Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

It was on the tip of Josephine’s tongue to inform the official that Wells wouldn’t be making an appearance in front of the sea of sports reporters. But wasn’t one of the conditions of him being allowed back on the tour that he play nice with the media?

“He’ll be there,” Josephine assured her, weakly.

This ought to be interesting.

A few minutes later, Wells exited the clubhouse, bag still perched on his shoulder. “We’re going to eat, belle.”

“Hold that thought. They want you in the media tent.”

“Fuck my life,” he grumbled, without missing a beat. “Why?”

“Probably because you just played your best round in two years.”

He hissed an exhale between his teeth. Seemed to ponder the situation for a moment. “If that’s the case, you’re doing it with me.”

Those words did not compute. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Straighten your ponytail.” He took Josephine’s hand, pulling her along behind him toward the tent. “You’re doing the interview with me.”

She gaped. “My ponytail is crooked?”

“Since the eleventh hole.” He jerked a shoulder. “It’s cute, so I didn’t say anything.”

“Wells.” She tried to slow him down, but her heels only skidded in the grass. “Golfers don’t bring their caddies to the media tent.”

“This one does.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, Josephine,” Wells fired back over his shoulder. “I just . . . have this pretty intense need to make sure everyone knows you’re very fucking important. Okay? Could you kindly just go along with it?”

Josephine’s mouth snapped shut.

What was she supposed to say to that?

She couldn’t think of a single thing. Not when she suddenly felt . . . buoyant. Like she could float up into the cloudless sky and bask there in the sunshine, never coming down. Was she? Very fucking important to him? She’d been harboring the hope that her assistance on the course was making a difference, but having Wells say it out loud unlocked something inside her. Something like . . . pride.

A young man with a clipboard waved them into the big, white media tent as soon as they arrived—and dear lord, it happened so fast. One second, they were outside in the blazing sunshine and the next, they were embraced by shade and ice-cold air conditioning. Also, lighting crews, television cameras, and reporters, interspersed with boom mics.

A table waited for them at the front of the room, complete with several microphones proclaiming all the major networks. Her parents were 100 percent going to see this.

“Hold up. Come here,” Wells said, turning her around by the shoulders.

Before she could question his intentions, he tucked a few strands of hair into her ponytail and tightened it gently, making her eyes blink at a very rapid rate. “Thanks.”

In response, he pulled her toward the stage with a grunt, ascending the stairs . . .

And stopping short.

There was only one chair.

Relieved in the most indescribable way, Josephine started to back down the stairs. “I’ll just catch you later—”

“Nope.”

Wells pulled out the chair, guiding her down into it.

Then he stood directly behind her, frowning, with his arms crossed.

“What?” he shouted at the tent.

A sprinkling of nervous laughter followed. Face on fire, Josephine watched the reporters exchange glances, some of them amused, others aghast. Finally, one of the brave ones stood.

“Mr. Whitaker,” said the middle-aged man, holding a notepad. “Congratulations on a successful round of golf today. Would you mind giving us some insight into what led to you returning to the tour?”

“The question is would I mind? Yes.”

Josephine didn’t think. She just elbowed him. Hard. It just came naturally.

The tent erupted in laughter.

She couldn’t see Wells’s face, but she was relieved when he spoke again, dry this time, rather than hostile. “Does that answer your question?”

The reporter rocked forward on his toes, eyebrows elevating. “Your caddie had something to do with your return?”

“That’s right. She bullied me into it.”

Josephine leaned forward to speak into the microphone. “That’s a lie, your honor.”

More laughter, louder this time, echoed in the dim tent.

Wells bent over, nudging her aside to amplify his own voice. “Meet Josephine Doyle, folks. She’s meaner than she looks.”

“Only when you claim the wind speed is irrelevant.”

“That’s when you get run over by a golf cart to make a point, if I recall.”

Josephine smiled broadly. “It was a welcome reprieve from you, Wells.”

No one was holding back on the laughter at this point.

“Thanks for keeping me humble, Josephine.”

She smiled up at him, surprised to find his usual stone-faced countenance held a glimmer of . . . affection. Her heart pounded in response. “Anytime,” she said, breathily.

The media stared at them in silence for several seconds.

And then everyone started shouting questions at once.

*

Wells and Josephine didn’t get much of a chance to speak during their late lunch.

Or on the trip through the lobby toward the elevators.

People kept stopping them for pictures and autographs.

Now, she stumbled back against the elevator wall after punching the button for her floor and stared straight ahead, shell-shocked. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Wells muttered, looking at his phone. “But my ex-manager called me three times in the last hour and he doesn’t get out of bed unless someone offers him a boatload of money.”

“Are you going to call him back?”

“Eventually.” A muscle moved in his cheek. “I need to talk to you first.”

The doors of the elevator opened on Josephine’s floor and they stepped off, moving side by side down the hallway toward her room. And it was really saying something that she could feel the electric pulse of anticipation when she needed to shower and change this badly. Was he going to come into her room again? How could she miss the scrape of his jaw on her cheeks so badly when she’d experienced it only once? “What do you need to talk to me about?”

“Safety.” He whipped off his ballcap and raked five fingers through his hair, throwing a glance back toward the elevators. “When I said I wanted everyone to know how important you are, I didn’t think ahead far enough. If you could just stay put in this room unless I’m with you, belle . . .” He patted the air with both hands. “My stress level would appreciate it.”

“Wells, come on.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re just asking for my autograph because I happened to be there. They were just being nice.”

“Golf fans are mean as sin, Josephine. I once had a child in a Callaway hat give me the finger. And he was with his grandma. Who told me to shove a club up my ass.”

She slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

“It’s not funny. I’m asking you nicely—since nice shit is apparently so important to you—to please not go traipsing around the resort before sunrise anymore. Call me and I will come get you. Please.”

“Wow. I don’t know if traipsing is the right word . . .”

“Josephine.” Wells advanced on her, hesitating with a curse when their bodies were a breath apart. But then he pushed forward the remaining distance, flattening her against the door, making both of them exhale shakily, their bodies shifting together. Closer. “Let me be careful with you, belle. Let me worry without asking a bunch of questions, okay?”

“You hate questions,” she whispered.

“Yeah. But I really, really don’t hate you.” Eyes closed, he rolled his forehead against hers. “Deal with it.”

Why was it that this man saying he didn’t hate her was the equivalent of another man promising to build her a kingdom? “When you retire from golf, you could consider poetry.”

He made a frustrated sound, kissing her hard as he slapped both of his hands down on the door above her head. “If you make me wait one more second to hear your agreement to be careful, Josephine, I swear to God.”

“I don’t know,” she said, her breath beginning to shallow, need causing her thoughts to run together in one high-pitched, continuous note. “It’s kind of fun making you wait.”

Going still, he searched her eyes, and laughed low under his breath at what he saw.

Challenge. Excitement.