Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

“Well, I know one thing you’re satisfied with,” Wells drawled.

Josephine begged the sky to keep her sanity intact. Then, settling her hands on his thick shoulders, she jumped, locking her legs around Wells’s waist. The crowd laughed, followed by the sound of camera shutters going off. Josephine barely registered any of it because—oh God. She hadn’t had a piggyback ride in a long, long time, possibly long before she’d become aware of her body or its sexual properties. Because she didn’t remember piggyback rides like this—at all. The juncture of her thighs found the top curve of his buttocks, pressing oh so snugly, her inner thighs squeezing his waist. The clean aftershave scent of his neck was suddenly very close, along with the bunching of his back muscles against her breasts. And the air quite simply disappeared from her lungs.

“Uhmm.”

“Binoculars, Josephine,” he said hoarsely.

“Right. Okay.”

She lifted the binoculars to her eyes with a shaky hand. “I would say aim for the guy in the polo shirt and hat, but that doesn’t really narrow it down. Um . . . the man in mint green.” She passed him the binoculars. “See him?”

Wells looked. “Yeah. Put it down right there?”

“Yup.”

He gave the binoculars back. “Check again.” His hand, now free, wrapped around her ankle, his thumb sliding into her sock in a sweeping arc. Dug in roughly. “Take all the time you need.”

At this rate, she’d need, like, thirteen seconds to orgasm. Tops.

In other words, it was high time to get down. Which she did.

“You ready?” she said breathily, smoothing her clothing.

“Some might say too ready.” He inhaled deeply, visibly getting ahold of himself. Finally, he focused on the shot with a deep “mmmm” rumbling in his throat.

That’s how Josephine typically knew it was time to get out of the way—when he gave a gruff “mmmm” and that crease appeared between his brows.

Silently, she backed up and held her breath, praying she’d given him good advice. She exhaled when the ball dropped in the exact place they’d chosen, around thirty yards from the man in mint, ten from the hole.

“Great shot,” she said, taking the six iron and replacing it in the bag.

Wells started to respond, but the cheering around them swelled while they advanced to the green, preparing to putt. He looked momentarily surprised by the growing mass of people, but he hid it almost immediately, putting his head down and trudging on to the final shot of day three.

“Don’t love the grass on this one.”

“Bumpy in spots,” she agreed.

“But I was thinking about that mindfuck lesson you gave me. The morning before the first round. Remember?” He hunkered down, putter in hand. “The course is bigger than the distance between the ball and the hole, right? What if I shoot past it a little to avoid that knotted grass and let it roll back in?”

“I love it,” she murmured. “You can control that roll from here in a way you couldn’t from the fairway. Make it delicate.”

“Make it delicate,” Wells snorted. “It’s never been more obvious I have a chick for a caddie.”

“Lucky you.”

“We’ll see.”

She bit her lip to subdue a smile. “You good, then?”

“Mmmm.”

That was Josephine’s cue. She backed up, putting an unsteady hand on the bag. Today wasn’t for all the marbles—that was tomorrow—but today felt . . . big. There was something exciting in the air. Wells hadn’t lost his temper or gotten overly discouraged by bad shots. And she couldn’t give the credit to their little wager. A man didn’t resurrect his golf game in the name of sex. Right?

No.

That would be ridiculous.

Perhaps that was how it started this morning, but she’d been watching this man play for five long, storied years—and she could practically feel him coming back to life. Deep down, Wells Whitaker loved golf and finally, finally she could see him allowing that to be true again. Out loud. In his every action. What a glorious thing to witness.

Please let it continue.

The hard leather of the bag strap bit into the palm of Josephine’s hand as Wells lined up the shot and fired gently, rolling the ball into the target, where it disappeared with a clink. The sudden roar of the crowd was tinged with shock at the daring play. Cameras jockeyed for the best position to film Wells as they passed through to the clubhouse. Commentators were recapping the shot on live broadcasts. It was mayhem.

For a golf course.

Meanwhile, Wells casually removed his glove and shoved it into his back pocket, as if he saw none of the stir he was causing. “Ready, belle?”

“Yes.” She shouldered the bag. “Not even a single fist pump, huh?”

“We’re better than that,” he responded, loud enough to be heard over the crowd.

“Tell that to my fist.” She shook out her hand. “It wants to pump so bad.”

“Yeah?” Tucking his tongue into his cheek, he gave her a quick, but heated once-over. “I know how it feels, don’t I?”

An embarrassing whoosh sound snuck out of Josephine, her legs wobbling ominously. A lot of cameras were trained on them. Not the most opportune time to be sporting stiff nipples.

“You’re not just playing well because of my . . .”

“Sex-centive?” Wells deadpanned.

She shook her head. “As I’ve said before, thank God they know better than to mic you up.”

He half-grinned, gesturing for her to stay close to him on their way up the path—and it was easy to see why. Hundreds of hands stuck out, begging for high fives from Wells. From . . . her, too? Yes. Every so often, someone shouted Josephine! Had her name been mentioned on the air or did they look her up—

“Stay close, please,” Wells said briskly in her ear. “Belle, please.”

“Okay.”

“We’ve established that you’re more than capable of shlepping my bag around for five hours, but I would very much like to take it now. Is that all right with you?”

“Why?”

“There are marks on your shoulder.”

“Oh.” She turned her head to one side, observing the series of red grooves buried in the place where her neck sloped into her shoulder. “They don’t hurt.”

“Looking at it is hurting me.”

Josephine rolled her eyes, letting him take the bag.

Someone in the crowd made an awwww sound.

Josephine groaned, but after a few steps, she remembered what she’d been meaning to say to Wells. “You’re not just playing well because of the sex-centive. You’re enjoying the game itself again. I can tell.”

A beat passed. “How can you tell?”

Josephine searched for the right words. “After you play a really good shot, you get this look on your face. Like you’re really deep in thought. I think that’s you trying to manage your feelings. Like, oh no. You wouldn’t want to get carried away being too happy. So you stand there intellectualizing the shot or hunting for the negative side.” She smacked his chest. “Don’t do that, Wells. Let positives be positives.”

“I’m looking at one,” he said gruffly, visibly catching himself off guard, his step faltering subtly. “Did I enjoy today? Yeah. I guess I did. But I wouldn’t have remembered how to enjoy it without you, Josephine.” He cleared his throat hard. “Now if you’re done being emotional, I need to turn in my scorecard, so I don’t get disqualified.”

“Y-yes,” she stammered, stopping at the bottom of the ramp in an area that, thankfully, was cordoned off from the still-cheering spectators. “Do you want me to hold the bag?”

“Shoulder marks,” he growled, storming into the clubhouse.

As soon as the door closed behind Wells, a woman in a PGA tour jacket and an earpiece ran up beside Josephine. “Miss Doyle?”

“Yes.”

“As soon as Mr. Whitaker is finished turning in his card, his presence has been requested in the media tent.”

“Really?” The blood drained from Josephine’s face. “Oh God.”

The woman’s polite smile faltered. “I’m . . . sorry?”