Fangirl Down (Big Shots, #1)

“Are you going to give her fifty percent of the winnings, too?” asked the man, dryly.

Skeptical snorts followed that question. Most of the press, however, looked peeved by the reporter. A couple of them even threw crumpled-up paper cups at the man, which he batted away.

“Wells . . . ,” Josephine whispered. “Ignore him.”

He covered the microphone with his hand. “Do you trust me?”

Her brow wrinkled. “Of course.”

Victory bobbed in his throat. She’d said it faster this time than last time.

Wells dropped his hand from the microphone. “I don’t give her anything. She earns it. She’s that good at reading a course. Making calls based on strengths and weaknesses I didn’t even know I had. Hell, her drive is better than mine. To say I’m lucky to have her on my team would be an unforgivable understatement.” He pressed his thigh against hers, where no one in the tent could see. “That’s why I am giving her fifty percent of my winnings.”

Silence abounded.

Josephine’s head turned slowly, her eyelashes fluttering a mile a minute.

Everyone started talking at once, taking pictures and shouting questions, but he didn’t have time for any of that. He needed to be alone with his girl.

“No more questions, you beady-eyed pack of vultures. We’re out of here.” He stood abruptly, sending his chair skidding across the podium, and waited for Josephine to rise, as well.

Which she did. On visibly wobbly legs.

He tried to gauge her reaction. Did she understand why he’d done it? She’d asked him to refrain from trying to correct the media’s misconception of her and her so-called victim/hero relationship with Wells, because he might make it worse. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t stand by and let people believe Josephine wasn’t the hero in this situation. And he hoped, maybe, once people stopped seeing her otherwise, their relationship could thrive out in the open.

Not now, obviously. Someday.

But Wells was shocked down to the soles of his feet when—right there in front of everyone—she reached out and took his hand, winding their fingers together tightly. Lights flashed, feet stomped, more questions were shouted, but they ignored all of it, communicating with nothing but their eyes.

I can’t believe you did that, said hers.

His responded with, You haven’t seen anything yet.

Side by side, they walked out of the tent.

And Wells only shot the reporters the briefest of middle fingers behind his back.

*

Wells stared at the dinner menu in his hands, the words blurring together in indecipherable lines. What did “braised” mean? He couldn’t remember.

He was in the players’ lounge having dinner with Josephine and Tallulah, but he’d barely managed a proper greeting for Josephine’s best friend when they arrived.

Because he’d been rendered speechless by sex. Utterly fucking speechless.

“Wells, do you want one of these rolls?” Josephine asked, nudging the breadbasket in his direction. All he could do was look at the baked dough in confusion.

“Huh?”

Josephine pressed her lips together in amusement—because she knew exactly what she’d done to him. Scrambled his brain like a couple of farm fresh eggs, that’s what.

She’d given him head. Twice.

Enthusiastically.

Were his legs even attached to his body anymore? He couldn’t feel them. Couldn’t hear or see anything but Josephine on her knees in that blue dress, telling him softly that it was okay to come in her mouth. That she really wanted him to.

You better not be doing this because of the press conference, he’d said, while flexing his hips toward her mouth. Or because I flew in your friend, Josephine, I swear to . . .

Can’t I just miss the taste of my boyfriend’s cock? she’d purred, kissing his crown.

And his brain went offline after that.

He’d literally passed out from the sucker punch of relief she’d given him. And when he’d woken up, she was back at it. Moaning as she sucked him.

No clothes this time. Not a single stitch.

Now he was supposed to make small talk. Chew things and operate utensils.

How.

Wells watched the waiter approach with a sense of dread. “Something to drink, folks?”

Josephine and Tallulah ordered glasses of white wine.

Wells helplessly gestured to the bar.

“A . . . beer, sir?” guessed the waiter.

Wells nodded, his neck so loose, he probably resembled a bobblehead.

He had no idea what he’d done to deserve the Cadillac of sexual favors, but he wanted to be a better person now. Volunteer more. Build orphanages with his bare hands. Save the bees. All of it.

“So, Wells . . .” Tallulah buttered a roll. “Do you have rituals you perform before a tournament starts? Like, is there a song that hypes you up?”

Both women looked at him expectantly. As if his brain wasn’t still a pile of mashed potatoes on the pillow upstairs. But didn’t he want to make a good impression on Josephine’s best friend? Get your head on straight.

“Lately, I usually just argue with Josephine.”

Tallulah snickered. “How long did it take you to realize she always wins?”

“Day two, I think. Maybe three.”

“And yet, he keeps trying,” Josephine said, squeezing his thigh beneath the table.

Making him think of how she’d held on to his thighs while she stuck out her tongue for his spend. “I’m never going to argue with you again,” he rasped. “You win forever.”

“Oh. This is a victory dinner?” Tallulah raised her glass of wine. “Aren’t those supposed to come after the tournament?”

“Yeah. But we’ve always been a little unconventional,” Wells said, and he could actually feel his fucking heart pounding in his chest as he looked at Josephine. “And I don’t want to change a single thing.”

Josephine’s smile dipped a little, seemingly beneath the weight of the moment. “Me either.”

“Holy shit,” Tallulah said, setting down her glass with a clink. “Look at that giant man with a child’s backpack on his shoulder.”

Halfway through Tallulah’s exclamation, Wells somehow knew she was referring to Burgess. In his panic to reach Palm Beach, followed by the rush to reach California early, he’d forgotten all about his phone call with the hockey bruiser. Now, Wells tore his eyes off his girlfriend and followed Tallulah’s line of sight toward the lobby, where, indeed, Burgess was towering among a sea of people with a miniature, sparkly silver backpack on his shoulder, a very solemn young girl holding his hand in the checkin line.

“Wow, he actually brought his kid,” Wells said. “To a golf tournament.”

Tallulah raised a dark eyebrow. “You know him?”

“Yeah.” Why was he shrugging so much? “Casually. Like, beers and the occasional phone call, but it’s not a big deal.”

Josephine tapped her temple. “Making a mental note not to fly him in for your birthday.” She split a look between Wells and the lobby. “Do you want to ask them to join us?”

“With a kid?”

“Kids eat, too, last time I checked,” said his girlfriend.

Suddenly, he was very fixated on what Josephine was saying. “Do you like kids?”

“Of course, I like kids.”

“Do you want one?” he half shouted.

“Oh, I wish they had popcorn on this menu,” Tallulah said wistfully, tipping her glass to her lips. “But I guess wine will have to do.”

“Maybe,” Josephine answered, finally. “Not yet. But maybe someday.”

“I don’t know a damn thing about kids,” he warned her.

Josephine opened her mouth, closed it. “People usually don’t know, until they have one. Not really.” She very clearly kicked her friend under the table. “Right, Tallulah?”

The aspiring marine biologist choked on her wine, but recovered fast. “She’s right. You have to have one to find out if you actually want one. It’s pretty fucked. Unless your mother had one of your siblings late in life, like mine did, and you helped raise them.” She rubbed her hands together. “That’s how I know I want ’em. Bring me that child!”