Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
“It’s not really something I can put into words,” she mused. “Cleanliness is very key, obviously, but . . . I don’t know. I guess I’m not overly partial to those long, skinny bones being visible at all times.” She shivered. “It helps that every man in Florida wears sandals.”
“That way, you can weed out the poor bony-footed saps.”
“Precisely.”
Frowning, he shook his head at Josephine. “Christ.”
Ignoring his obvious disapproval, she tipped her head toward the door. “You know I have to go in there or I’m going to be called a high-maintenance princess for the rest of the tour.”
Wells was already nodding. “That’s the only reason I didn’t already ask for the separate bag room when I entered us. It would have been bullshit, belle, but I didn’t want you having to deal with that. And let’s face it, I’d probably break someone’s nose and get us booted.”
For some reason, his use of the word “us” flushed her with warmth. As did his protectiveness of her. Funny, she always thought a man threatening violence on her behalf would be a turn off. Coming from Wells, it only made her feel embarrassingly giddy. “I’m glad you didn’t ask for a separate room.” She pushed at his shoulder. It didn’t budge an inch. “Go take some practice swings. I’ll try to survive the hairy-nipple forest.”
“Is that before or after the bony-foot fountain?”
And so, Josephine was giggling like a middle schooler as she walked into the bag room. When a hush spread through the packed gathering of dudes, she wasn’t thinking about their estimation of her. She was wondering if Wells had timed his visit and made her laugh on purpose, so she wouldn’t be nervous entering the testosterone zone. That wasn’t possible.
Was it?
Josephine scanned the wall for Wells’s name, which would appear over a designated locker holding his clubs, along with her official uniform.
“Over here, Josephine,” called a familiar voice.
Ricky, the caddie she’d met at the party last night. He stood toward the back of the bag room, indicating the locker beside his own.
“Thanks,” she murmured, sidling up beside him and opening the door to find a fresh, white mesh vest with the name Whitaker on the back. Her inner fangirl must still have been lurking deep down, because a squeal threatened to burst from her throat. Forcing herself to be all business, she tugged the loose vest on over her head, satisfied that it paired well with her pleated black skort, and she shouldered the heavy leather bag. “Are you heading down?”
“As a matter of fact, I am,” Ricky replied, grinning. “If we don’t have a good round, at least we know there’s a good round of drinks afterward.”
“Amen to that.”
All eyes were on them, the two newcomers, as they headed to the exit.
“Good luck with Whitaker,” someone called behind her. It was a veteran caddie she recognized well. He carried the bag for Calhoun and got a lot of screen time while his pro cleaned up at every tournament. “His last three caddies hated his guts.”
“She’s going to need more than luck,” said someone else. “She needs a miracle.”
“Legend has it, Whitaker’s game is still at the bottom of the lake at Sawgrass.”
Snorts and chuckles filled the room.
“That’s enough,” one of the older caddies snapped at the men, before winking at her. “You’re going to do just fine out there.”
Josephine gave him a grateful look. “I will, thanks.” She hesitated before walking out the door behind Ricky. Now would be a good time to show them they could push her around if they wanted, but she could give it back just as easily. “By the way,” she called to the caddie who’d made the crack about Wells’s leaving his game at the bottom of a lake. “I’m sure it’s not your fault your golfer always ends up in the sand trap. But maybe if you like the beach so much, you should book a vacation, instead.”
A roar of laughter carried Josephine out of the bag room.
Ricky fist-bumped her.
And that was the last good thing that happened that day.
* * *
Golf tournaments lasted four grueling days.
On the afternoon of day one, shit did not look good.
As a once-certified Wells Whitaker fangirl, she’d already been aware of his difficult attitude. But he must have shoveled cranky pills into his mouth by the fistful, because as soon as she handed him the driver at the first hole, he became a stone-faced gargoyle. Everything she suggested was greeted with a grunt or some sort of disagreement. He did so much cursing, not one, but two, officials had to roll up on their golf carts to warn him, and he’d broken his five iron by bashing it into a tree.
As soon as they finished, Wells stormed off the green to deliver his daily scorecard to the officials.