Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

Josephine stood outside of the door to the “bag room,” so marked with a golden plaque, where caddies arrived to retrieve their golfer’s clubs before tee off. Loud laughter reached her from the other side of the door. All men. Obviously, she’d known that would be the case—there were no other women caddying on the tour. Having grown up on a golf course, this male-dominated world was familiar territory. But she wouldn’t be working behind the counter of a pro shop today or giving someone’s teenager a golf lesson.

This was the highest rung on the professional ladder.

She’d absorbed every ounce of knowledge there was to soak in on this sport. She’d lived, eaten, and breathed it for years. Technically, though, one could make the argument that she hadn’t quite earned a spot this lofty—and she was positive that argument had already been made by the other caddies. Possibly even expounded on.

Deep breath.

Deep breath.

She would earn the right to be there. Starting today.

Josephine ran a finger over the golden plaque and started to push the door open—

“Hey.”

At the sound of Wells’s voice, her insides joggled. She turned to find him approaching, obviously having come from the player’s locker room, located on the other side of the clubhouse . . . and wow, time was doing nothing to dull the impact of him. She’d seen him only a matter of hours ago. And she’d seen him a ton over the last five years. But there was something about having all of that glowering energy directed at her that made certain parts of her anatomy bat their eyelashes. “Hey,” she responded. “I was just going to grab the bag and meet you at the starting point. I’m not late!”

A riot of laughter blasted through the door.

Wells looked at it. Then back at Josephine.

“Why are you standing out here?” Danger flickered in his eyes, muscles tensing, as though preparing for a fight. “Are they not letting you in?”

“No, nothing like that. I was just taking a second.”

He relaxed. Slightly. “Why do you need a second?”

There was no way on God’s green earth that she was going to tell her boss she was having a rare moment of intimidation. He needed to have full confidence in her now or he wouldn’t be able to trust her out on the course. “I was admiring the plaque.”

“Josephine, you’re such a fucking golf nerd.”

“I know.” She took a hard swallow. “Meet you down there?”

“Yeah.” He started to move, then stopped. “Do you want me to ask the tournament director for a separate bag room? No one would question it. And I guess . . .” He rolled a shoulder. “I would prefer it.”

“Why?”

“Might be some shirtless guys in there.” He glared at the door, then Josephine. “Just so we’re clear, this is not a jealousy thing. I’m just trying to preserve your modesty.”

“My hero,” she breathed. “Protecting my innocent nature one hairy nipple at a time.”

“Quit that.” He adjusted his stance and hesitated before asking, “Do you not like hair on a man’s chest, or . . .”

Why was he asking? Did he have a lot of the stuff?

Did he like it when a woman twisted it? Or would he rather twist a woman’s hair?

The breath seemed to get trapped in her lungs until she could slowly let it out.

Whatever Wells had underneath his shirt, he probably owned it. Just swaggering around in unbuttoned jeans, wet hair, and bare feet like a cowboy after a one-night stand, the very picture of confidence.

“I don’t deem men dateable or undateable based on body hair,” she said, trying successfully to rid herself of that far too appealing vision. “But I am very picky about feet.”

A dark eyebrow shot up. “Feet?”

“Yup.”

Briefly, his attention dropped to his cleats. “What are your judging criteria?”

“It’s not really something I can put into words,” she mused. “Cleanliness is very key, obviously, but . . . I don’t know. I guess I’m not overly partial to those long, skinny bones being visible at all times.” She shivered. “It helps that every man in Florida wears sandals.”

“That way, you can weed out the poor bony-footed saps.”

“Precisely.”

Frowning, he shook his head at Josephine. “Christ.”

Ignoring his obvious disapproval, she tipped her head toward the door. “You know I have to go in there or I’m going to be called a high-maintenance princess for the rest of the tour.”

Wells was already nodding. “That’s the only reason I didn’t already ask for the separate bag room when I entered us. It would have been bullshit, belle, but I didn’t want you having to deal with that. And let’s face it, I’d probably break someone’s nose and get us booted.”

For some reason, his use of the word “us” flushed her with warmth. As did his protectiveness of her. Funny, she always thought a man threatening violence on her behalf would be a turn off. Coming from Wells, it only made her feel embarrassingly giddy. “I’m glad you didn’t ask for a separate room.” She pushed at his shoulder. It didn’t budge an inch. “Go take some practice swings. I’ll try to survive the hairy-nipple forest.”

“Is that before or after the bony-foot fountain?”

And so, Josephine was giggling like a middle schooler as she walked into the bag room. When a hush spread through the packed gathering of dudes, she wasn’t thinking about their estimation of her. She was wondering if Wells had timed his visit and made her laugh on purpose, so she wouldn’t be nervous entering the testosterone zone. That wasn’t possible.

Was it?

Josephine scanned the wall for Wells’s name, which would appear over a designated locker holding his clubs, along with her official uniform.

“Over here, Josephine,” called a familiar voice.

Ricky, the caddie she’d met at the party last night. He stood toward the back of the bag room, indicating the locker beside his own.

“Thanks,” she murmured, sidling up beside him and opening the door to find a fresh, white mesh vest with the name Whitaker on the back. Her inner fangirl must still have been lurking deep down, because a squeal threatened to burst from her throat. Forcing herself to be all business, she tugged the loose vest on over her head, satisfied that it paired well with her pleated black skort, and she shouldered the heavy leather bag. “Are you heading down?”

“As a matter of fact, I am,” Ricky replied, grinning. “If we don’t have a good round, at least we know there’s a good round of drinks afterward.”

“Amen to that.”

All eyes were on them, the two newcomers, as they headed to the exit.

“Good luck with Whitaker,” someone called behind her. It was a veteran caddie she recognized well. He carried the bag for Calhoun and got a lot of screen time while his pro cleaned up at every tournament. “His last three caddies hated his guts.”

“She’s going to need more than luck,” said someone else. “She needs a miracle.”

“Legend has it, Whitaker’s game is still at the bottom of the lake at Sawgrass.”

Snorts and chuckles filled the room.

“That’s enough,” one of the older caddies snapped at the men, before winking at her. “You’re going to do just fine out there.”

Josephine gave him a grateful look. “I will, thanks.” She hesitated before walking out the door behind Ricky. Now would be a good time to show them they could push her around if they wanted, but she could give it back just as easily. “By the way,” she called to the caddie who’d made the crack about Wells’s leaving his game at the bottom of a lake. “I’m sure it’s not your fault your golfer always ends up in the sand trap. But maybe if you like the beach so much, you should book a vacation, instead.”

A roar of laughter carried Josephine out of the bag room.

Ricky fist-bumped her.

And that was the last good thing that happened that day.

*

Golf tournaments lasted four grueling days.