Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

“My lungs are bleeding from excitement.”

Despite her irritable state, he didn’t miss the way she cataloged his chest and stomach. He might have even flexed a little, in the name of making her feel better. Whatever it took to get her out of the room and toward a fix—and he was not taking it for granted that she was allowing him to be part of the solution.

They positioned the brass hook to hold her door open, then stood side by side in the carpeted hallway, Josephine barefoot, Wells in the leather sneakers he usually wore until it came time to put on his spikes. “You ready?”

“No,” she said, starting to jog.

Hiding his smile, he caught up and kept pace with her. Down to the end of the hallway, where they touched the wall, turned and started back in the direction they’d come.

“Depeche Mode.”

“No,” she answered without missing a beat.

“Bad Bunny.”

“You’re casting a very wide net.”

“Give me the decade, at least,” he complained.

“Only because you’re shirtless.” She glanced over, lips pursed. “The sixties.”

He growled. “That would have been helpful in the beginning.”

She hip checked him, briefly interrupting his stride. “I help you more than enough.”

Truthfully? He kind of loved Josephine in a bad mood. “That’s true. You do.”

They tapped the hallway wall, turned, and continued, jogging in companionable silence for a few minutes. Until, “It’s the Beatles, isn’t it?”

“Nope.”

Wells groaned.

“You’re getting closer.”

“There’s that.”

“There’s also this.” She knocked on a random hotel room door and then sprinted ahead at three times the speed they’d been jogging. Leaving him in her dust. Making it look like he was the one who’d knocked. Wells boomed a laugh, but it cut off abruptly when the door Josephine had knocked on opened a few yards behind him.

“Uh . . . yes?” called an older man into the hallway.

Without turning around, Wells picked up speed.

Josephine had disappeared back into her room.

No. She wouldn’t. She would not close the door on him, leaving him out in the hallway shirtless, caught red-handed as a doorbell ditcher.

Spoiler: yes, she would.

Wells skidded to a halt outside her door and grabbed the handle, rattling it violently. Locked. “Oh. You are so wrong for this, belle.”

Her gasping laugh reached him through the door.

“Open it.”

“Son, did you knock on my door?” called the man on the other end of the hall.

“Sorry about that.” Wells gave a stilted wave. “Wrong room.”

Dude wouldn’t leave it at that. “Aren’t you that Whitaker fellow?”

Josephine was all but dying on the other side of the goddamn door. “You’ve had your fun,” he ground out, though he was also . . . smiling? “Let me in.”

The door clicked open and Wells stormed inside, letting it shut behind him while he watched Josephine huddle against the far wall of the room, face buried in her hands, shoulders shaking with mirth.

“Looks like you’re feeling better,” he remarked, wishing he could taste that laugh, feel it against his mouth.

“Much.” She scooped her phone off the bed, tapped the screen, and held it out, so Wells could see the dots sloping downward, her number beginning to come down: 267. Still high, but going in the right direction. “It’ll keep going down now that I’ve given it a kickstart.”

“I’m glad, baby.”

All right. That just . . . slipped right out.

They stared at each other for a few heavy moments, before heading for the bathroom at the same time, pausing in the doorway to search each other for objections, then going in together. Slowly. Wells pulled his shirt back on and replaced his hat while Josephine began another attempt at a ponytail.

“You know, it looks the exact same every time you do it.”

She hummed. “To the untrained male eye, maybe.”

“Give me a go.”

She paused in the act of gathering her hair, revealing that very edible neck. “You want to do my ponytail?”

“I want to do a lot of things to your ponytail.”

“What? Gross.”

Smooth, guy. “That didn’t come out the way I meant it to.” He moved to stand behind her, shaking out his hands. “I’m nervous about my first hair gig.”

“Seriously. I’ve seen you less nervous about a twenty-yard putt.”

Wells took the brush in his right hand and started pulling it through her auburn strands. At some point, he knew he needed to begin forming the tail, but holy shit, this was soothing. “How do women get anything done? I’m not exaggerating when I say I could do this for hours.”

“Throw in that ponytail comment and I think we’re working with a fetish here, Whitaker.”

Considering how it started, this morning was turning into the most fun he’d had in a really long time. Maybe even his entire life. Just being around her was . . . eighty experiences rolled into one. Relaxing, arousing, comfortable, arousing. Fun and interesting and right. And arousing. Was it a weird time to mention that he’d like to take a bite out of her neck? In fact, he was dying to untie her robe and look at her naked in the bathroom mirror, but now wasn’t the right moment. Not when she’d woken up feeling shitty.

“All right, here goes.”

Biting down on his bottom lip enough to draw blood, he used the brush to sort of urge sections of hair into his fist. When he was satisfied he’d gotten them all, he panicked, because he had no way to keep them in this perfect formation—

She held a black rubber band above her shoulder. “Here.”

“Thank Christ.” He blew out a breath. “This part is stressful.”

“I know!”

“There are bumps no matter what I do,” he growled, wrapping the band, twisting, wrapping again, feeling like he was using someone else’s hands.

“Yup. They look like shark fins.”

A laugh bounded out of him. “Oh my God, Josephine, that’s exactly what they look like.”

Their gazes locked in the mirror and his heart whipped around like a car doing donuts. “You feel better, belle?”

“Yeah.” She turned her head slightly and kissed the inside of his wrist. “Thanks, Wells.”

No. He should be the one thanking her, right? She’d already started transforming him into a better golfer, but allowing him to help this morning? With something so personal and important to her? Fuck. That made him feel like a human. A human worth his salt.

Her faith sat welcome and heavy on his chest. And he wanted more of it.

Not knowing what to say, Wells leaned down and kissed the side of her neck, breathing through the need to do more. Touch her everywhere. His eyes closed on a rough exhale when she pushed her butt back into his lap. He gripped her hips and—

His phone rang in his pocket.

No. Noooooooo.

In tandem, they slumped, Josephine’s sweet ass ending its temptation campaign as she smirked at him in the mirror, moving slightly out of his reach.

Grating a curse, he pulled out his phone. Nate was calling. Again.

There could only be one reason.

Comeback.

Wells could already hear the word curling in his ear. Did he want to hear it?

For Josephine’s sake, yes. He did.

But for him? All that attention and accolades were fleeting. He knew that all too well now.

What had Josephine said to him a few days ago? It’s not always about the next thing you do. Sometimes it’s about what you already did. He’d been thinking about that a lot. And maybe . . . she was right. Maybe he could learn to let go of the pressure that came from comparing his rank to everyone else. Being critical of his swing. Stressing about the next tournament before he even finished the one he was playing. Maybe he could be in the moment, enjoying the game for what it had once been for him.

An escape.

“It’s my manager,” he explained.

“Take it.”

Wells flipped his phone over in his hand a few times, then called Nate back. Finally.

“It’s about time, champ!” greeted the bastard.

“Okay, that greeting was transparent, even for you. What do you want?”

“Is that how you talk to an old friend?”