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 made a grudging sound. “Better than good.”
Laughter went up from the crowd. She could hear the electric whir of the camera, the dropped voices of the commentators. How much was being overheard? She had no idea, but it didn’t matter right now. There was only her and Wells.
“What does it look like?” she prompted again.
She watched the life rekindle in his eyes, cogs turning in his head.
Then he got into position. Took a breath. And sank the putt.
You’d have thought they’d just won the Masters, based on the crowd’s reaction. The resulting roar was so loud, the ground shook beneath Josephine’s feet. Everyone moved at once, reporters rushing onto the green, security holding back fans, beer sloshing onto khaki.
Wells dropped his putter, walked straight past a reporter asking him a question, and scooped Josephine off the ground into a bear hug. She laughed freely into his neck, hot pressure building against the backs of her eyelids. So many emotions hit her at once. Joy. Relief. Pride—and not only in Wells, but in herself.
Maybe for the first time ever, the dream she’d been nursing for years took a more distinct shape. She could bring this firsthand experience of working with a professional golfer—no, the best professional golfer—and pour that familiarity into the Golden Tee. She could take what she’d learned and drag her family’s business into the twenty-first century . . . with the knowledge and confidence to back it up now.
A little fissure formed under her skin at the reminder that she’d eventually have to leave Wells and the tour, but . . . that had always been the plan, right?
She was thoroughly distracted from thoughts of the future, of leaving, when Wells pressed his mouth to her ear, bathing it in a hot exhale. “Josephine.”
“Yes?”
“Let’s get out of here.” His fist tightened in the back of her shirt, his chest beginning to heave. “Don’t make me go another minute without you.”
She looked around in a daze. “Every sports reporter in Texas wants to talk to you.”
“Fuck ’em.” He wrapped an arm around Josephine’s shoulders and used his body to shield her as they moved through the raucous crowd. “It’s just you and me.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
There was only one thing Wells wanted in this life—and it was to fuck this woman.
He wanted to get her somewhere dark, tear down her panties, and bury his cock between her soft, sexy thighs. And for some infuriating reason, everyone and their mom wanted to stop him. A crowd followed him to the clubhouse when he turned in his scorecard. Reporters shoved microphones in their faces, using the C-word on a loop. Comeback. Comeback.
Is she responsible for your comeback?
Josephine, how do you feel about being a good luck charm for Wells Whitaker?
Will we see you at the Masters together?
If Wells was even remotely capable of responding with anything but please I need to come inside my caddie, he would have told them yes, Josephine was unequivocally responsible for his comeback. Two weeks ago, he was a corpse. He’d never expected to pick up another golf club as long as he lived. Now he had a beating pulse. A purpose. The potential revival of his career. His blood was flowing again.
He had hope, because of Josephine.
And he just wanted to worship her for all that he was worth. Praise her and get lost in her and . . . demand to know what the hell they were to each other.
That’s right—he wanted specifics.
Were they a golfer and caddie who incentivized sex as a strategy?
Stranger things had happened.
Maybe friends with benefits? Boyfriend and girlfriend?
Shit. He liked the sound of that last one. A lot. It was too soon, though, and what would it mean for their dynamic on the course? Would they have to keep their love life and golf separate in order to be ethical? In order to have a healthy relationship, in which she wasn’t constantly having to refocus him and talk him out of killing people?
Labeling what they had could complicate everything.
Josephine would have to be out of her mind to want to be his girlfriend, really.
Still, it had a nice ring to it.
Oooh. Rings.
Wow. Pump the brakes, man.
They were almost to the lobby of the hotel when a crowd swelled through the doors, holding up their phones to take pictures of Wells and Josephine.
They traded a pitiful glance and reversed direction.
Josephine laughed, stumbling a little as he pulled her along.
“What could possibly be funny at a time like this?” he demanded to know.
“You’re dragging me all over this family-friendly golf resort looking for a place to”—she waved a hand—“collect on our wager. There is something funny about it.”
“I promise you, Josephine, there is not.”
“Wait!” She yanked him to a stop on the path. Eyes wide, she slowly drew a single key out of the pocket of her skirt, holding it up to the light. Sun glinted off its majestic surface like the angels were ordaining it the new Holy Grail. “We’re forgetting I have my own bag room.”