Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

Wells remained steady throughout the morning, managing to maintain his position on the leaderboard. Fifteenth place. To Josephine, they might as well have been in first.

All he needed to do was make par on the eighteenth hole and Wells would bank thirty thousand dollars. Ten percent of that would go to Josephine. Three thousand dollars. On top of the Under Armour sponsorship money. It was more money than she’d ever had at one time. But at that very moment, the imminent hope of rebuilding the Golden Tee and restoring her health insurance came second to Wells getting his professional footing back. Every time he swung the club, he did it with a little more of his old finesse.

The crowd had doubled since the morning—and they were excited.

She could practically hear her parents freaking out on the couch at home.

That being said, Josephine was allowing herself to anticipate the changes she would make to the family shop. The shine of new hardwood flooring, the wall of reference books, the technology she would incorporate to modernize the space. How she would take it from a necessary stop for visitors to an experience that would keep them coming back.

She’d dream more later, though.

Right here and now, she was focused on Wells. Finishing the day off strong.

Calhoun was sulking over in the rough after an average round, waiting for Wells to take his putt. Meanwhile, Josephine stood on the green of the final hole. One putt. A single putt and they could go home winners, at least in her book.

But Wells was . . . frozen.

They’d conferred on yardage, angle, wind speed. And he’d just . . . stopped.

“What’s wrong?”

He rubbed the center of his forehead and blinked at the ball. “What happens if I miss this?”

“You can’t think like that.”

“What is the difference in the payout if I miss?” He closed his eyes. “God, I don’t want to fuck this up for us, belle.”

“You won’t.” She handed him the putter. “Visualize the shot.”

“That’s the thing—I can’t.”

“Okay. Let’s say you could visualize the shot. What would it look like?”

His head turned slowly. “Where in God’s name do you come up with this shit?”

She grinned. “It’s good, isn’t it?”

He made a grudging sound. “Better than good.”

Laughter went up from the crowd. She could hear the electric whir of the camera, the dropped voices of the commentators. How much was being overheard? She had no idea, but it didn’t matter right now. There was only her and Wells.

“What does it look like?” she prompted again.

She watched the life rekindle in his eyes, cogs turning in his head.

Then he got into position. Took a breath. And sank the putt.

You’d have thought they’d just won the Masters, based on the crowd’s reaction. The resulting roar was so loud, the ground shook beneath Josephine’s feet. Everyone moved at once, reporters rushing onto the green, security holding back fans, beer sloshing onto khaki.

Wells dropped his putter, walked straight past a reporter asking him a question, and scooped Josephine off the ground into a bear hug. She laughed freely into his neck, hot pressure building against the backs of her eyelids. So many emotions hit her at once. Joy. Relief. Pride—and not only in Wells, but in herself.

Maybe for the first time ever, the dream she’d been nursing for years took a more distinct shape. She could bring this firsthand experience of working with a professional golfer—no, the best professional golfer—and pour that familiarity into the Golden Tee. She could take what she’d learned and drag her family’s business into the twenty-first century . . . with the knowledge and confidence to back it up now.

A little fissure formed under her skin at the reminder that she’d eventually have to leave Wells and the tour, but . . . that had always been the plan, right?

She was thoroughly distracted from thoughts of the future, of leaving, when Wells pressed his mouth to her ear, bathing it in a hot exhale. “Josephine.”

“Yes?”

“Let’s get out of here.” His fist tightened in the back of her shirt, his chest beginning to heave. “Don’t make me go another minute without you.”

She looked around in a daze. “Every sports reporter in Texas wants to talk to you.”

“Fuck ’em.” He wrapped an arm around Josephine’s shoulders and used his body to shield her as they moved through the raucous crowd. “It’s just you and me.”





Chapter Twenty-Two




There was only one thing Wells wanted in this life—and it was to fuck this woman.

He wanted to get her somewhere dark, tear down her panties, and bury his cock between her soft, sexy thighs. And for some infuriating reason, everyone and their mom wanted to stop him. A crowd followed him to the clubhouse when he turned in his scorecard. Reporters shoved microphones in their faces, using the C-word on a loop. Comeback. Comeback.

Is she responsible for your comeback?

Josephine, how do you feel about being a good luck charm for Wells Whitaker?

Will we see you at the Masters together?

If Wells was even remotely capable of responding with anything but please I need to come inside my caddie, he would have told them yes, Josephine was unequivocally responsible for his comeback. Two weeks ago, he was a corpse. He’d never expected to pick up another golf club as long as he lived. Now he had a beating pulse. A purpose. The potential revival of his career. His blood was flowing again.

He had hope, because of Josephine.

And he just wanted to worship her for all that he was worth. Praise her and get lost in her and . . . demand to know what the hell they were to each other.

That’s right—he wanted specifics.

Were they a golfer and caddie who incentivized sex as a strategy?

Stranger things had happened.

Maybe friends with benefits? Boyfriend and girlfriend?

Shit. He liked the sound of that last one. A lot. It was too soon, though, and what would it mean for their dynamic on the course? Would they have to keep their love life and golf separate in order to be ethical? In order to have a healthy relationship, in which she wasn’t constantly having to refocus him and talk him out of killing people?

Labeling what they had could complicate everything.

Josephine would have to be out of her mind to want to be his girlfriend, really.

Still, it had a nice ring to it.

Oooh. Rings.

Wow. Pump the brakes, man.

They were almost to the lobby of the hotel when a crowd swelled through the doors, holding up their phones to take pictures of Wells and Josephine.

They traded a pitiful glance and reversed direction.

Josephine laughed, stumbling a little as he pulled her along.

“What could possibly be funny at a time like this?” he demanded to know.

“You’re dragging me all over this family-friendly golf resort looking for a place to”—she waved a hand—“collect on our wager. There is something funny about it.”

“I promise you, Josephine, there is not.”

“Wait!” She yanked him to a stop on the path. Eyes wide, she slowly drew a single key out of the pocket of her skirt, holding it up to the light. Sun glinted off its majestic surface like the angels were ordaining it the new Holy Grail. “We’re forgetting I have my own bag room.”

“Where is that from here?” He pressed both thumbs into his eye sockets. “Christ, I’m so fucking horny, I’ve lost my sense of direction.”

“This way.”

“Fair warning, Josephine, I don’t even have two seconds of foreplay in me.”

“Aw, honey.” She batted her eyelashes at him over her shoulder. “I don’t need it.”

Wells’s tortured groan would echo on the pathway to the clubhouse for the next century. And it only grew louder when they saw that it was blocked by a group of autograph seekers.

“I know it’s wrong to wish for a flash flood to sweep them away, but . . .” Wells trailed off.

“Don’t do it.”

“Too late.”