Wells stepped off the treadmill and grabbed the white towel from the handrail, mopping the sweat from his face and bare chest. He dropped down on the mat and gave himself a few minutes to recover before working through a set of core exercises.
He hated every fucking second of it.
Honestly, he didn’t like much right now. At all. Everything was annoying.
No matter how many times he adjusted the thermostat in his apartment, it was either too warm or too cold. Food was tasteless. Josephine had ruined jerking off, so not even that could relieve the restlessness plaguing him.
Every time he started to rub one out, he got to thinking about how much better it would feel to be inside her and then his stupid chest started to hurt, in addition to his dick. Honestly, he was beginning to worry that something serious was wrong with him. Did he need to see a cardiologist or a
urologist?
He’d worked out more this week than he’d done since the start of his career. Studied the course at Torrey Pines, poring over yardage books and perusing highlights from last year’s tournament when, coincidentally, he’d sucked too hard to even make the cut. Not an easy thing to watch, but he was going to finish higher than he had in San Antonio. End of story.
Josephine was getting rich whether she liked it or not. Call it revenge for making him feel nothing but disappointment in his God-given right to beat off.
Finished working his core, Wells got to his feet and moved to the bench press. But instead of lying down, he slipped his phone out of his pocket.
Whistling to himself, he pulled up a news segment he’d watched too many times. Not the one that had upset Josephine their last night in San Antonio. No, this one was from earlier that day. When he’d finished in the money and she’d jumped into his arms.
Please, God, don’t let anyone trace these nine hundred views back to my IP address. Did phones even have an IP address? He didn’t know, but surely the FBI could trace how many times he’d watched the same scene play out. How she’d smiled up at him with visible pride.
His jugular squeezed in the most alarming way.
What an angel.
Three more ridiculous days apart. Every second was absurd.
He was going to buy a new condo and move, just to have something to do besides working out and watching YouTube clips and calling Josephine’s father, for Chrissake.
Wells hauled back, preparing to throw his phone across the room. He stopped short when it started to ring.
No joke, he almost fell off the leather bench, thinking Josephine might be calling. She changed her mind about taking time apart. She’s coming to Miami and I’m about to raid a fucking Bath & Body Works to get ready for her.
It wasn’t Josephine, however.
It was Burgess Abraham. Also known as Sir Savage.
His professional hockey–playing friend, though neither one of them would admit they were friends. It was a completely healthy relationship.
Wells tapped the button to answer. “What?”
A low grumble of sound filled the small home gym. “Someone’s in a mood.”
“That’s right.”
“I live with a moody eleven-year-old now. Believe me, I don’t need your shit, too.”
Wells watched his own eyebrows rise in the mirror. “Your kid is living with you now? Like, full time?”
“Part time. And yet the whole apartment never stops smelling like Sol de Janeiro.”
“What the hell is that? And how are things with her mom?” “I didn’t call to talk about this.” Burgess sighed.
Wells chuckled. “Who’s moody now?”
“Go to hell.”
“Nice to hear from you, too.” Wells switched the phone to his other hand. “Are you coming to Torrey Pines this week for the tournament?”
A hum came down the line. “I don’t know. Do eleven-year-old girls like golf?”
“Christ, I don’t know.” Wells paused, trying to swallow the protrusion forming in his throat. “Josephine probably liked golf when she was eleven.”
Even though Burgess didn’t make a sound, Wells had a feeling he was amused by the abject misery in his tone. “Ah. The caddie.”
Wells grunted.
Burgess made a thoughtful sound. “Can you ask her if it’s advisable to bring Lissa to the tournament?”
“I could if she was here.” He dug a knuckle into his eye and twisted. “Which she is not.”
“You don’t sound very happy about that.” “Nope!”
The hockey player was silent for several seconds. “She the one?” “The one what?”
“Really?” Leather creaked in the background. “Don’t make me say it.” “I’m afraid I need clarification.”
Burgess cursed under his breath. “This always happens to me. The young people in my life think I’m wise because I’ve got a few gray streaks in my beard and I get stuck explaining romance and giving advice on how to
handle women, when I’m obviously not qualified to do either one of those things.”
“Hence the divorce.”
“Remind me why I stay in touch with you?” Before Wells could answer, Burgess kept going. “Is she the one? As in, the one you want to be with forever. Or until she asks for a divorce with no warning, whichever one
comes first.”
Wells stared hard at his reflection in the mirror.
Was Josephine the one? It hadn’t occurred to him to think of her that way, because he’d never expected to find the one. Hell, he’d never considered that the one existed. That term was a bullshit romantic notion that was used to sell Valentine’s Day cards, right? But his bones were telling him—and they were dead certain—that he could spend the rest of his life walking the planet and never come across anyone that made him feel a fraction of the
way Josephine did. Being away from her was making that all too obvious. “Yes. She’s the one. Minus the divorce.”
“Interesting.”
“It’s not interesting,” Wells half shouted. “It’s a shit show.” “If it’s a shit show, it’s probably your fault.”
“Thanks, buddy.”
Josephine’s low blood sugar alert started beeping in his ear. She hadn’t been exaggerating when she claimed it beeped constantly. High alerts had different tones, too. He’d been listening to them for the last week, wishing he could do something to help, but also confident that Josephine knew how to take care of herself. And frankly, it was a relief to have this connection to her. The shared app was an important link to her and he treasured it.
“What’s that beeping?” Burgess asked. “Josephine’s glucose monitor.”
“You said she wasn’t there.”
Talking about his caddie was making him feel better and worse. What sense did that make? “She’s not here. It’s an app. I can see—”
The beeping filled his ear again, but it was more urgent this time. Urgent low.
Wells had never heard that one before. It was louder and sharper.
“Hold on.” His pulse was skipping as he lowered the phone and opened the app, nausea swimming in his stomach at the sight of the dots plummeting. Plummeting down to the lowest number possible and disappearing altogether. “I . . . what the fuck?” His hands started to shake. “Something is wrong. I have to go.”
“Bye.”
After ending the call with Burgess, Wells didn’t even hesitate to call Josephine. It rang five times and went to voice mail. Hello! You’ve reached Josephine Doyle. Seriously? Who leaves voice mail anymore? If this is
urgent, try me at the shop. Beep.
“Belle, what’s going on with your number? I-it just . . . there’s nothing. It just flew down and now it’s gone. Call me back, please. Now. Okay?”
Wells sat for maybe thirteen seconds, then vaulted off the bench and out of the gym, his hands extremely unsteady as he called Jim. No answer.
Really? The guy usually picked up after half a ring. Was that a sign that something serious was going on? With Josephine?
“Fuck.” He turned in a dizzy circle, seeing nothing, willing the phone to ring. “Fuck.”
He raced to the red emergency shot that was sitting on his kitchen counter, snatched it up, his car keys in his hands, too, before he knew his own mind. Scratch that, his mind had gone completely offline. His stomach was living in his mouth, sweat pouring down the sides of his face as he sprinted for the parking garage.
Ninety minutes. He was ninety minutes away from Palm Beach. If something was wrong, would he even get there in time? Christ, he didn’t even have Josephine’s address. Only the location of the pro shop. A fact that was straight-up mind blowing, considering she was the one.
What a cliché thing to call someone whose well-being had him this terrified.
Wells was in his Ferrari within minutes, tearing north on 95 toward Palm Beach with his heart ripping itself to shreds inside his chest.
“Why isn’t anyone calling me back?” he shouted at the dashboard.
Against the leather seat, his bare back was slick with ice-cold perspiration, pulses hammering all over his body. If he got pulled over for speeding, so help him God, he would end up on the news in a high-speed chase, because he wasn’t slowing down. Not happening. He could barely feel his foot on the gas pedal. Only enough to know it was damn near on the floor and every minute he drove felt like six hours. There was no music or talk radio, just the sound of his rasping inhales and shuddering exhales. And still, no one had called him back. Where the hell was he even going? He didn’t have an address.
Wells smacked the phone symbol on the navigation screen. “Call Josephine.”
No answer.
None from Jim, either.
Oh God. Something very bad had happened. He knew it. He knew it.
Unable to think of any other options, Wells called his manager. He was twenty minutes from Palm Beach at this point, having cut the drive time in half by illegal means.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite golden goose.” “Nate, please. I need help.”
Two seconds of silence. “Oh Jesus, Wells. Don’t tell me you’re in jail again. You can’t expect me to keep this out of the press. There are so many
eyes on you right now—”
“I’m not in jail. I need Josephine’s address.” He couldn’t even recognize his voice as it slurred out of pure fear. “Didn’t she fill out some kind of form or whatever when she entered that contest?”
“I . . . yeah. But I can’t share that information. I told you that already.” “It’s an emergency, Nate,” he growled. “Give me the fucking address!” Something in Wells’s tone must have gotten through to the manager,
because a moment later, the sound of computer keys started to click. Wells pressed even harder on the gas pedal, weaving his car in and out of traffic, ignoring the outraged honks sounding in his wake.
“Okay, here it is,” Nate came back, serious now. “Seven one one Malibu Bay Drive. Apartment six.”
“Text it to me, too,” Wells ordered, the address imprinting itself on his brain. “Thanks.”
He hung up the phone and shouted the location at the navigation screen, surprised when it came up despite his frantic tone. Six minutes. He’d be
there in six minutes.
Still no blood sugar number for Josephine on the app. What was he going to walk into?
His brain couldn’t even go there.
“Please, God, let her be okay.” The air conditioner had turned the sweat to ice on his skin, but he barely noticed. “I’ll be a nicer person. I’ll sell this car and give all the money to charity. I’ll never break another club. I’ll
donate both of my kidneys. Yes, both. Take my soul, while you’re at it. Take everything. Whatever you want, I’ll do it. Please.”
* * *
Josephine woke up to the sound of her apartment door being kicked in.
She jackknifed on the couch, screaming so loud that it could be heard clear to Orlando.
This was it. Her Dateline moment.
A robbery gone wrong. Or was it? questioned Keith Morrison.
Who would rob her, though? She had nothing of serious value in the apartment. Her clubs were kept in a locker at the golf course. Jewelry? Did they want the locket from JCPenney her mother had given Josephine at her
graduation brunch? Because she would stab first and ask questions later, if they went anywhere near that locket—
Hold on.
Wakefulness collided with reality, bringing life back into focus.
She wasn’t being robbed. Not unless this shirtless, six-foot-two golfer with wild eyes had fallen on seriously desperate times.
“Wells?”
He didn’t move. Not right away. He simply continued to stare at her, chest heaving, the door behind him hanging off its hinges.
Finally, he held up his phone and pointed at it. “No dots.”
“What?”
He struggled through a swallow, his voice little more than a scrape.
“There was an urgent low and then you just . . . went off the fucking map.” His breath sounded more like a wheeze. “And you wouldn’t answer your phone, Josephine. I thought . . . I thought you . . .”
At once, the situation clicked, the remaining sleep cobwebs dissipating. The blood drained from her face.
“Oh Wells, I’m sorry.” Slowly, she stood. “I should have explained this to you.”
He dropped his phone with a loud bang, but didn’t seem to notice he’d done so.
“I had to change the sensor. It takes a while to warm up and connect again with the app, so . . . there is no number for a while.” He looked so shaken up, she was almost afraid to approach him. “It might have looked like I was crashing, but I was fine. I’m totally fine.”
Wells doubled over, hands propped on his knees, sides puffing in and out. “I’m sorry,” she said, a chasm opening in the center of her chest. “I’m
sorry that freaked you out. I fell asleep and my phone must have been silenced.”
“Okay.” He took several long, uneven breaths. “Just . . . let me get myself together.”
“Okay.” She shifted on her bare feet. “Would a hug help—”
“Yes,” Wells rasped, barreling toward her like a cruise missile. Josephine was scooped off the floor and enveloped in a bear hug that was so fierce, it made her eyes water. Wells buried his face in her neck and breathed deeply, gathering Josephine closer, closer, like he was trying to absorb her. “You
and me not being together all the time is fucking stupid, Josephine,” he roared.
“You’re shouting in my ear.”
No apology was forthcoming. Not from this man.
And honestly, Josephine didn’t really need one. The way he was holding her like he was on the verge of breaking said more than words ever could. That was Wells, wasn’t it?
No sweet nothings. Only actions.
Josephine stared over his shoulder at the brutalized door, piling more and more facts together. “Did you drive all the way here from Miami?”
“I’d have driven to the ends of the Earth, belle.” Oh wow.
Moisture washed into her eyes.
Hold that thought about sweet nothings—
“That’s probably how long it would have taken you to simply return my call. Christ.”
She started to laugh.
Holy cow, she’d missed him more than she realized. Like a hundred times more.
“Don’t you dare laugh. I’ve been through hell. That was the worst hour of my life.”
She wrapped her arms around his neck, sighing when he lifted her more securely against his chest, her feet leaving the floor. “I know. I’m sorry.” Discreetly, she inhaled his neck, letting the combination of soap and sweat seep into her skin. “You’re still paying for my door. Did you even knock?”
“Nope.”
Wells walked them over to the couch and turned, sitting down heavily.
And because of the way they’d been standing, she had no choice but to wrap her thighs around his hips, straddling him on the couch, her face smooshed in his neck.
Right. No choice at all.
“Listen, belle,” he started a few seconds later, his palm stroking down the back of her head, still shaking slightly. “I remember what you told me.
About your parents making a fuss about diabetes and how it reminds you there’s something to fear. I know you can take care of yourself. This just threw me, okay? I didn’t know what was happening.”
“I understand.”
“I won’t lose my shit next time.” He paused to let out a jagged breath. “But you should still answer your goddamn phone.”
She nuzzled her smiling face farther into his neck.
“Because I don’t wear matching outfits for just anyone, Josephine. I don’t wear them for anyone but . . .” He jerked a shoulder. “You know who.”
“Me.”
A gruff grunt was his response. “Your dad didn’t even answer my call,” he said after a moment, sounding stunned.
“Oh? Were you calling him to ask more intrusive questions about me?” Wells cursed. “I knew the old man wouldn’t keep quiet.”
She laid her cheek on his warm shoulder, almost moaning over the way his palm rode up and down her spine. The loneliness inside her had fled as soon as they were touching, and slowly it was replaced with relief, security, a sense of balance, and peace. Even if their default method of communication was bickering. “You wanted to know my birthday, I
understand.”
“That’s right. It’s the Wednesday we fly to California. I already have a present.”
“No, you don’t,” she scoffed, lifting her head to make eye contact—
And caught the tail end of pure, undiluted affection before he hid it away. “You’ll just have to wait and see, won’t you?” he said curtly, brushing
Josephine’s hair back from her face. His attention fell to her mouth, before he dragged it away. “Jesus, I can barely feel my arms. I think my adrenaline is crashing.”
“Do you want to”—she sniffed him—“take a shower? Maybe it’ll help with the nerves.”
“Flattering as ever, belle,” he griped. “I was mid-workout, you know.” “I’m sorry for interrupting.”
He stood up, seemingly unfazed by a full-grown woman clinging to the front of his body. “You don’t sound very sorry,” he remarked. Was his voice deepening? “At all.”
She dropped her legs from around his waist, patting his wrist to let him know he was still holding her in a death grip.
She had no idea what was going to happen between herself and Wells.
After all, she still had the same concerns as the last time they were together.
Yet no matter what happened, Wells would always be the first person to crack the code to Josephine’s safe. He was kind of an asshole, but in a way that made her feel . . . like an equal member of a team. People had shied away from challenging Josephine too much her whole life, no matter how often she proved herself capable or fought against the notion that she was weak. At the same time, she knew if she needed to lean on him, he’d hold her up without making a big deal out of it.
Kicking in the door didn’t count—not knowing that she would suddenly go offline had been a legitimate reason for concern. He’d recovered and started giving her shit about it as soon as possible, too, which was
weirdly . . . perfect. “Wells.”
Finally, he released her and turned for the hallway, assuming the correct way to the bathroom. “Yeah?”
“I’m glad I trusted you to follow me on the app.”
For the briefest second, he couldn’t quite disguise his vulnerability. It was fleeting, but potent. “Even after I kicked in your door?”
“Especially after you kicked in my door. You . . .” She searched for the right words, because the moment called for them. “You make me feel
capable and healthy. But still like there’s someone who has my back. That’s not an easy balance and you somehow . . . know how to navigate it. Without me having to guide you. It’s hard and you just . . . do it.”
Visibly caught off guard, he opened his mouth, then closed it. “If you’re trying to butter me up for matching pink outfits, you can forget it right
now.”
“Not even a soft pastel? Easter is coming up!”
He stomped away from her down the hall and slammed the bathroom door.
Wow. It had been a long time since her face hurt from smiling. She hadn’t had that problem since the last time she’d seen Tallulah.
When the shower water started running, however, her smile started to vanish little by little, followed by a punctuated swallow. Her palms grew clammy, thighs tensing at the sight of shadows moving beneath the door.
Wells was getting naked. In her bathroom.
To be fair, he’d barged into the apartment half-dressed, but the reality of those mesh workout shorts coming off was extremely hard to ignore.
Still, she wouldn’t be spectating that big reveal. She’d been the one to put the brakes on their relationship. And for good reason. This was her chance to take the knowledge she’d been digesting her entire life and put it to use.
To make herself and her family proud by revitalizing and legitimizing their business. Dating Wells in the public eye would lead to her being pigeonholed as the strong woman behind the successful man.
Or worse, his pet pity project. Uh-uh.
But they could be friends. Really good friends.
After all, she couldn’t just send him home after he’d driven from Miami thinking she was a goner. As soon as he got out of the shower and they figured out something for him to wear, she’d ask him if he wanted to order takeout and watch a movie that didn’t have Gerard Butler humping anyone in it. They could discuss strategy for Torrey Pines next week and gossip about the other golfers. It would be great. Maybe she’d even show him her high school yearbook so they could laugh over her humidity bangs, braces, and puka shell necklace trifecta.
Mind made up, Josephine wedged the broken front door closed as best she could and walked down the hallway toward the bedroom, intending to
find an oversized shirt for Wells to put on. She paused only for the barest of seconds outside of the bathroom door. “Do you have everything you need?”
“No,” he called back immediately.
Josephine frowned. “I just put fresh towels on the rack this morning.” “Yeah, I found those.”
The bathroom door opened. Steam rolled out in a dreamy waft.
There stood shirtless Wells, forearm braced on the doorframe. In a very brief towel. The sucker barely made it around his hips, leaving a very
sizable slit running up his sinewy thigh. “This towel is more like Kleenex, belle.”
“Oh,” she rasped. “Is it?”
“Yeah.” He tucked his tongue into his cheek. “It could fall off any second.”
“Oh.” A terribly wonderful tingle started in her breasts and slowly spiraled lower, lower, to her belly and the flesh between her thighs. Uh-oh. “Could it?”
“Afraid so.” He dropped his forearm from the door and prowled toward where she stood transfixed in the hallway. “Listen, Josephine. I know you want to be seen as a professional. You need to be taken seriously to build your dream—and I get that. I want that for you. But, baby . . .” He crowded her up against the hallway wall and the horny sound that left her mouth would have been embarrassing if she could manage to think straight. “It’s only you and me here. We can be professionals later.” He leaned in, his mouth finding the pulse at the base of her neck and spreading warm air
across that fluttering skin, kissing her there. “No one is watching us right now, Josephine. Makes you wonder why you’ve still got your panties on,
doesn’t it?” Slowly, torturously, his tongue licked all the way to her ear and bit down. “I know I’m wondering.”
Wells grazed their lips together, held that position without kissing her for a beat, both of them already breathing like they’d just completed a swim to Aruba. Then he backed away, leaving her trembling against the wall, all
sensitive hips, feverish skin, and jelly thighs, her mouth dying for the taste of him.
Turning, he sauntered back into the bathroom, letting his towel drop on the way into the shower, giving her a very generous view of that butt—and dear God, it was a golden, sculpted masterpiece. A sacrifice even the stingiest of gods would accept.
Tight, thick, round cheeks sprinkled with hair. Golf’s most perfect bubble butt, right there in her home. Totally bare. And when he stepped into her shower, flashing her his balls and an erection, both of which, frankly, looked heavy and miserable, the temptation of Wells—being connected to him again, the way they’d been in Texas—had her taking a step toward the bathroom, hovering in the doorway. Should she? Or was this—literally—a slippery slope?
Two of them.
Wells crooked his finger at her from inside the steamy shower. Then he dropped that hand to his shaft and stroked himself roughly.
And the possibility of saying no sifted right through her fingertips, like it never existed.
