Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

At this rate, their chances of making the cut and continuing in the tournament tomorrow were slim to none. Not unless he managed to get through the rest of the afternoon without bogeying a single hole and that seemed about as likely as TSwift performing in her bathroom later tonight.

Keep trying. Don’t quit on him. “The wind is picking up—”

“I don’t give a shit about the wind, Josephine. I’m pissing into it at this point.”

Her shoulders wanted to slump, but she wouldn’t let them. “You’re burning it all down.”

“Sounds about right,” he responded, tight-lipped, while examining the head of his club.

“Don’t. Step back, recognize what you’re doing, and balance yourself out.”

His snort drew the attention of several spectators. “Oh Jesus, stop shovel feeding me your Zen nonsense, belle.”

“Nonsense is allowing that passive-aggressive, condescending has-been to get in your head and letting him rearrange it. Letting him win. I thought you were more badass than that.”

Wells’s head turned slowly, pinning her with an incredulous look. “You met him for all of thirty seconds and you got all of that?”

“Yup!”

He really, truly looked like he was trying to claw his way out of the mental hole he’d dug for himself, but he just couldn’t do it. The grimace of regret, the remaining light fading from his eyes, told her that much. “Let me take my drive, Josephine.”

“Go for it. I’ll be on the sidelines.”

“What?” he shouted.

“I said, I’ll be . . .” She fluttered her fingers at the roped-off spectator section. “Over there.”

Panic slowly snuck into his expression. “What happened to never quitting?”

“I said I would never quit as long as you didn’t quit on yourself. That’s what you’re doing.” She whirled around, took a few steps, and ducked under the rope, a few feet to the right of the gallery— And immediately her foot was run over by a golf cart.

Pain shot from her toes to her ankle, snatching the breath clean out of her lungs. It was such a shock, happened so quickly, she didn’t even have a chance to make a sound. Her backside planted in the grass before she knew she was falling, her only necessity to get the pressure off her foot. Surely it was broken?

A roar of denial from Wells nearly deafened her. “Josephine.”

He was in front of her, his image momentarily blurred by the blood rushing to her head, but after a few seconds of taking stock, the shock wore off and the pain started to dull. Just surprised. You were just surprised. “I’m fine.”

“What the fucking fuck,” he exploded, dropping to his knees in front of her. “You got run over.”

“Just my foot.”

“You ran over my caddie,” he barked at the cart, which was carrying two officials. “I’m going to f—”

“Wells.”

He made a sharp sound of frustration. “Where is the medic on this course?” Before she knew his intentions, Wells had picked her up off the ground to cradle her in his arms. “Where?”

The official stood up. “I’ve radioed them. The medical cart is on the way.”

“Oh good,” he responded. “Another cart. Maybe if we’re lucky, it’ll finish her off!”

“Watch yourself, Whitaker,” the official shot back, jabbing the air with his finger. “We were headed over here to give you a warning about the profanity. Again.”

“Wells, it barely hurts anymore,” Josephine said, trying to work herself free of the steel banded hold keeping her in place. “I was just caught off guard.”

“Is this the wrong time to point out that this wouldn’t have happened if you’d stayed with me, where you belong?”

“Yes, it’s the dead wrong time to point that out.” Her neck lost power, dangling back over the crook of his elbow. “Please God, don’t let my parents see this.”

“Here comes the medical cart,” Wells said, still sounding far more anxious than the situation warranted. Three long strides and she was being settled onto a leather bench. The medic didn’t even have a chance to climb out of the driver’s seat before Wells knelt down again in front of Josephine. “I can’t remember. Are you supposed to leave the shoe on when it’s a sprain, so it doesn’t swell? Or am I wrong?”

“It’s not a sprain!” Josephine shouted.

“Sir, I can take over from here,” said the medic patiently.

“Just a second. I’m going to check the damage.”

Wells eased off Josephine’s shoe and that’s when everything started to move in slow motion. She thought back to the evening when she’d painted her toenails and denial swung inside her like a pendulum. “Not the sock. Leave my sock on.”

“How am I supposed to see anything with your sock on?”

“There’s nothing to see—”

Off came the sock.

There they were. Five freshly polished blue toes. With yellow letters on them. Spelling out W-E-L-L-S’. He went very still. Three seconds passed. Four. And then, ignoring her sputtering protests, Wells yanked off the other shoe and sock, revealing the word B-E-L-L-E.

He said nothing.

No movement.

He’d become a statue.

Josephine held her breath as he stood up, braced a hand on the top of the golf cart, and looked at her, long and hard, wheels turning behind his eyes.

His voice vibrated when he said, “We’re making the cut.”

Josephine jumped when he slapped a hand down on the roof of the cart.

“We’re making the fucking cut, Josephine.”

“Okay,” she whispered, her embarrassment turning into something else. Pure hope. Hope and . . . connection. To this man.

For better or worse.





Chapter Fifteen




Wells watched the leaderboard shift on the television screen, his name slipping into the green bracket of players in the top sixty-four.

Unbelievable.

He fell back against the cushions of his hotel room couch and let out a gust of air. An odd, thick feeling crept into the space between his chest and throat, making it difficult to replenish the air in his lungs. He’d made the cut only once this entire season and it had been on a technicality, because the golfer ranked above Wells made an error on his scorecard.

But this?

This was legitimate.

And today’s comeback could be credited to only one thing.

Or . . . ten to be exact.

Josephine’s toes.

Wells dug his knuckles into his eye sockets and filled the suite with a semihysterical laugh. “You’ve lost it. You’ve completely lost it.”

That might have been true, but there was no denying that an atomic bomb of relief and pride and hope, goddammit, had imploded in his stomach when he’d pulled off her socks and seen those little blue miracles staring back at him. There they were, proof that Josephine still had faith in him. She was still his number one fan. He hadn’t lost her. And there had simply been no way in hell he was going to let her regret that.

Wells pushed to his feet and paced to the bathroom, planting his hands on the marble vanity and looking himself in the eye. “Do not go to her room.” He shrugged with forced nonchalance. “Just don’t.”

It wasn’t as though the mere act of going to her room meant something sexual was going to happen. Strange things were taking place inside him, though. Every day that passed with this woman in his life, he shed another layer of numbness and indifference. He was actually looking forward to playing golf tomorrow.

With her.

Near her.

Beside her.

Anywhere she happened to be.

Wells dropped his head forward. “Oh my God, get a fucking grip.”

He might have given her initiation rites when it came to flirting, but the complicated power dynamic between them remained. Currently, Josephine was depending on him for an income. She had a lot at stake.

His phone chimed in his pocket, dissipating his wayward thoughts.

Speak of the . . . angel.

It was Josephine.

Trying valiantly to ignore the tightness in his throat, Wells slid open the text message—and felt every ounce of blood in his body race south. It was a bathroom selfie of Josephine wearing her caddie uniform. And he didn’t know where the hell to look first. Because she’d definitely come through on her end of the bet. Big time.

No pants.

No panties, either, as far as he could tell.