Walking into the welcome party for the Texas Open was Josephine’s version of going backstage at the Grammys. It was a veritable who’s who of golf. The athletes she’d been watching either on television or from the
sidelines were suddenly inches away, yucking it up in business casual, surrounded by tasteful sconce lighting and vases of lush, white peonies. In the interest of being honest with herself, no one revved her fangirl engine
like Wells Whitaker, her perpetually aggravated escort, but he didn’t need to know that.
Now that she was his caddie, any fanlike behavior would be unprofessional.
After five years of devotion, however, she couldn’t quash Whitaker fever completely, so she’d painted a tiny tribute on her toenails, just to keep the spirit alive. Which was safe, because there would never be a situation where he saw her barefoot.
Er . . . another one, anyway. She’d make sure of it.
Caddying on the PGA Tour was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and she wouldn’t blow it by noticing . . . things about Wells. Things about him she never would have known before spending some time with him. For one, he was very sensitive about his former mentor. When the topic of Buck Lee
came up in conversation, he looked down at the ground. Like an automatic tic. Another trait she’d noticed was that Wells did nice things, like accompany her to the party, offer her a dream job, check her mini fridge for juice . . . but he seemed to feel the need to balance out those kind deeds with a lot of growling and complaining.
Josephine’s thoughts were interrupted when Wells plucked a glass of champagne from a passing tray and handed it to her, gruffly asking the waiter for a nonalcoholic beer. He raised an eyebrow at Josephine, as if inviting a comment, but she only returned his stare.
“Thank you,” she said, setting the flute down on a nearby table. “But I’ll pass tonight. There’s a dance floor and no one wants me to end up there.”
“Oh,” he said, coughing. “I disagree.” “No, really. It’s a whole situation.”
“As your employer, I should know up front what we’re dealing with.”
They traded a silent look over the word employer. Their relationship, as it was now, didn’t necessarily feel like a boss-employee relationship, but that could very well change in the morning once competition started. Josephine let out a breath. “There is only one musical act that can make me dance. If that group comes on, it’s finger guns and hip thrust city.”
This was the closest to laughing that she’d ever seen Wells. “You know I’m going to ask which band.”
“And I told you, you’re going to have to work for things to tease me about.”
“It’s the Spice Girls or something, isn’t it?” “Cold.”
“Timberlake.”
“Freezing. You’ll never get it. Sorry.” Josephine pursed her lips and looked around the room, noticing for the first time that nearly every head was turned in their direction. “I guess it’s going to be up to us to mingle, since none of your friends are approaching.”
Wells accepted the nonalcoholic beer from the waiter and tipped it back, drawing Josephine’s attention to the strong lines of his throat, before she determinedly dragged it away. “You think I have friends?” He used the back of his wrist to swipe moisture from his upper lip. “That’s adorable.”
“There isn’t even one person in this room you can tolerate?” “I’m tolerating you, aren’t I?”
She couldn’t possibly be sensing a flutter in her belly over that.
Tolerating someone didn’t pass as a compliment. “Besides me.” “Nope.”
Surely this man wasn’t a total lone wolf. “Do you have any friends
outside of golf?”
Wells shrugged, rubbing at the back of his neck. He started to set his beer down, then changed his mind, keeping it in his hand. Look at that. She’d landed on something.
“Few years back, during a charity pro-am,” he started, referencing the tournament where a professional golfer gets paired with an amateur, who is usually a celebrity in some capacity, “I got stuck with this hockey player as my teammate. Have you heard of Burgess Abraham?”
Josephine started. “Uh . . . yeah. I don’t even have an interest in hockey and I know who that is. Isn’t he constantly going viral for being somewhat . . . volatile?”
“That’s him.” Wells rolled a shoulder. “Anyway, he lives in Boston, but he shows up occasionally to spectate when I’m in California, since he’s got
a vacation home in Monterey. I’ve gone to one or two of his games, too. We go for a beer—maybe. Nothing is set in stone. But I wouldn’t call us
friends, so if he shows up, I never said that.”
She shook her head. “Why are men like this?”
“Let me guess, you have someone you call bestie.” He shuddered. “Proudly.”
“Who?”
“Tallulah.” Saying her best friend’s name made her throat sting, so she swallowed hard. “She’s a future marine biologist who wants to specialize in winter wildlife. Ironic for a Florida girl, right? She’s been studying
penguins as an intern in Antarctica for almost a year.” Pride in her friend brought a smile to Josephine’s face. “You might remember her. She came with me to cheer you on a few times.”
Wells shook his head. “Must have been too distracted by your aggressive chanting.”
She hummed.
Why was he studying her so hard? Was the concept of friendship so foreign to him? “You . . . miss her. A lot.”
“Yes,” she said, pressure creeping in behind her eyes. “A lot.” After a long moment, Wells nodded.
He started to take another sip of his beer, but he hesitated to press the bottle to his lips when a group of men entered the room doing a lot of laughing and back-slapping.
One of them was Buck Lee.
Now in his mid-sixties, the legend himself didn’t spend a lot of time in front of cameras anymore. He’d retired two decades ago, but his indelible mark on the game kept his influence strong in the golf world, as evidenced by the room quieting at his entrance.
He wasn’t tall or short, falling somewhere in between, his bald head covered by a tweed newsboy cap. He walked with several tour golfers, all of whom Josephine recognized, since they were all leaderboard regulars, including Chance Montgomery, Ryan Kim, and Buster Calhoun. As one, they slowed to a stop in the middle of the room and basked in the crowd’s undivided attention, before breaking off into smaller groups.
Buck’s eyes settled on Wells and Josephine, as if he’d known they were there all along, but was simply taking his time acknowledging them. Wells didn’t move a muscle, but there was a sudden electrical charge in the air.
“Are you two on speaking terms?” Josephine ventured.
“Sure.” Wells’s tone was one of forced nonchalance. “He ran interference with the powers that be to get me back on the tour.”
You got your answer. Let it drop. “Things just seem a little strained.”
Or just invade his privacy.
“I’d rather not talk about it, Josephine.” She nodded. That was fair. “Okay.”
“I guess I just expected my mentor to be a little more . . . constant. In my life. But I guess my losing streak was making him look bad. Can’t really
blame him for wanting to keep up appearances,” he finished dryly. “It sounds like you do. Blame him.”
Wells cut her a look. “He knew what he was getting into. The day he met me, I had a black eye and two pockets full of silverware from the country club restaurant. I’ve never pretended to be anything other than exactly what I am.”
Josephine chewed that over. “Good to know. What are you planning on robbing from the premises tonight?”
“What?” He snorted. “Nothing.” She quirked a brow. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not the same person . . . I was.” A low whistle from Wells. “Wow. I walked right into that, didn’t I?” Slowly, he rocked back on his heels. “Are you implying that what happened with Buck was my fault?”
“No,” Josephine said firmly. “How could I do that? I wasn’t there. And if I’m being totally honest, I’m always going to default to being . . .”
“What?”
“On your side,” she said as fast as possible, trying not to enjoy the way the lines around his mouth softened. “I just think hurt feelings might cause a person to see a situation differently.”
“Do I strike you as the kind of guy who gets hurt feelings?” “I am very sorry to inform you that everyone has feelings.” “I’m going to deeply regret hiring you.”
“No, you’re not.” A lot like they’d done in the hotel room earlier,
Josephine and Wells seemed to gravitate toward each other when having a conversation, until their toes were pressed together and she had to tilt her head back. And she couldn’t help but wonder if it looked . . . intimate to the rest of the party.
Of course it did. Because it was.
There was no other word for feeling his body heat through her clothes. And reacting to it with skips of her pulse.
In the interest of professionalism, Josephine eased away, ignoring the way he frowned over the move. He regarded her curiously for a moment, then said, “You told me trash talk doesn’t hurt your feelings. What does?” A thought seemed to occur. “And please say something besides ‘bitter
assholes who rip my signs in half’ because I just stopped seeing it every time I blink.”
He really just let that roll off his tongue. Like it wasn’t a big deal that he’d been dwelling. “You’re nicer than you think, Wells.”
“No, I’m not.” He grunted. “What has hurt your feelings? He better not have a name.”
“Okay, do you want to make me a list of unacceptable responses?” “Go ahead. I’m done.”
Josephine shook her head at him, then took a moment to think. “The summer I turned twelve, my neighbor wouldn’t let me help with her garden.
She’d just moved in next door to us and immediately, she had a tractor
come dig up the concrete slab in her backyard. All these white trellises were installed and she tied purple bougainvillea to them, so they would climb the side of her house. It was like an explosion of color happening outside of my bedroom window. So I went over one day and asked to help. I wanted to learn how to garden so we could make our backyard just as pretty—and she said no. That hurt my feelings. It’s why my parents went out and bought a hundred houseplants. They made me an indoor garden.”
She didn’t expect Wells to be hanging on her every word, especially over a story about flora that was long dead by now, but he appeared to be . . .
rapt? “So, what? Your feelings get hurt when someone rejects your help?” “Yes,” she said simply, remembering the way her neighbor had noticed
her glucose monitor and gotten nervous, like she didn’t want to be responsible for a medical emergency.
He hummed in his throat and continued to watch her. “Are you good at
accepting help?”
“No.” Heat slowly built on her cheeks. “Wow. I walked right into that, didn’t I?”
He tipped back his beer with a little too much gusto. “Afraid so.” “You don’t have to look so smug.”
“I’m sorry, I have no control over my face right now.”
“Maybe I’ll lose control of my finger and poke you right in the eye—” “Wells,” came a voice to their left.
It was Buck Lee. Holding out his hand for a shake. Wells cleared his throat. “Buck.”
It wasn’t lost on Josephine that when Buck eyeballed the nonalcoholic beer label in Wells’s hand, he appeared somewhat skeptical. He didn’t bother to hide it, either, and she couldn’t help but be disappointed in the legend. She definitely wouldn’t be mentioning this to her father, who owned a commemorative set of Buck Lee pint glasses laser-engraved with the man’s face. “This must be your new caddie,” said the older man, extending a hand in Josephine’s direction.
“Buck, meet Josephine Doyle,” Wells drawled, his smooth tone contradicting his tense demeanor.
They shook. “Looking forward to tomorrow,” Buck said. “Ought to be . . . interesting.”
Josephine willed the champagne glass back into her hand. Weirdly, it didn’t appear. “Yes. Heard we’re getting a little rain tonight. The ball should be sticking.”
“Indeed.” Buck gave her a blithe smile. She worked on a golf course, so it was far from the first time in her life that she’d been discounted straight off the bat because of her gender, but just like always, she would let her
results do the talking. “Mind if I have a word alone, Wells? Nothing major, just a little business.”
Wells glanced at Josephine, a vein ticking in his temple. “It can’t wait?”
“Already too busy for the old friend who installed you back on the tour?” “I didn’t say that,” Wells countered firmly, still appearing conflicted.
That’s when it occurred to Josephine that he didn’t want to leave her alone. Even for a few minutes? He’d said something about the caddies eating her alive, but they couldn’t possibly be that bad. Even if they were, she was woman enough to handle it and then some.
“Go.” She tipped her head toward the lantern-lit terrace. “I want to grab some air, anyway. Nice to meet you, Mr. Lee.”
“Please, call me Buck.”
She nodded and gave Wells a quick smile. “Catch up with you later.”
Without giving Wells a chance to protest, she wove her way through a sea of recognizable faces, feeling a little bit like she was dreaming. A week ago, she’d been standing in knee-deep sludge, stuffing ruined inventory into black garbage bags, praying an alligator wasn’t lurking in the water—
because Florida—and now? Wearing her best dress at a lavish party full of golf studs. Life never stopped throwing curveballs.
Josephine almost gasped out loud when she stepped onto the terrace. The branches of a giant magnolia tree stretched overhead, flickering,
jewel-tone lanterns dangling low. The conversation was more hushed outside, perhaps because it overlooked the manicured golf course and the setting predisposed people to silence. The air was balmy, breezy, and fragrant, whispering over her bare shoulders like silk. Someone approached her with a champagne flute, and she took it to be polite. Or maybe because she needed a prop with which to float through the elegant crowd, many of whom were watching her pass with curiosity. Fastening a serene expression onto her face, she continued until she reached the rail of the terrace, the green spreading out in front of her, buttered in moonlight.
Within seconds, a man approached from her left. He was roughly the
same age as Josephine and sporting a necktie patterned with lizards, and he had a genuine smile, deep brown skin, and mirthful eyes. “Well, if it isn’t
the hot gossip item herself,” said the young man, leaning his elbows on the railing beside her. “I’m Ricky. Nice to meet you.”
“Hey. I’m Josephine.”
“Oh, I know.” He winked at her, then went back to looking out over the golf course with obvious adoration. “Don’t worry, something scandalous will happen tomorrow and they’ll move on. A pro will smash their putter into three pieces or mix plaids. You’ll be off the hook.”
She glanced back over her shoulder, catching a woman in the act of gesturing at her with one of the hors d’oeuvres. Were people interested in her because she’d joined forces with the villain? Or was it because she was the only female caddie on tour? Maybe both. “When will I ever get another chance to be whispered about at a party that’s serving caviar on tiny pieces of toast? This is once-in-a-lifetime stuff.”
“Now that’s the right attitude.” Ricky gave her a conspiratorial look.
“You know, our golfers are paired up for the next two days. We’re going to be seeing a lot of each other.”
“Are you bringing the communal ibuprofen, or am I?”
Ricky ducked his head on a laugh and reached over to shake her hand. “Tomorrow isn’t looking so rough after all, Josephine.”
She couldn’t agree more. Knowing there would be a friendly face in the vicinity dulled some of her spikiest nerves. “Which player are you caddying for?”
Pride squared his shoulders. “Manny Tagaloa.”
Josephine sucked in a small breath. “Oh wow, the new guy.”
“Yup. He’s already upstairs asleep for the night. The man’s got a
powerhouse drive, but he’s boring as hell. Makes my job a lot of fun.” They shared a snort. “I’m only doing this caddying thing on the side until I can get my reptile business up and running.”
“And that is the dead last thing I expected to come out of your mouth.” “Excuse me for interrupting,” a man said from behind Josephine, his
voice smothered in the South. “I just had to meet the woman of the hour.” “Oh boy,” Ricky muttered for her ears alone. “Here we go.”
A ripple carried all the way down to Josephine’s ankles when she turned around and looked directly into the face of none other than the tour darling, Buster Calhoun, his sandy-blond hair lying artfully on his forehead. This guy never failed to be humble on camera, giving the media the Aw shucks,
I’m just grateful to be here moment they craved. For the briefest of windows, Josephine couldn’t help but be starstruck.
“You must be Josephine Doyle,” he drawled, lifting her free hand and kissing the air just above her knuckles. “An honor and a pleasure.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Calhoun.”
“Oh.” He feigned surprise. “My reputation precedes me, I see, but I’m far more interested in yours, as is everyone else.” He encompassed the terrace with a sweep of his martini. “Where did you come from Miss Doyle?”
She smiled brightly and said, “Florida.”
A brief pause was followed by a charming chuckle. Three other golfers joined him.
When did they get there?
Calhoun took a slow sip of his martini. “And what are your thoughts on the course tomorrow?”
Josephine thought back to the research she’d done over the last week.
The kidney bean–shaped sand trap on eleven, the water surrounding seventeen. “I think the two forced carries on the back nine are going to make a bunch of grown men cry.”
For an extended moment, Calhoun appeared dumbfounded. Then he and his companions erupted with amusement. “Well, I’ll be, Miss Doyle.” Something new, like interest, took shape in the Southerner’s eyes. “I might just have to steal you from Whitaker.”
“I highly suggest you don’t try that,” Wells said, shouldering his way through the group of men and pinning Josephine with a hard look. “If
you’re done being cornered by these preening windbags, I think we’ve stayed long enough.”
“Aw, don’t take her from us so soon,” Calhoun complained, clapping a hand down on Wells’s shoulder. He removed it just as quickly when Wells gave him the famous death glare. “She’s the most interesting thing at this party,” he said, voice weakened slightly.
“She’s not the entertainment.”
“At least let her stay for the fireworks.” He gestured to the night sky.
“They’re just about to begin.” He gave Josephine a sly wink. “I sponsored.” Wells rolled his eyes so hard, Josephine was surprised when they didn’t pop out of his ears. He looked as though he wanted to respond to Calhoun’s
boast, but a loud boom overhead prevented him. Pink sparkles plumed in the sky, raining down shimmery lights, followed by another one in green, then white. Based on the increase in conversation, guests were emerging
from inside to witness the spectacle on the terrace, leading to limited space and everyone crowding toward the rail that overlooked the green.
Calhoun started to sidle closer to her, but Wells cut in, surprising her with a firm hand on her hip. He turned her to face the railing, then planted his
fists on the stone barrier on either side of her, bracketing her in neatly. The position went beyond friendly. At the very least, it was an intimate way to
be standing with her boss. And the crowd was pushing forward at such a rapid rate, more and more space was being swallowed up by the second.
Sensing eyes on her, Josephine sent a sidelong glance at Ricky. His eyes sparkled with knowing humor.
Great. He thinks I’m with Wells. Like with him, with him.
But the other caddie was totally misreading the situation. Obviously, Wells wasn’t interested in her romantically. Their arrangement was purely business. Like, come on. He wasn’t even nice to her. The arm trap he’d created to keep the other golfers away was nothing more than a necessity, thanks to the surging crowd.
“I leave you alone for five minutes,” he growled beside her ear, “and somehow you manage to find the worst possible company.”
“The jury is out on that. I’m still trying to get a read on Calhoun.” “Close the book, belle. You’re done reading.”
Josephine’s spine straightened. “Am I?”
She could hear him grinding his teeth. “Don’t forget I’ve spent five years on tour with the man. His golden-boy image is exactly that. An image.”
“One could say the same thing about your bad-boy image.” “No, that is accurate.”
Overhead, the fireworks picked up the pace, booming and breaking apart one after the other in explosions of color. Thus, more guests crowded out onto the terrace, giving Wells no choice but to inch closer to Josephine. Her back molded slowly to his chest, his measured breaths stirring her hair ever so slightly. It was lucky that he couldn’t see her face, because his heat, the strength of him made her lashes flutter, her lips parting to drag in the magnolia-scented air. “So what are you doing? Warning me away from
him?”
“That about sums it up.” “Don’t bother sugarcoating it.”
“I never do.” Wells cursed beneath his breath. “Josephine, I need to know you’re mine, so I can concentrate.”
Her vision split into two, before swerving back together. “Yours?” “My teammate,” he clarified in a low voice, after a moment. “The last
thing I need is to worry about you defecting to some other camp.” Josephine whirled around—and it was a huge mistake.
Huge.
Wells towered over her, his arms caging her against the railing. And his mouth, his body, all of him, was very, very close. So close that her breasts dragged across the hard ridges of his stomach when she turned around, her head tipping back automatically so she could meet his gaze. A firework lit his face and she saw exactly how heavy-lidded his eyes were as they watched her breasts press up against his chest, a low rumble emitting from his throat.
Oh dear.
As quickly as possible, she twisted back around, grateful he could no longer see how the contact had affected her. So much that she struggled to locate the things . . . the . . . what were those things called you said out
loud? Words?
“Is that what you’re worried about? Me ditching you?” Frankly, after
years of rooting for him on the sidelines, that hurt a little. “I guess I haven’t made it obvious enough that I’m the sticking around type.”
“I’ve made that assumption about someone before,” he said near her ear.
Wells was referring to Buck Lee, right? After seeing them together inside, that didn’t even feel like an assumption, just fact. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to prove I’m different.” The hard heat of his chest against her back was making her mouth dry, so when she spoke again, her voice sounded a
little scratchy. “I won’t give up on you as long as you don’t give up on yourself again.”
Did the pace of his breathing pick up slightly in response to that? She watched as his right arm dropped away from the railing.
It remained at his side for three fireworks, four, until his fingertips brushed—just once—over the pulse of her wrist and she shivered. That small but deliberate touch made her so light-headed, she would have pitched sideways if Wells’s body wasn’t propping her up from behind, his pecs against her shoulder blades, her butt dangerously close to his groin area.
Could he see the goose bumps on her neck? Was that low rumble in his throat an appreciative one? She didn’t know, but when his thumb pressed hard into the small of her wrist, she nearly liquefied into hot oil, ears ringing—and it was almost galling that she could no longer pretend she found him attractive in an objective way. Her body rioted when his came close—and it wasn’t letting her ignore that very inconvenient fact. A thumb on her wrist was giving her that down-deep pretzel twist that begged to be
unknotted. No doubt, if they were alone, she would have taken that final backward step by now, fitting herself to his lower body.
Teasing her bottom side to side.
Oh no, you don’t. That’s not why you’re here.
The fireworks had hit their finale now, an explosion going off every millisecond, and despite her mental warnings, her pulse matched that
frenetic tempo. Maybe something about the magnolia had dosed them with romance-laced air and this gravitational pull was just a side effect. It was almost like she could feel the night, the atmosphere, their closeness roping them together, along with her vow that still hung in the air. She’d meant it. His heart beat at a fast pace against her back, letting Josephine know without words that the sentiment had meant something to him. Maybe even a lot.
Her head seemed to tip to the left all by itself. Consciously or unconsciously showing him her neck? No idea. But when that sensitive area was bathed in a warm breath, she stopped caring and started wondering what his mouth would feel like. His teeth.
Wells’s chest dipped and rose dramatically, once, twice, and his hand found her hip, squeezing where no one could see, slowly beginning to draw her back . . . back—
As suddenly as they started, the fireworks cut out. As one, the crowd ebbed, their attention dropping from the sky, and reality roared back. The guests receded, heading indoors with a lot of excited chatter, giving Wells no choice but to step away from Josephine.
Clearly trying to get his breath under control, he stared at something in
the distance beyond her shoulder. “We’ve been here long enough. Let’s go.” “Yuh . . . yeah. Yup, okay.”
Smooth.
Wells jerked his chin at the ballroom, indicating she should go first. The movement was so flippant, especially after what had almost just happened
—right? Had she imagined the whole thing?— she laughed under her breath a little, but the sound died in her throat when he leaned in as she passed, inhaling the air just above the slope of her shoulder, his elbow brushing against the curve of her side.
Walking was a challenge after that.
They left the terrace, walked through the party full of gawkers, and rode the elevator—empty this time—upstairs in silence. At least until they
stepped off, covering the distance between the elevator bank and the door to her room.
“Josephine . . .” “Yes?”
He braced his hands on his hips, shifted as he appeared to search for the right thing to say. “What happened downstairs is not going to happen
again.”
Wells Whitaker: not a mincer of words.
“Right. Okay. Good,” she said on reflex, staunchly ignoring the ripple of disappointment. “I mean, really, nothing actually happened.”
“Nothing is almost going to happen again,” he corrected.
Stop nodding so hard. “I mean, where could it have led? Kissing? Under the romantic moonlight? Absolutely not. That isn’t going to happen.”
“Right.” He looked thrown by the words romantic moonlight. “No kissing. No anything.”
“Good.”
She definitely hadn’t come to Texas with the intention of forming a
romantic entanglement with the professional golfer. It hadn’t even crossed her mind. Fine, she was attracted to him. And baths made her feel more sensual than usual. The fact remained that this was not on the agenda. There was the not-so-little matter of rebuilding her pro shop.
Furthermore, they had this man’s career to resurrect.
When he had said near kisses wouldn’t happen again, she should have been relieved.
“Good?” Wells echoed, before quickly shaking his head. “I mean, right. Good. Our arrangement might be unusual, might be temporary, but the fact remains that I am employing you, Josephine. How I perform determines your paycheck.”
“I agree. The boundaries are already vague. Blurring them further won’t lead to anything good.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘nothing good,’ but I get your point.”
“I wouldn’t say ‘nothing good’ either. Maybe kissing would feel good. Who knows? Maybe I’m the best kisser you’ve ever met. But you’re not going to find out.”
“Definitely not,” he replied, his voice thick as he cleared his throat. “Wait… what?”
“Let’s get a good night’s sleep and tackle things in the morning,” she said, holding up a hand for a high-five.
He regarded her gesture with a look of disdain.
“Eight fifteen tee time, belle. Don’t be late. And don’t show up too cheerful, or I’ll send you home.”
“You won’t,” she said confidently.
He stopped at the end of the hall, not turning around. “No, I won’t,” he said softly.
Then he was gone, leaving Josephine standing there, bemused.
