wells countered firmly, still appearing conflicted.

That’s when it occurred to Josephine that he didn’t want to leave her alone. Even for a few minutes? He’d said something about the caddies eating her alive, but they couldn’t possibly be that bad. Even if they were, she was woman enough to handle it and then some.

“Go.” She tipped her head toward the lantern-lit terrace. “I want to grab some air, anyway. Nice to meet you, Mr. Lee.”

“Please, call me Buck.”

She nodded and gave Wells a quick smile. “Catch up with you later.”

Without giving Wells a chance to protest, she wove her way through a sea of recognizable faces, feeling a little bit like she was dreaming. A week ago, she’d been standing in knee-deep sludge, stuffing ruined inventory into black garbage bags, praying an alligator wasn’t lurking in the water—because Florida—and now? Wearing her best dress at a lavish party full of golf studs. Life never stopped throwing curveballs.

Josephine almost gasped out loud when she stepped onto the terrace.

The branches of a giant magnolia tree stretched overhead, flickering, jewel-tone lanterns dangling low. The conversation was more hushed outside, perhaps because it overlooked the manicured golf course and the setting predisposed people to silence. The air was balmy, breezy, and fragrant, whispering over her bare shoulders like silk. Someone approached her with a champagne flute, and she took it to be polite. Or maybe because she needed a prop with which to float through the elegant crowd, many of whom were watching her pass with curiosity. Fastening a serene expression onto her face, she continued until she reached the rail of the terrace, the green spreading out in front of her, buttered in moonlight.

Within seconds, a man approached from her left. He was roughly the same age as Josephine and sporting a necktie patterned with lizards, and he had a genuine smile, deep brown skin, and mirthful eyes. “Well, if it isn’t the hot gossip item herself,” said the young man, leaning his elbows on the railing beside her. “I’m Ricky. Nice to meet you.”

“Hey. I’m Josephine.”

“Oh, I know.” He winked at her, then went back to looking out over the golf course with obvious adoration. “Don’t worry, something scandalous will happen tomorrow and they’ll move on. A pro will smash their putter into three pieces or mix plaids. You’ll be off the hook.”

She glanced back over her shoulder, catching a woman in the act of gesturing at her with one of the hors d’oeuvres. Were people interested in her because she’d joined forces with the villain? Or was it because she was the only female caddie on tour? Maybe both. “When will I ever get another chance to be whispered about at a party that’s serving caviar on tiny pieces of toast? This is once-in-a-lifetime stuff.”

“Now that’s the right attitude.” Ricky gave her a conspiratorial look. “You know, our golfers are paired up for the next two days. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”