Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

“Golf. What else? Although . . . ,” Jim hedged.

“What?” Josephine prompted.

“Well, he usually manages to sneak in a few questions about you, Joey-Roo.” He paused, looking sheepish. “Come to think of it, that might be the real reason he’s calling.”

“Oh no, he loves you, honey,” Evelyn assured him.

Jim’s chest puffed up. “He does, doesn’t he?”

“Yes.”

Josephine stared at her parents. “What does he ask about me?”

“Well . . .” Her father scratched his head. “He’s crafty about it. See, we were having a conversation about golf clubs and he says, very casually mind you, ‘What kind of sticks does Josephine use?’ And it goes like that.”

Obviously, there was no satisfaction to be had from this line of questioning.

“He asked about her birthday,” volunteered Evelyn. “Remember?”

“Oh yes. He wanted to know the date.”

“Why?”

“Well, how am I supposed to know, Josephine?”

“By asking!”

“Wells doesn’t like questions.”

“Oh, for the love of—” Josephine pushed to her feet. “If he wants to know anything else about me, he can ask me himself.”

Jim gave a firm nod. “I’ll be sure to let him know that during our next chat.”

“Good.”

“Is there a romance brewing here, Joey-Roo?” asked her mother with a little shimmy of her shoulders. “I ran into Sue Brown at the supermarket yesterday and she seemed to think so. Said the broadcasters implied as much while you were in San Antonio.”

“The checkout clerk at the plant store asked about it, too.”

“Wow. More plants, huh?” Josephine sighed. “Did anyone ask about golf? Or caddying? Or was it all about whether or not Wells and I are—”

“I don’t think I like questions, either,” Jim blurted. “Don’t finish that one.”

“Dating. I was going to say dating.”

“Oh.” Jim coughed into his first. “Yes, it seems people are mostly interested in the possibility that our daughter is seeing Wells Whitaker. Also . . . that he’s a class act for helping you get back on your feet.”

Concerns validated, Josephine’s nod was jerky.

Wasn’t this what she’d been afraid of?

Being recognized as Wells’s charity-case girlfriend, instead of for her abilities?

Apparently, she’d done the right thing by backing away and giving all the hype a chance to die down. Would it pick back up as soon as they were on television in California?

Only time would tell.

And inevitably, she’d have more decisions to make. Such as how much longer could she remain as Wells’s caddie? More importantly, would any length of time serving as his caddie be enough to make people recognize her as an asset to the sport, instead of what had brought her on the tour? Would that talent serve the new and improved Golden Tee? Bring her family’s shop the attention she was hoping for? Or was that only wishful thinking?

An hour later, Josephine was still mulling over these worries when she walked into her apartment. Before the door even closed, her phone started to beep.

Sensor expiring said the alert on the screen.

Time to change the site of her glucose monitor. One arm to the other.

With a yawn, Josephine showered and went through the practiced motions of removing the old sensor, unsnapping the transmitter that sent her blood sugar number to her phone, then attaching the new one to the back of her arm with a slight wince. No matter how many times she performed the ritual, a needle punching into the back of her arm never stopped being a little jarring. Blowing out the breath she’d been holding, Josephine snapped in the fob and tapped the screen on the app to begin warming up the new device, which usually took around an hour. She chewed a few tabs, just to make sure she didn’t go low while waiting for the new device to kick in—and then she face-planted on the couch and fell fast asleep.





Chapter Twenty-Five




Wells stepped off the treadmill and grabbed the white towel from the handrail, mopping the sweat from his face and bare chest. He dropped down on the mat and gave himself a few minutes to recover before working through a set of core exercises.

He hated every fucking second of it.

Honestly, he didn’t like much right now. At all. Everything was annoying.

No matter how many times he adjusted the thermostat in his apartment, it was either too warm or too cold. Food was tasteless. Josephine had ruined jerking off, so not even that could relieve the restlessness plaguing him. Every time he started to rub one out, he got to thinking about how much better it would feel to be inside her and then his stupid chest started to hurt, in addition to his dick. Honestly, he was beginning to worry that something serious was wrong with him. Did he need to see a cardiologist or a urologist?

He’d worked out more this week than he’d done since the start of his career. Studied the course at Torrey Pines, poring over yardage books and perusing highlights from last year’s tournament when, coincidentally, he’d sucked too hard to even make the cut. Not an easy thing to watch, but he was going to finish higher than he had in San Antonio. End of story.

Josephine was getting rich whether she liked it or not. Call it revenge for making him feel nothing but disappointment in his God-given right to beat off.

Finished working his core, Wells got to his feet and moved to the bench press. But instead of lying down, he slipped his phone out of his pocket. Whistling to himself, he pulled up a news segment he’d watched too many times. Not the one that had upset Josephine their last night in San Antonio. No, this one was from earlier that day. When he’d finished in the money and she’d jumped into his arms.

Please, God, don’t let anyone trace these nine hundred views back to my IP address. Did phones even have an IP address? He didn’t know, but surely the FBI could trace how many times he’d watched the same scene play out. How she’d smiled up at him with visible pride.

His jugular squeezed in the most alarming way.

What an angel.

Three more ridiculous days apart. Every second was absurd.

He was going to buy a new condo and move, just to have something to do besides working out and watching YouTube clips and calling Josephine’s father, for Chrissake.

Wells hauled back, preparing to throw his phone across the room.

He stopped short when it started to ring.

No joke, he almost fell off the leather bench, thinking Josephine might be calling. She changed her mind about taking time apart. She’s coming to Miami and I’m about to raid a fucking Bath & Body Works to get ready for her.

It wasn’t Josephine, however.

It was Burgess Abraham. Also known as Sir Savage.

His professional hockey–playing friend, though neither one of them would admit they were friends. It was a completely healthy relationship.

Wells tapped the button to answer. “What?”

A low grumble of sound filled the small home gym. “Someone’s in a mood.”

“That’s right.”

“I live with a moody eleven-year-old now. Believe me, I don’t need your shit, too.”

Wells watched his own eyebrows rise in the mirror. “Your kid is living with you now? Like, full time?”

“Part time. And yet the whole apartment never stops smelling like Sol de Janeiro.”

“What the hell is that? And how are things with her mom?”

“I didn’t call to talk about this.” Burgess sighed.

Wells chuckled. “Who’s moody now?”

“Go to hell.”

“Nice to hear from you, too.” Wells switched the phone to his other hand. “Are you coming to Torrey Pines this week for the tournament?”

A hum came down the line. “I don’t know. Do eleven-year-old girls like golf?”

“Christ, I don’t know.” Wells paused, trying to swallow the protrusion forming in his throat. “Josephine probably liked golf when she was eleven.”

Even though Burgess didn’t make a sound, Wells had a feeling he was amused by the abject misery in his tone. “Ah. The caddie.”

Wells grunted.

Burgess made a thoughtful sound. “Can you ask her if it’s advisable to bring Lissa to the tournament?”