Getting ready for drinks felt like a bigger deal than usual.

Josephine should have probably stopped zoning out, staring into the bathroom mirror, Beautyblender forgotten in her hand as minutes ticked by unnoticed. But memories kept occupying her mind. Sexy memories. Wells’s tongue teasing her nipples, his hands unapologetically rough on her backside, the way sex with Wells was a surprisingly hot blend of disrespect and veneration.

“Might as well admit it,” Josephine said to her reflection. “You want more. Badly.”

In the past, she’d been treated like a fragile object in bed. Men who didn’t take the time to understand her diabetes asked broad questions before they went to bed together like, are you going to be okay?

Um, yes. She was going to be fine. Blood sugar corrections were just a way of life. Fixing lows and highs. That was her normal. They never acknowledged that she could do everything a person with a working

pancreas could do, they simply held back with her, worried her glucose monitor might rip off or she’d need sugar halfway through.

But not Wells. And not because he didn’t care. In fact, she suspected he cared a great deal. She’d caught him checking her number on his app twice today. During a professional round of golf being broadcast live on television, money and respect hanging in the balance, he’d been thinking of her. Yes, Wells cared about her health. A lot.

He also seemed to recognize that her strength was more powerful than her condition.

Josephine swallowed, turning slightly to check her monitor where it

always sat, attached to the back of one of her arms. If the darn thing didn’t rip off during sex with Wells, it could probably survive anything, because wow. Wa-how.

She’d been nursing a growing crush on the man.

Their encounter in the private bag room had shot that crush into a whole new category.

Was she officially falling for Wells Whitaker? The real man and not the persona she’d been following for the last five years?

“Oh boy,” she whispered. “I think I might be.”

Her stomach flipped over with the anticipation of seeing him in the bar, which was crazy, since she’d been in his company all day long. But there it was. She wasn’t looking forward to a whole week and a half without him, either. The shop desperately needed her attention, though. She couldn’t shirk her responsibilities, as much as she’d wanted to accept Wells’s invitation to Miami.

She looked down at her phone and winced at the time. If she was late for drinks, Wells would never let her hear the end of it. Allowing herself to enjoy the fizz of something exciting in her stomach—and it had nothing to do with the room-service club sandwich she’d scarfed down an hour earlier

—she finished her makeup and put on the blue dress she’d worn to the welcome party at the beginning of the tournament, slipping her feet into heels and leaving the room.

In the interest of privacy, Wells was bringing her someplace off the resort grounds. Though she didn’t know where they were going, she’d been instructed to meet him at the lobby bar and he would take care of the rest.

Josephine took the elevator down and exited on the main floor, relieved to see that the crowd had thinned considerably, thanks to the conclusion of the tournament. She walked at a fast clip, certain Wells was already sitting at

the bar, probably practicing a lecture about punctuality. But she didn’t get very far before someone familiar stepped into her path just inside the alcove entrance, hindering her progress.

Buck Lee.

“Well, I have to give it to you, Miss Doyle,” he started, putting out his hand for a shake. “You certainly proved me wrong out there this week.”

Josephine kept her smile intact as they shook, although she couldn’t stop herself from bearing down with a tighter than usual grip. “I didn’t realize

you were expecting me to suck.”

He laughed. “I wasn’t alone in that prediction, to be fair. Not because you’re a woman, of course,” the older man rushed to tack on. “Only

because you’re a newbie. An unknown one, at that.”

“Right.” Go sell it somewhere else. “It was nice to see you again, but I’m late meeting Wells, and he’s prickly enough without giving him extra

reasons.” Immediately, she regretted saying that. It was a comment she’d meant to be good natured and fond, but it came across like she was commiserating with Buck and that wasn’t the case at all. “Excuse me—”

“Prickly is one way to describe him, I suppose,” Buck drawled, sipping from a rocks glass containing a golden liquid. “Belligerent, self-sabotaging, and stubborn. Those are a few others.” It was obvious that Buck had been drinking for a while, which was the pot calling the kettle black, if you asked her. She wanted out of the conversation, but Buck kept going. “When he called and asked me to help him get back on the tour, I said no. Flat-out. I wasn’t putting my reputation on the line again when he squandered it the first time.”

She watched over Buck’s shoulder as Wells approached through the crowd.

The closer he came, the more her stomach sank down to her toes.

Please don’t let him hear any of this.

“If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Lee, I really need to—”

“Then he gave me this whole sob story about your shop getting damaged in the hurricane. Throw in the fact that you’re a woman—sorry—and we

knew it would make our missing fans curious enough to tune back in. A real human-interest story.” He gestured to the television above the bar with his

rocks glass, chuckling to himself. “Look at that! They’re talking about it right now.”

Josephine was almost afraid to turn her head.

When she met Wells’s eyes over Buck’s shoulder, she saw shock and recognition, followed by regret. Oh God. Finally, she looked at the television, her mouth falling open when she saw herself on the course, the footage taken earlier in the day—she could tell, because of her ice-blue skirt.

Beneath her was the headline:

Golfer Gives Down-and-Out Diabetic Caddie a Helping Hand

Her skin turned icy, stomach roiling.

No. She had to be reading that wrong.

“Like I told Wells, the media loves an underdog story,” remarked Buck. “Ratings, ratings, ratings, right? We knew this angle would get him back on the tour.”

Josephine’s heart pounded a hundred miles an hour.

Everyone in the bar was staring at her, obviously fascinated by her supposed sob story—and that sob story was her being a sickly charity case. Not someone who offered valuable advice. Not someone who was good at the job. No, instead she was a pet project.

Success and respect. Those two things were everything in this world— and she was obviously a million miles away from having the latter. What did that mean for her reputation? Presently, she was a caddie and she took that job seriously. Image mattered here.

And image would mean a great deal when it was time to reopen the Golden Tee.

“I’ll tell you the truth . . .” Buck, oblivious to her acute distress, wasn’t

done talking. “I was shocked to find out that Wells had a heart. Didn’t think he cared about anyone but himself, but obviously there’s more to him than I suspected—”

Wells stepped up beside Buck. “That’s enough, Buck.” Urgently, he said, “Josephine—”

“There is a lot more to him,” Josephine interrupted, looking directly at Buck and ignoring the hollow sensation in her chest that was growing

worse by the moment. Oh God, had her parents seen this whole mess on the Golf Channel? Of course, they had; the television in their house was constantly tuned in to the network.

She wanted to be angry with Wells—and she was. She was. He’d gotten back on the tour by using her sorry situation as media fodder. At the very least, he’d allowed it, right? He’d put the information into hands that couldn’t be trusted not to manipulate and twist it to their advantage.

That being said, no one trash-talked her golfer. Only her.

“There is a lot more to Wells. And maybe, when he called to ask for help getting back on the tour, he was playing for me. But he’s playing for himself again now, too. He loves this game. He’s great at it. And you’re a fair-weather fan and friend, sir. In my book, that’s the worst possible thing you could be. Excuse me.”

Josephine spun on a heel and marched for the door on legs that felt wobbly, at best.

“Come back here, Josephine, goddammit,” Wells growled, following in her wake.

Entering the bright lobby after being in the dark bar made her feel ten

times more exposed than she was already feeling, but instead of heading for the elevators, she went outside. She just needed air to process everything.

To decide what she was going to do about all of it.

God, now that the whole news story was sinking in, embarrassment scaled the insides of her throat, drying out her mouth.

She fought between the impulse to rant and the voice of reason in her head, reminding her that without caddying, she’d never be able to rebuild the shop. Wells had done her a huge favor—and he couldn’t control the press. Still, she’d asked him that day in the Golden Tee, standing in a foot

of flood water, to please not make her a charity case. But here they were— and it was so much worse than she could have predicted.

Wells caught up with Josephine right as she reached an outdoor patio and they emerged from the lobby together, striding in silence until they hit the

edge of the golf course, as if by some tacit agreement that the green was where they would have it out.

“Josephine, you need to let me explain.”

She took off her shoe and threw it at his head. “I don’t need to do

anything.”

Wells ducked, watching the footwear sail over his right shoulder. “You’re right. Let me start over.” His silence extended longer than she expected. “First off, the fact that you stood up for me in there even after seeing and hearing . . . that bullshit. God, belle. I don’t fucking deserve you. Okay?

Can we just get that part out of the way?”

Her whole face felt as though it welled up. “And? Keep going.”

Wells looked like a man walking on a tightrope tied between two skyscrapers. “When I called Buck for help, I just wanted to get back on the tour by any means necessary. I never thought it would go this far. Never thought you’d become some kind of ridiculous narrative.”

“I’m not a charity case,” she said in a strangled whisper.

“Damn right you’re not.” He slammed a fist to his chest. “I’m the charity case here. It’s me. You’re the one bringing me back from extinction.”

Listening to Wells put himself down wasn’t making Josephine feel any better. “What are they saying about the shop? Are my parents going to find out the insurance had lapsed? That needing the money for repairs and oh God, insulin is the reason I’m caddying for you?”

He closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Wells.” She covered her face with her hands. “This isn’t happening. Do you know how hard I had to work to make them trust me? To believe they could let go and let me handle the shop and my condition? Now they know I’m a fraud.”

“You. Are not. A fraud. Don’t you dare. You can’t control hurricanes and a fucked-up health-care system, Josephine. You are the furthest thing from a fraud I’ve ever met in my life.” He ripped at his hair. “I’m going to take

care of this. I’m going to fix their misconceptions about you, about us, the first chance I get. Tonight.”

“Leave it alone, Wells. Please. You’re only going to draw more attention to the story.”

He stared at her hard for a moment, before pacing away and shouting a curse up at the sky. “This is my fault. I shouldn’t have trusted Buck. But you have to believe me, I never thought it would go further than the tour directors. I’m sorry, Josephine.”

She exhaled sharply. “I know.”

A heavy pause ensued. “I’m afraid to ask where this leaves us.” “What do you mean?”

“I mean . . .” He turned around again, but his eyes were a lot more haunted this time. “You’d be well within your rights to tell me to fuck off.”

“I’m not going to do that. I might be mad right now, but I know . . . I know some parts of that story are correct. You are helping me.”

“That pales in comparison to what you’ve already done for me, Josephine. You make anything feel possible. You woke me up again.”

She took several deep breaths, trying to comb through her scattered pride

—her optimism that had been shot full of bullet holes—and find a way forward. Taking some time to sit and think privately might have done her a lot of good, but this wasn’t the kind of frustration that could be slept on. His words were beautiful, but they didn’t change the situation—and it wouldn’t look different in the morning.

Earning respect meant taking her job seriously now. Earning respect meant convincing people within the sport to take her seriously. Other

caddies, golfers, officials, spectators. A romance with her boss could

preclude her from that. In addition to the angle already taken by the media, being in a public relationship with Wells would only diminish her

capabilities more.

Josephine could hear the speculation now.

She landed that job only because she’s his girlfriend. What a stand-up guy, taking care of her like that.

“I’ll be at the tournament in California, but I think it’s probably a good

idea if we just back off on . . . whatever was happening between us. Okay?” He closed his eyes slowly, jaw flexing.

“You know my plan is to reopen the Golden Tee. To compete with the bigger courses in Palm Beach, and this is my chance. But I need to be seen as . . . as capable for that to happen. And that’s hard enough for me without also being known for having an incurable disease and a flooded pro shop.

Rescued and put back on her feet by Wells Whitaker himself. I don’t want success that way. And imagine the slant on that story if we were also

dating.” Heat swamped her face. “I mean, I’m not making that assumption. I just—”

“Assume all you like, belle,” he said, very adamantly. “I want to date the hell out of you.”

Even after the upheaval of the last ten minutes, she wanted to say yes. It was totally possible they wouldn’t be standing in that spot, wouldn’t have been in Texas at all, if Wells hadn’t been honest with Buck about Josephine’s circumstances. He’d done what was necessary to get them on the track to making money. But after struggling every day of her life to be seen as capable on her own, the whole thing smarted. Badly. She was mad and helpless and sick over what her parents were thinking. And she just needed to step back for a while.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea right now,” she answered, finally, her throat burning.

His chest rose fast and fell faster. “Come here, Josephine.” He took a measured step in her direction. “Kiss me and tell me if you still believe that.”

She backed up a pace, holding up her hand to stop him from coming any closer, as much as she wanted to do the opposite. With every cell in her body, she wanted to plant her face between his pecs, let him wrap his arms around her, and weather the storm together. Her irritation and worry and

humiliation prevented her, though. “I think skipping the tournament in DR is good timing, because it’ll give us a while to let the story die down.” Swallowing took an effort. “We’ll regroup and be ready for California.”

Josephine could sense him wrestling with the need to argue. “I don’t really have a choice, do I?” he drawled. Casual, when his eyes were turbulent enough to put Josephine right on the edge of second-guessing her decision.

She shook her head, holding firm. This was the right thing.

For long moments, he watched from beneath hooded eyelids. “At least let me get you safely to your room.”

Her knees nearly dipped at the very idea of him standing outside her room. The golf course was safe. Ten yards from a bed was not. “You can bring me to my floor. But you stay on the elevator.”

“Why?” He sauntered closer and this time, she didn’t even have the wherewithal to stave him off with a hand, allowing him to press his chest against her, his breath feathering the hair at her temple. “Are you worried you’ll forgive me and let me in?” He touched the tip of his tongue to the pulse pounding at the base of her neck, then lavishing it with a thorough lick. “Are you wondering what make-up sex feels like when it counts this much?”

“Yes,” she breathed, her belly fluttering wildly, along with her heart. “Thank God,” Wells said on a gruff exhale. “At least that’s something. At

least that’s hope. You’re always giving me that.” He cupped her face, alarming Josephine when she couldn’t help but turn into the warmth, like a flower receiving water. “I have no right to ask, but give me a little more

hope right now. Tell me I haven’t blown my fucking chance with you.”

“I . . . don’t know,” she whispered honestly. Not wanting to lead him on until she had a chance to think without his presence muddling her brain waves, crisscrossing them with hormones. “I’ll try and have an answer by California.”

“California,” he repeated against her mouth, very concisely. “You’re a lot more confident in my ability to spend that amount of time away from you than I am, belle. I’ll tell you that.”

Before Josephine could respond, Wells took her hand, cursed beneath his breath, and stormed through the lobby with her in tow. He was silent on the ride up to her room. She could sense him right on the edge, despite his nonchalant lean against the elevator wall. She expected him to try to kiss

her again at any second and worried that she wouldn’t be able to resist asking him to spend the night, because God, she needed comfort right now. Badly. More than she could give herself. But somehow, despite staring at each other right up until the elevator door closed and separated them, they stayed apart.

A week and a half isn’t long.

You have more than enough to stay busy. Fires to put out. Pride to repair.

Somehow she knew, however, that he’d be with her every second of those ten days.

Close to her thoughts, waking and dreaming. Maybe even closer than she realized.