Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

“Holy mother of God.”

She’d tugged the hem of the pinnie down to cover her pussy, but the uniform was cut short by design, so he could see her hips, and there was no sign of underwear. Smooth porcelain as far as the eye could see, with a dusting of freckles in spots that made his mouth water. He was dying to grab and knead and lick her curves. Holy—she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath, either, but it was a fucking tease, because of the mesh. It allowed for only tiny peeks at the flesh beneath, but he wasn’t even going to pretend not to zoom in, trying to make out the dusky color of her nipples.

Right there. Puckered little circles.

He didn’t even care if his horny brain was filling in the blanks.

“Baby.” He raked a hand down the front of his pants and gripped himself. “Fuck.”

Josephine: Congrats on making the cut. Enjoy your new lock screen.





Wells took several deep breaths—and another five camera zooms—before texting back.

Wells: Fuck the trophy. I win. Forever.

Wells: The only thing missing is your face.





Her incredibly gorgeous face that he couldn’t stop thinking about.

Josephine: Ah, come on. I don’t mind if you leave your face out of mine.

Josephine: In fact, I prefer it.





He made an affronted sound, his head lifting to study his reflection.

Wells: I give great face, belle, and you know it.

Josephine: You’re looking in the mirror, aren’t you?





This woman had no right knowing him so well. No right. And he couldn’t figure out what he’d done to get so lucky. For the first time in a long time, he wasn’t alone. He had a . . . friend. A friend he couldn’t stop looking at half naked. Jesus Christ, those thighs.

Wells: You still want it?

Josephine: Want what?

Wells: Your picture of this juicy peach, belle. You still want it?

Josephine: ? Yes. ?





It was a good thing Wells was already unfastening his pants and turning around, so the mirror was reflecting his backside. He’d checked out his own ass plenty of times in the mirror, but he’d never actually taken a bathroom selfie of the damn thing. It took him a few minutes to (a.) find the right angle/lighting and (b.) flex without making it look like he was flexing. But in the end, ha, he got a shot that passed inspection and fired it over.

No response.

Yanking his pants back up, buttoning them, he waited. Waited more. Maybe she’d gotten in the shower?

No, she’d take a bath. She loved that tub.

His condo in Miami had a massive one that he never used, but for some reason, he was suddenly very glad it was there. No conceivable reason.

And now his dick was hard imagining Josephine in his bathtub, caddie uniform plastered to her body. He’d get in there with her. She’d probably make a beard out of the bubbles or some shit—and why did that make his windpipe feel eight times smaller?

He was aroused . . . both physically and emotionally?

What exactly was he supposed to do about that?

Willing his erection to subside, because they’d agreed to flirt and trade pictures, not sleep together, Wells stripped off the clothes he’d worn all day and took a shower, somehow withstanding the temptation to stroke away the frustration.

On one hand, he didn’t have to live with the guilt.

On the other, his balls were stiffer than fucking doorknobs.

Great trade-off.

When he got out of the shower, she still hadn’t answered his text.

All right, now he was starting to get self-conscious. Had she changed her mind about his ass? Better to go ask in person than send some thirsty text, right? Hair still wet, dressed in sweatpants and a hoodie, Wells found himself taking the elevator to Josephine’s floor, because apparently, he just wanted to make the pain worse. Somehow, though, staying away from her was its own brand of pain.

“Someone, please, tell me what to do about this girl,” Wells muttered, banging a little too loud on her door. “It’s me.”

After a beat, she answered. “Who is me?”

A vein throbbed in his forehead. “The only man you should be expecting,” he shouted.

“Relax.” She laughed, opening the door, skin looking quite flushed. Interesting. What had she been up to before he knocked? Oh, he had some idea. “I know golfers are weirdly territorial about their caddies, but you’ve really made it an art form.”

Wells couldn’t do anything but stare at the freshly scrubbed and shiny being standing in front of him. In bare feet and a bathrobe. He had a picture on his phone of this woman in nothing but a cropped mesh tank top. He’d sent her a picture of his ass. Were they just going to pretend that wasn’t true? Wells didn’t know. He knew only that, by some phenomenon, she looked equally incredible in the robe as she did half naked. “Uh . . . what?”

She shook her head at him. “Never mind. Are you going to come in?”

He held up his phone and pointed at it. “Well?”

“Well, what?”

“My ass selfie, belle,” he exploded. “You didn’t send back a single fire emoji. Are your thumbs broken?”

“I was . . .” She flapped her hands around. “I didn’t know how to respond.”

“You tell me it’s a great freaking ass, that’s how you respond!”

“You already know it’s great!”

“I want to hear it from you!”

“Fine. Fine! It’s firm and bitable and distracting. It’s the kind of butt that probably makes other dudes too self-conscious to shower near you at the gym, because it puts all the other man butts to shame. If there was a harness on your back, your booty could be used as a seat on a roller coaster. Someone should whip it, honestly. It’s an ass-whipping ass.”

He immediately regretted asking for a response. Or maybe the problem was that he didn’t regret it at all and would be thinking about her biting into his butt cheek like an apple for the rest of his life. “Better.” He coughed. “You’re in a robe, Josephine.” Lord, he sounded like he’d been wandering in the desert for a week. “Do you want to put something on?”

Briefly, she looked down, then back up at him with an arched brow. “You’ve seen me in less now, haven’t you?” she said dryly. “But let me know if you’re going to succumb to the vapors. I’ll ring the front desk for smelling salts.”

With that, she let the door close, giving Wells no choice but to catch it and step inside, shutting it behind him. He’d made a mistake coming here. The room was fragrant from her bath, flowers and soap scenting the air. She’d turned on just a single lamp, lending a heavy intimacy to the room. Mood lighting that could only be termed as dangerous.

“Actually, I was going to get dressed and go to your room,” Josephine said, taking a seat on the couch and tucking her feet beneath her. “You saved me a trip.”

He hesitated at the end of the couch. “Why were you coming to my room?”

God man, try to sound a little less horny.

Easier said than done. He couldn’t stop wondering what, if anything, she was wearing beneath that fluffy white robe. And how warm her skin would still be from the bath.

Did hot water make her limber?

Enough, asshole.

Something might very well be happening here, between them. Not that he had any idea what it was. But their positions as employee and employer made the tightrope they were walking on very thin, so he needed to navigate it carefully, for her sake.

“Well.” She shifted her position, tucking a section of wet hair behind her ear. “What I was going to say . . . it seemed like a good idea when I was in the bath. But now that you’re standing here in front of me looking like you just woke up from a forty-year coma and found out cars can fly . . . I’m second-guessing myself.”

“Fuck. Sorry.” Wells dragged a hand down his face. She had no idea how embarrassingly apt a description that was. He sat down on the opposite end of the couch. “Guess I’m still a little shell-shocked after that round today.”

Her eyes twinkled. “I knew you had it in you.”

“What did you want to talk to me about?” he said in a rush. It was that or kiss her.