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)
“What’s that beeping?” Burgess asked.
“Josephine’s glucose monitor.”
“You said she wasn’t there.”
Talking about his caddie was making him feel better and worse. What sense did that make? “She’s not here. It’s an app. I can see—”
The beeping filled his ear again, but it was more urgent this time.
Urgent low.
Wells had never heard that one before. It was louder and sharper.
“Hold on.” His pulse was skipping as he lowered the phone and opened the app, nausea swimming in his stomach at the sight of the dots plummeting. Plummeting down to the lowest number possible and disappearing altogether. “I . . . what the fuck?” His hands started to shake. “Something is wrong. I have to go.”
“Bye.”
After ending the call with Burgess, Wells didn’t even hesitate to call Josephine. It rang five times and went to voice mail. Hello! You’ve reached Josephine Doyle. Seriously? Who leaves voice mail anymore? If this is urgent, try me at the shop. Beep.
“Belle, what’s going on with your number? I-it just . . . there’s nothing. It just flew down and now it’s gone. Call me back, please. Now. Okay?”
Wells sat for maybe thirteen seconds, then vaulted off the bench and out of the gym, his hands extremely unsteady as he called Jim. No answer. Really? The guy usually picked up after half a ring. Was that a sign that something serious was going on? With Josephine?
“Fuck.” He turned in a dizzy circle, seeing nothing, willing the phone to ring. “Fuck.”
He raced to the red emergency shot that was sitting on his kitchen counter, snatched it up, his car keys in his hands, too, before he knew his own mind. Scratch that, his mind had gone completely offline. His stomach was living in his mouth, sweat pouring down the sides of his face as he sprinted for the parking garage.
Ninety minutes. He was ninety minutes away from Palm Beach. If something was wrong, would he even get there in time? Christ, he didn’t even have Josephine’s address. Only the location of the pro shop. A fact that was straight-up mind blowing, considering she was the one.
What a cliché thing to call someone whose well-being had him this terrified.
Wells was in his Ferrari within minutes, tearing north on 95 toward Palm Beach with his heart ripping itself to shreds inside his chest.
“Why isn’t anyone calling me back?” he shouted at the dashboard.
Against the leather seat, his bare back was slick with ice-cold perspiration, pulses hammering all over his body. If he got pulled over for speeding, so help him God, he would end up on the news in a high-speed chase, because he wasn’t slowing down. Not happening. He could barely feel his foot on the gas pedal. Only enough to know it was damn near on the floor and every minute he drove felt like six hours. There was no music or talk radio, just the sound of his rasping inhales and shuddering exhales. And still, no one had called him back. Where the hell was he even going? He didn’t have an address.
Wells smacked the phone symbol on the navigation screen. “Call Josephine.”
No answer.
None from Jim, either.
Oh God. Something very bad had happened. He knew it. He knew it.
Unable to think of any other options, Wells called his manager. He was twenty minutes from Palm Beach at this point, having cut the drive time in half by illegal means.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite golden goose.”
“Nate, please. I need help.”
Two seconds of silence. “Oh Jesus, Wells. Don’t tell me you’re in jail again. You can’t expect me to keep this out of the press. There are so many eyes on you right now—”
“I’m not in jail. I need Josephine’s address.” He couldn’t even recognize his voice as it slurred out of pure fear. “Didn’t she fill out some kind of form or whatever when she entered that contest?”
“I . . . yeah. But I can’t share that information. I told you that already.”
“It’s an emergency, Nate,” he growled. “Give me the fucking address!”
Something in Wells’s tone must have gotten through to the manager, because a moment later, the sound of computer keys started to click. Wells pressed even harder on the gas pedal, weaving his car in and out of traffic, ignoring the outraged honks sounding in his wake.
“Okay, here it is,” Nate came back, serious now. “Seven one one Malibu Bay Drive. Apartment six.”
“Text it to me, too,” Wells ordered, the address imprinting itself on his brain. “Thanks.”
He hung up the phone and shouted the location at the navigation screen, surprised when it came up despite his frantic tone. Six minutes. He’d be there in six minutes.
Still no blood sugar number for Josephine on the app.
What was he going to walk into?
His brain couldn’t even go there.
“Please, God, let her be okay.” The air conditioner had turned the sweat to ice on his skin, but he barely noticed. “I’ll be a nicer person. I’ll sell this car and give all the money to charity. I’ll never break another club. I’ll donate both of my kidneys. Yes, both. Take my soul, while you’re at it. Take everything. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Please.”