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)
She’d traded words with Wells on occasion at tournaments and their exchanges had been interesting. Snappy. Memorable. She couldn’t help but be kind of pleased to know they shared the same dynamic in real life. Not because she wanted to date him. Or because he was a shade sexier when he was in a foul mood—fine, several shades—but more so because his crabby disposition made her feel . . . open to challenge him. She’d never really experienced that before.
“Beyond that, I had this thing growing up. None of the other kids had it. So I doubled down to prove I was not only the same as everyone else, but stronger.”
Josephine couldn’t believe she’d said that out loud.
Actually, she wasn’t really sure she’d even acknowledged that truth to herself before. Now that she’d plucked at the thread, though, she felt compelled to keep tugging until the thought had been fully realized. “One time, in sixth grade, my class went on an overnight camping trip in Ocala. No parents. I think my mom and dad secretly got a hotel room nearby, actually, in case of an emergency, although they’ve never fessed up.” She shook her head. “Anyway, this one kid, Percy D’Amato, claimed he’d seen a black bear in the woods and everyone was freaked out.” She paused to remember. “I took out my flashlight and went out into the woods by myself. And you know what? There was a bear.”
Wells did a double take. “No, there wasn’t.”
“Yes. There was. I screamed bloody murder, and it ran in the opposite direction.”
“It’s starting to make a lot more sense why you’re not intimidated by me.” This time, she couldn’t quite hold in her laugh—and the briefest of smiles carried across the lips of Wells Whitaker, before he quickly went back to frowning, heaping more shades of sexiness on top of what was already a veritable mountain. Even in a barber’s chair, while having shaving cream dolloped onto his jaw, he looked more like an angry gladiator than a golfer.
“Is it your goal to intimidate people?” Josephine asked.
He didn’t answer right away. “It’s not something I think about.”
“Your impenetrable darkness just comes naturally.”
“Sort of like your brightness.”
That caught her off guard. “You think I’m . . . that I have brightness?”
“Better . . . better . . . ,” murmured the barber.
“I . . .” He opened his mouth and closed it, making an irritable gesture that sent the edge of the cape flying. “You would have to have a certain brightness. On the inside. To keep showing up with a smile on your face for a losing player. Not that I was paying attention.”
Josephine felt an unwanted, possibly dangerous tug in her throat.
She rubbed the spot to make it go away.
“Of course not,” she said.
“Maybe, initially, I intimidated people on purpose. I grew up without a dime, walked to school when everyone else was getting dropped off by parents, lunches packed. Birthday invitations in their backpacks to hand out at recess. I wanted them to know I didn’t give a shit.”
This time, there was no ridding herself of the throat tug, so she didn’t bother trying to massage it away. “But you did? Give a shit.”
He stopped just short of confirming, visibly uncomfortable with the direction they’d taken. “Maybe. I don’t know.” He transferred his glare to the barber. “Could you please stab me in the neck to get me out of this conversation?”
“Texas ought to be fun,” Josephine said cheerfully.
“There’s no fun in golf, Josephine.”
She swiped a finger through the shaving cream and tapped the dollop onto his nose, trying valiantly not to consider the perfect slope of it. “You’ve never played with me before.”
Chapter Seven
Wells swiped a gym towel down his sweaty face, tossed it onto the bench press, and took another lap around his home gym. All week, he’d been subjecting himself to grueling workouts. Seven days later, the alcohol was still seeping out of his pores. Apart from the overall need to get himself back into playing condition, he’d been using exercise as a means of distraction. A way to stall. It was now or never, though.
The tournament started in two days and Wells wasn’t yet back on the roster.
He needed to call Buck.
Otherwise, he’d hired Josephine as his caddie for no reason and his new set of clubs had been shipped to the resort in San Antonio in advance of nothing.
“Quit being a coward,” he commanded himself, picking up the towel once more to wipe away the perspiration on his chest. “Make the damn call. What’s the worst that could happen?”
Buck could tell him to fuck off.
Technically, his mentor had already done that. There was nothing to lose here. Nothing but his pride.
Wells stared at his reflection in the wall mirror for long moments, caught off guard by the trepidation in his face. When had he become so indecisive? Before he’d been lauded as the next Tiger Woods, he’d never second-guessed himself. He’d made every decision, even the bad ones, with full confidence. What the hell happened to me?