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)
“Just give me the winner’s number and I’ll leave you alone,” Wells rasped.
“What?” Nate laughed. “I can’t do that. Ever heard of privacy laws?”
The pinch of panic he experienced really didn’t agree with him. “I’m taking her to fucking lunch, all right? I don’t like the loose end.”
“She doesn’t want lunch. She doesn’t want anything from you.”
Wells’s hand tightened around the remote, the sound of the news reporter’s voice turning muffled in his ears. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It means . . .” Nate groaned, followed by the sound of bed springs creaking in the background. “I don’t like loose ends, either. After I found out you pulled a no-show on the reservation, I called the winner and offered to set up the same deal—lunch and a lesson—with another, less grouchy golfer.”
“You what?” His hangover leaked out of his ears, leaving him so painfully sharp and clearheaded, it was almost disorienting. “She’s my fan.”
“Not anymore. I offered to send her some Wells Whitaker memorabilia and she turned that down, too. Your beer koozies hath no power here.”
Wells was out of bed and pacing now, but he couldn’t remember standing up. Was the floor tilting or was he still drunk? “I don’t give a shit about privacy laws. Just give me her number.”
“Not a chance. I escaped your employment without getting sued and I don’t intend to open myself up for those legal ramifications, especially now that I’m not on your payroll.”
“This is crazy,” Wells shouted into the phone. “I’m trying to do the right thing.”
“It’s too late, man,” Nate said back, his voice elevating to match Wells’s. “You’ve ignored obligations and behaved like a royal prick for two years. You’ve always been a royal prick, but now that you don’t have the golf game to back it up, no one has to deal with you. Especially me. Goodbye, Wells.”
Silence swam in his ear.
God, he needed a drink. Badly.
But he couldn’t seem to make the move to the kitchen to get a fresh bottle of scotch. Everything Nate had said was true—he had behaved like a relentless prick his entire career. Trash-talked the other pros instead of making friends. Been indifferent toward the fans. Either outright ignored the press or gave them answers they couldn’t air on television.
More than anything, he wanted to give the world his middle finger and go back to bed. No one expected anything from him. He had no family to let down. No real friends to piss off. No mentor to disappoint.
But as loudly as oblivion called to him, the crystal-clear memory of her sang louder.
God, it was annoying.
“We’re getting lunch, Josephine,” Wells shouted on the way to the shower. “Dammit, we’re getting lunch.”
Chapter Four
Josephine hung up the phone with a shaking hand, a wounded sound escaping her mouth as she surveyed what used to be her family’s pro shop. When law enforcement had officially declared it safe to drive on the roads, she’d jumped into her ancient Camry immediately, steeling herself for the worst the entire way. Yet she still hadn’t been prepared.
Half of the inventory of clubs was gone. Floated away in the flood waters or possibly looted. The cash register was on its side in a bank of sludge. The display of rangefinder binoculars she’d arranged only last week was sticking out through the broken back window.
All she could do was stare at the mess. She had no idea where to begin cleaning up. If there was a place to sit down, she would do it now. In her haste to get out of her apartment, she’d forgotten to eat breakfast and the beeping on her phone reminded her of that now. Her low-blood-sugar alert was going off.
Movements lethargic, Josephine rooted in her purse for her plastic roll of glucose tabs and popped a few into her mouth, chewing, willing the sugar to bring her back up quickly, though the movements of her jaw felt unnatural. At least the deafening buzzing in her head had one advantage—it was drowning out the conversation she’d just had with the insurance company. The one who was no longer providing coverage.
She centered herself with a deep breath and called her parents.
“How bad is it, kiddo?” asked her father right away.
“It’s bad, Dad.”
Her parents both let out breaths that brushed up against her eardrum. She could picture them standing right beside each other in the kitchen, sharing the single phone they owned. Her mother would still have a pink towel on her head from the shower, her father sans pants. “That’s okay, you two. We knew it was going to be a challenge, but the Doyles are up for it,” said her mother, always the optimist. Forever finding the bright side. “We have flood insurance on the shop. It’ll take a while to come through, but that’ll just give us time to plan our grand reopening.”