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)
“He’ll be there,” Josephine assured her, weakly.
This ought to be interesting.
A few minutes later, Wells exited the clubhouse, bag still perched on his shoulder. “We’re going to eat, belle.”
“Hold that thought. They want you in the media tent.”
“Fuck my life,” he grumbled, without missing a beat. “Why?”
“Probably because you just played your best round in two years.”
He hissed an exhale between his teeth. Seemed to ponder the situation for a moment. “If that’s the case, you’re doing it with me.”
Those words did not compute. “I’m sorry, what?”
“Straighten your ponytail.” He took Josephine’s hand, pulling her along behind him toward the tent. “You’re doing the interview with me.”
She gaped. “My ponytail is crooked?”
“Since the eleventh hole.” He jerked a shoulder. “It’s cute, so I didn’t say anything.”
“Wells.” She tried to slow him down, but her heels only skidded in the grass. “Golfers don’t bring their caddies to the media tent.”
“This one does.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know, Josephine,” Wells fired back over his shoulder. “I just . . . have this pretty intense need to make sure everyone knows you’re very fucking important. Okay? Could you kindly just go along with it?”
Josephine’s mouth snapped shut.
What was she supposed to say to that?
She couldn’t think of a single thing. Not when she suddenly felt . . . buoyant. Like she could float up into the cloudless sky and bask there in the sunshine, never coming down. Was she? Very fucking important to him? She’d been harboring the hope that her assistance on the course was making a difference, but having Wells say it out loud unlocked something inside her. Something like . . . pride.
A young man with a clipboard waved them into the big, white media tent as soon as they arrived—and dear lord, it happened so fast. One second, they were outside in the blazing sunshine and the next, they were embraced by shade and ice-cold air conditioning. Also, lighting crews, television cameras, and reporters, interspersed with boom mics.
A table waited for them at the front of the room, complete with several microphones proclaiming all the major networks. Her parents were 100 percent going to see this.
“Hold up. Come here,” Wells said, turning her around by the shoulders.
Before she could question his intentions, he tucked a few strands of hair into her ponytail and tightened it gently, making her eyes blink at a very rapid rate. “Thanks.”
In response, he pulled her toward the stage with a grunt, ascending the stairs . . .
And stopping short.
There was only one chair.
Relieved in the most indescribable way, Josephine started to back down the stairs. “I’ll just catch you later—”
“Nope.”
Wells pulled out the chair, guiding her down into it.
Then he stood directly behind her, frowning, with his arms crossed.
“What?” he shouted at the tent.
A sprinkling of nervous laughter followed. Face on fire, Josephine watched the reporters exchange glances, some of them amused, others aghast. Finally, one of the brave ones stood.
“Mr. Whitaker,” said the middle-aged man, holding a notepad. “Congratulations on a successful round of golf today. Would you mind giving us some insight into what led to you returning to the tour?”
“The question is would I mind? Yes.”
Josephine didn’t think. She just elbowed him. Hard. It just came naturally.
The tent erupted in laughter.
She couldn’t see Wells’s face, but she was relieved when he spoke again, dry this time, rather than hostile. “Does that answer your question?”
The reporter rocked forward on his toes, eyebrows elevating. “Your caddie had something to do with your return?”
“That’s right. She bullied me into it.”
Josephine leaned forward to speak into the microphone. “That’s a lie, your honor.”
More laughter, louder this time, echoed in the dim tent.
Wells bent over, nudging her aside to amplify his own voice. “Meet Josephine Doyle, folks. She’s meaner than she looks.”
“Only when you claim the wind speed is irrelevant.”
“That’s when you get run over by a golf cart to make a point, if I recall.”
Josephine smiled broadly. “It was a welcome reprieve from you, Wells.”
No one was holding back on the laughter at this point.
“Thanks for keeping me humble, Josephine.”
She smiled up at him, surprised to find his usual stone-faced countenance held a glimmer of . . . affection. Her heart pounded in response. “Anytime,” she said, breathily.
The media stared at them in silence for several seconds.
And then everyone started shouting questions at once.
* * *
Wells and Josephine didn’t get much of a chance to speak during their late lunch.
Or on the trip through the lobby toward the elevators.
People kept stopping them for pictures and autographs.
Now, she stumbled back against the elevator wall after punching the button for her floor and stared straight ahead, shell-shocked. “What was that?”
“I don’t know,” Wells muttered, looking at his phone. “But my ex-manager called me three times in the last hour and he doesn’t get out of bed unless someone offers him a boatload of money.”