Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

Buck Lee.

“Well, I have to give it to you, Miss Doyle,” he started, putting out his hand for a shake. “You certainly proved me wrong out there this week.”

Josephine kept her smile intact as they shook, although she couldn’t stop herself from bearing down with a tighter than usual grip. “I didn’t realize you were expecting me to suck.”

He laughed. “I wasn’t alone in that prediction, to be fair. Not because you’re a woman, of course,” the older man rushed to tack on. “Only because you’re a newbie. An unknown one, at that.”

“Right.” Go sell it somewhere else. “It was nice to see you again, but I’m late meeting Wells, and he’s prickly enough without giving him extra reasons.” Immediately, she regretted saying that. It was a comment she’d meant to be good natured and fond, but it came across like she was commiserating with Buck and that wasn’t the case at all. “Excuse me—”

“Prickly is one way to describe him, I suppose,” Buck drawled, sipping from a rocks glass containing a golden liquid. “Belligerent, self-sabotaging, and stubborn. Those are a few others.” It was obvious that Buck had been drinking for a while, which was the pot calling the kettle black, if you asked her. She wanted out of the conversation, but Buck kept going. “When he called and asked me to help him get back on the tour, I said no. Flat-out. I wasn’t putting my reputation on the line again when he squandered it the first time.”

She watched over Buck’s shoulder as Wells approached through the crowd.

The closer he came, the more her stomach sank down to her toes.

Please don’t let him hear any of this.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Lee, I really need to—”

“Then he gave me this whole sob story about your shop getting damaged in the hurricane. Throw in the fact that you’re a woman—sorry—and we knew it would make our missing fans curious enough to tune back in. A real human-interest story.” He gestured to the television above the bar with his rocks glass, chuckling to himself. “Look at that! They’re talking about it right now.”

Josephine was almost afraid to turn her head.

When she met Wells’s eyes over Buck’s shoulder, she saw shock and recognition, followed by regret. Oh God. Finally, she looked at the television, her mouth falling open when she saw herself on the course, the footage taken earlier in the day—she could tell, because of her ice-blue skirt.

Beneath her was the headline:

Golfer Gives Down-and-Out Diabetic Caddie a Helping Hand

Her skin turned icy, stomach roiling.

No. She had to be reading that wrong.

“Like I told Wells, the media loves an underdog story,” remarked Buck. “Ratings, ratings, ratings, right? We knew this angle would get him back on the tour.”

Josephine’s heart pounded a hundred miles an hour.

Everyone in the bar was staring at her, obviously fascinated by her supposed sob story—and that sob story was her being a sickly charity case. Not someone who offered valuable advice. Not someone who was good at the job. No, instead she was a pet project.

Success and respect. Those two things were everything in this world—and she was obviously a million miles away from having the latter. What did that mean for her reputation? Presently, she was a caddie and she took that job seriously. Image mattered here.

And image would mean a great deal when it was time to reopen the Golden Tee.

“I’ll tell you the truth . . .” Buck, oblivious to her acute distress, wasn’t done talking. “I was shocked to find out that Wells had a heart. Didn’t think he cared about anyone but himself, but obviously there’s more to him than I suspected—”

Wells stepped up beside Buck. “That’s enough, Buck.” Urgently, he said, “Josephine—”

“There is a lot more to him,” Josephine interrupted, looking directly at Buck and ignoring the hollow sensation in her chest that was growing worse by the moment. Oh God, had her parents seen this whole mess on the Golf Channel? Of course, they had; the television in their house was constantly tuned in to the network.

She wanted to be angry with Wells—and she was. She was. He’d gotten back on the tour by using her sorry situation as media fodder. At the very least, he’d allowed it, right? He’d put the information into hands that couldn’t be trusted not to manipulate and twist it to their advantage.

That being said, no one trash-talked her golfer. Only her.

“There is a lot more to Wells. And maybe, when he called to ask for help getting back on the tour, he was playing for me. But he’s playing for himself again now, too. He loves this game. He’s great at it. And you’re a fair-weather fan and friend, sir. In my book, that’s the worst possible thing you could be. Excuse me.”

Josephine spun on a heel and marched for the door on legs that felt wobbly, at best.

“Come back here, Josephine, goddammit,” Wells growled, following in her wake.

Entering the bright lobby after being in the dark bar made her feel ten times more exposed than she was already feeling, but instead of heading for the elevators, she went outside. She just needed air to process everything. To decide what she was going to do about all of it.

God, now that the whole news story was sinking in, embarrassment scaled the insides of her throat, drying out her mouth.

She fought between the impulse to rant and the voice of reason in her head, reminding her that without caddying, she’d never be able to rebuild the shop. Wells had done her a huge favor—and he couldn’t control the press. Still, she’d asked him that day in the Golden Tee, standing in a foot of flood water, to please not make her a charity case. But here they were—and it was so much worse than she could have predicted.

Wells caught up with Josephine right as she reached an outdoor patio and they emerged from the lobby together, striding in silence until they hit the edge of the golf course, as if by some tacit agreement that the green was where they would have it out.

“Josephine, you need to let me explain.”

She took off her shoe and threw it at his head. “I don’t need to do anything.”

Wells ducked, watching the footwear sail over his right shoulder. “You’re right. Let me start over.” His silence extended longer than she expected. “First off, the fact that you stood up for me in there even after seeing and hearing . . . that bullshit. God, belle. I don’t fucking deserve you. Okay? Can we just get that part out of the way?”

Her whole face felt as though it welled up. “And? Keep going.”

Wells looked like a man walking on a tightrope tied between two skyscrapers. “When I called Buck for help, I just wanted to get back on the tour by any means necessary. I never thought it would go this far. Never thought you’d become some kind of ridiculous narrative.”

“I’m not a charity case,” she said in a strangled whisper.

“Damn right you’re not.” He slammed a fist to his chest. “I’m the charity case here. It’s me. You’re the one bringing me back from extinction.”

Listening to Wells put himself down wasn’t making Josephine feel any better. “What are they saying about the shop? Are my parents going to find out the insurance had lapsed? That needing the money for repairs and oh God, insulin is the reason I’m caddying for you?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Wells.” She covered her face with her hands. “This isn’t happening. Do you know how hard I had to work to make them trust me? To believe they could let go and let me handle the shop and my condition? Now they know I’m a fraud.”

“You. Are not. A fraud. Don’t you dare. You can’t control hurricanes and a fucked-up health-care system, Josephine. You are the furthest thing from a fraud I’ve ever met in my life.” He ripped at his hair. “I’m going to take care of this. I’m going to fix their misconceptions about you, about us, the first chance I get. Tonight.”