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)
His sigh could have knocked over a small child. “I tried to forget, but you tagged me in your Instagram story. Eight times.”
Had it been eight times? She could have sworn she’d limited herself to six. “You know how the important things get swallowed up on that app.”
“Well. It didn’t.” He prodded at a lip that looked suspiciously split. “Do you mind if I concentrate on this shot now? Or do you want to go over the specials menu?”
“I’m good. Great, actually.” Josephine pressed her lips together to stop the smile from bursting straight off her face and held up her sign with renewed purpose. Everyone in the crowd was gaping at her—something that used to be a lot easier when she had her partner in crime. Her best friend, Tallulah, used to accompany Josephine on these fangirl outings for moral support, but she was currently on a research trip out of the country, leaving Josephine to hold down the sidelines alone. But Josephine was okay with that. She was thrilled her friend had gotten the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Didn’t mean she didn’t miss her terribly.
Swallowing the goose egg in her throat, Josephine ignored the man furiously brandishing a paddle at her that read quiet please and shouted, “Keep it in the short grass, Wells, you absolute legend!”
“Ma’am,” the paddle man snapped.
Josephine winked at him. “I’m done.”
“Good.”
“For now.”
Wells watched the exchange while shaking his head, then turned back around, shifted down into his stance, and . . . look, there was simply no ignoring the gas in the man’s tank. Glute strength gave a golfer driving power and Wells’s posterior was the one part of his career that remained a champion. Bounce a quarter off that thing? Nah, try two silver dollars. They would rebound off his well-rounded booty and knock a fangirl out cold. And she’d go down smiling.
“Once upon a time, Whitaker would have birdied this hole in his sleep,” a man standing behind Josephine whispered to his son. “Shame he let it all go down the drain. They should take his tour card before he embarrasses himself more than he already has.”
Josephine glanced back over her shoulder, giving the spectator the most disdainful look she could muster. “He’s right on the verge of a comeback. Too bad you can’t see it.”
The man and his son issued an identical scoff. “I’d need a microscope, honey.”
“To those with an untrained eye, maybe.” She sniffed. “I bet you guys spend fourteen dollars on hot dogs.”
“Ma’am,” begged the paddle guy. “Please.”
“Sorry.”
Wells flexed his grip around the club, squinted out at the fairway, and hauled back, his once-famous drive missing its former finesse.
The ball sailed straight into the trees.
Disappointment rippled all the way down to Josephine’s toes. Not for herself, because she hadn’t gotten the privilege of witnessing something great, but for Wells. She watched the way his shoulders tensed, his head dropping forward. The hushed murmurings of the crowd might as well have been cymbals crashing. The last remaining spectators wandered away, off to find pastures that didn’t need so much watering.
But Josephine stayed. It was the fangirl way.
Chapter Two
How did that saying go?
You’re the hardest on the ones who love you the most?
Apparently, it was true. Because Wells had one fan left—one single, overzealous, and annoyingly cute fan—and his first instinct was to blame his botched shot on her. That wasn’t fair; he’d botched plenty of shots lately without her standing on the sidelines. Maybe he’d finally reached his capacity for self-disgust. Or maybe he was simply the shithead so many friends and admirers had written him off as over his two-year decline.
Whatever the reason, the fact that she remained there even now, steadfast and smiling encouragingly after he’d shot straight into the fucking trees? Wells couldn’t bear it. She needed to go, like the rest of them. Get lost. This auburn-haired sideline warrior wearing his merch was the only thing that had gotten him out of bed this morning—because she was always at his Florida tour stops. Always. Without fail. Didn’t she know they’d discontinued his clothing line last year? He’d been dropped by Nike, too. At this stage, he would be lucky to get a sponsorship from a dandruff shampoo brand.
His mentor, the legendary Buck Lee, wouldn’t even return his texts.
The world had counted him out long ago.
Yet, there she stood, holding the sign.
Wells’s Belle.
Jesus Christ. He needed to put this girl out of her misery.
The only way to do that was to put himself out of it first. Otherwise, she would show up next week, next month, next year. Fresh and unfailing and staunchly supportive, no matter how low he finished on the leaderboard at the end of the day. She kept coming back.
Therefore, Wells kept coming back, not wanting to disappoint her.
His last remaining fan. His last remaining . . . anything.