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)
Not that he deigned to acknowledge it.
The Texas sun burned bright when they arrived on the fairway of the eighteenth hole. Wells took a long drink of water from his metal canteen and handed it to Josephine without looking. Too parched to question the move, Josephine let the cold water cool her throat, capped the canteen, and put it back in the bag, taking out her binoculars next and raising them to her eyes, surveying the green. She’d already given Wells her advice and was waiting for him to finish chewing it over.
“Where should I set it down?” he asked, referring to the ball. “Give me a landmark.”
“Pitfalls of being short. I can’t really see over the rise.” She held out the binoculars. “You want to look?”
“Hop up on my back,” Wells suggested, without missing a beat. “You won’t be happy with the shot unless you can see it for yourself.”
That was true. Still, the idea was absurd and definitely not happening. “I appreciate you wanting me to be satisfied with the strategy, but caddies don’t just . . . climb on their golfers.”
He arched an eyebrow at her.
“You know what I mean.”
Wells hissed out a breath. “I’m afraid I need your opinion on a landing spot or I won’t be confident in the shot, belle.”
“Seriously?”
He hitched his chin toward his back. “Someone once said my ass could be used as a roller coaster seat. Test out the theory.”
Her cheeks were growing suspiciously hot, but dammit, she really wanted to check their position in relation to the green. “I’m only going up for a second,” she muttered, circling around back of him. Taking a tiny beat just to appreciate—
“Well, I know one thing you’re satisfied with,” Wells drawled.
Josephine begged the sky to keep her sanity intact. Then, settling her hands on his thick shoulders, she jumped, locking her legs around Wells’s waist. The crowd laughed, followed by the sound of camera shutters going off. Josephine barely registered any of it because—oh God. She hadn’t had a piggyback ride in a long, long time, possibly long before she’d become aware of her body or its sexual properties. Because she didn’t remember piggyback rides like this—at all. The juncture of her thighs found the top curve of his buttocks, pressing oh so snugly, her inner thighs squeezing his waist. The clean aftershave scent of his neck was suddenly very close, along with the bunching of his back muscles against her breasts. And the air quite simply disappeared from her lungs.
“Uhmm.”
“Binoculars, Josephine,” he said hoarsely.
“Right. Okay.”
She lifted the binoculars to her eyes with a shaky hand. “I would say aim for the guy in the polo shirt and hat, but that doesn’t really narrow it down. Um . . . the man in mint green.” She passed him the binoculars. “See him?”
Wells looked. “Yeah. Put it down right there?”
“Yup.”
He gave the binoculars back. “Check again.” His hand, now free, wrapped around her ankle, his thumb sliding into her sock in a sweeping arc. Dug in roughly. “Take all the time you need.”
At this rate, she’d need, like, thirteen seconds to orgasm. Tops.
In other words, it was high time to get down. Which she did.
“You ready?” she said breathily, smoothing her clothing.
“Some might say too ready.” He inhaled deeply, visibly getting ahold of himself. Finally, he focused on the shot with a deep “mmmm” rumbling in his throat.
That’s how Josephine typically knew it was time to get out of the way—when he gave a gruff “mmmm” and that crease appeared between his brows.
Silently, she backed up and held her breath, praying she’d given him good advice. She exhaled when the ball dropped in the exact place they’d chosen, around thirty yards from the man in mint, ten from the hole.
“Great shot,” she said, taking the six iron and replacing it in the bag.
Wells started to respond, but the cheering around them swelled while they advanced to the green, preparing to putt. He looked momentarily surprised by the growing mass of people, but he hid it almost immediately, putting his head down and trudging on to the final shot of day three.
“Don’t love the grass on this one.”
“Bumpy in spots,” she agreed.
“But I was thinking about that mindfuck lesson you gave me. The morning before the first round. Remember?” He hunkered down, putter in hand. “The course is bigger than the distance between the ball and the hole, right? What if I shoot past it a little to avoid that knotted grass and let it roll back in?”
“I love it,” she murmured. “You can control that roll from here in a way you couldn’t from the fairway. Make it delicate.”
“Make it delicate,” Wells snorted. “It’s never been more obvious I have a chick for a caddie.”
“Lucky you.”
“We’ll see.”
She bit her lip to subdue a smile. “You good, then?”