The first two days of the tournament had been a roller coaster ride . . . if

the roller coaster was on fire, and also got stuck upside down. Yet somehow day three ended up being the most remarkable of all. Wells shot his best round in two years. Over the course of the morning and afternoon, the crowd that followed Wells and Josephine from hole to hole grew bigger,

more boisterous. A little while after that, the cheering started. They were

actually rooting for Wells.

Not that he deigned to acknowledge it.

The Texas sun burned bright when they arrived on the fairway of the eighteenth hole. Wells took a long drink of water from his metal canteen and handed it to Josephine without looking. Too parched to question the move, Josephine let the cold water cool her throat, capped the canteen, and put it back in the bag, taking out her binoculars next and raising them to her eyes, surveying the green. She’d already given Wells her advice and was waiting for him to finish chewing it over.

“Where should I set it down?” he asked, referring to the ball. “Give me a landmark.”

“Pitfalls of being short. I can’t really see over the rise.” She held out the binoculars. “You want to look?”

“Hop up on my back,” Wells suggested, without missing a beat. “You won’t be happy with the shot unless you can see it for yourself.”

That was true. Still, the idea was absurd and definitely not happening. “I appreciate you wanting me to be satisfied with the strategy, but caddies don’t just . . . climb on their golfers.”

He arched an eyebrow at her.

“You know what I mean.”

Wells hissed out a breath. “I’m afraid I need your opinion on a landing spot or I won’t be confident in the shot, belle.”

“Seriously?”

He hitched his chin toward his back. “Someone once said my ass could be used as a roller coaster seat. Test out the theory.”

Her cheeks were growing suspiciously hot, but dammit, she really wanted to check their position in relation to the green. “I’m only going up for a second,” she muttered, circling around back of him. Taking a tiny beat just to appreciate—

“Well, I know one thing you’re satisfied with,” Wells drawled.

Josephine begged the sky to keep her sanity intact. Then, settling her

hands on his thick shoulders, she jumped, locking her legs around Wells’s waist. The crowd laughed, followed by the sound of camera shutters going off. Josephine barely registered any of it because—oh God. She hadn’t had a piggyback ride in a long, long time, possibly long before she’d become

aware of her body or its sexual properties. Because she didn’t remember piggyback rides like this—at all. The juncture of her thighs found the top curve of his buttocks, pressing oh so snugly, her inner thighs squeezing his

waist. The clean aftershave scent of his neck was suddenly very close, along with the bunching of his back muscles against her breasts. And the air quite simply disappeared from her lungs.

“Uhmm.”

“Binoculars, Josephine,” he said hoarsely. “Right. Okay.”

She lifted the binoculars to her eyes with a shaky hand. “I would say aim for the guy in the polo shirt and hat, but that doesn’t really narrow it down. Um . . . the man in mint green.” She passed him the binoculars. “See him?”

Wells looked. “Yeah. Put it down right there?” “Yup.”

He gave the binoculars back. “Check again.” His hand, now free, wrapped around her ankle, his thumb sliding into her sock in a sweeping arc. Dug in roughly. “Take all the time you need.”

At this rate, she’d need, like, thirteen seconds to orgasm. Tops. In other words, it was high time to get down. Which she did.

“You ready?” she said breathily, smoothing her clothing.

“Some might say too ready.” He inhaled deeply, visibly getting ahold of himself. Finally, he focused on the shot with a deep “mmmm” rumbling in his throat.

That’s how Josephine typically knew it was time to get out of the way— when he gave a gruff “mmmm” and that crease appeared between his brows.

Silently, she backed up and held her breath, praying she’d given him good advice. She exhaled when the ball dropped in the exact place they’d chosen, around thirty yards from the man in mint, ten from the hole.

“Great shot,” she said, taking the six iron and replacing it in the bag.

Wells started to respond, but the cheering around them swelled while they advanced to the green, preparing to putt. He looked momentarily surprised by the growing mass of people, but he hid it almost immediately, putting his head down and trudging on to the final shot of day three.

“Don’t love the grass on this one.” “Bumpy in spots,” she agreed.

“But I was thinking about that mindfuck lesson you gave me. The morning before the first round. Remember?” He hunkered down, putter in hand. “The course is bigger than the distance between the ball and the hole, right? What if I shoot past it a little to avoid that knotted grass and let it roll back in?”

“I love it,” she murmured. “You can control that roll from here in a way you couldn’t from the fairway. Make it delicate.”

“Make it delicate,” Wells snorted. “It’s never been more obvious I have a chick for a caddie.”

“Lucky you.” “We’ll see.”

She bit her lip to subdue a smile. “You good, then?” “Mmmm.”

That was Josephine’s cue. She backed up, putting an unsteady hand on the bag. Today wasn’t for all the marbles—that was tomorrow—but today felt . . . big. There was something exciting in the air. Wells hadn’t lost his

temper or gotten overly discouraged by bad shots. And she couldn’t give the credit to their little wager. A man didn’t resurrect his golf game in the name of sex. Right?

No.

That would be ridiculous.

Perhaps that was how it started this morning, but she’d been watching this man play for five long, storied years—and she could practically feel

him coming back to life. Deep down, Wells Whitaker loved golf and finally, finally she could see him allowing that to be true again. Out loud. In his every action. What a glorious thing to witness.

Please let it continue.

The hard leather of the bag strap bit into the palm of Josephine’s hand as Wells lined up the shot and fired gently, rolling the ball into the target,

where it disappeared with a clink. The sudden roar of the crowd was tinged with shock at the daring play. Cameras jockeyed for the best position to film Wells as they passed through to the clubhouse. Commentators were recapping the shot on live broadcasts. It was mayhem.

For a golf course.

Meanwhile, Wells casually removed his glove and shoved it into his back pocket, as if he saw none of the stir he was causing. “Ready, belle?”

“Yes.” She shouldered the bag. “Not even a single fist pump, huh?”

“We’re better than that,” he responded, loud enough to be heard over the crowd.

“Tell that to my fist.” She shook out her hand. “It wants to pump so bad.” “Yeah?” Tucking his tongue into his cheek, he gave her a quick, but

heated once-over. “I know how it feels, don’t I?”

An embarrassing whoosh sound snuck out of Josephine, her legs wobbling ominously. A lot of cameras were trained on them. Not the most opportune time to be sporting stiff nipples.

“You’re not just playing well because of my . . .” “Sex-centive?” Wells deadpanned.

She shook her head. “As I’ve said before, thank God they know better than to mic you up.”

He half-grinned, gesturing for her to stay close to him on their way up the path—and it was easy to see why. Hundreds of hands stuck out, begging for high fives from Wells. From . . . her, too? Yes. Every so often, someone shouted Josephine! Had her name been mentioned on the air or did they look her up—

“Stay close, please,” Wells said briskly in her ear. “Belle, please.” “Okay.”

“We’ve established that you’re more than capable of shlepping my bag around for five hours, but I would very much like to take it now. Is that all

right with you?” “Why?”

“There are marks on your shoulder.”

“Oh.” She turned her head to one side, observing the series of red

grooves buried in the place where her neck sloped into her shoulder. “They don’t hurt.”

“Looking at it is hurting me.”

Josephine rolled her eyes, letting him take the bag. Someone in the crowd made an awwww sound.

Josephine groaned, but after a few steps, she remembered what she’d been meaning to say to Wells. “You’re not just playing well because of the sex-centive. You’re enjoying the game itself again. I can tell.”

A beat passed. “How can you tell?”

Josephine searched for the right words. “After you play a really good shot, you get this look on your face. Like you’re really deep in thought. I think that’s you trying to manage your feelings. Like, oh no. You wouldn’t want to get carried away being too happy. So you stand there intellectualizing the shot or hunting for the negative side.” She smacked his chest. “Don’t do that, Wells. Let positives be positives.”

“I’m looking at one,” he said gruffly, visibly catching himself off guard, his step faltering subtly. “Did I enjoy today? Yeah. I guess I did. But I wouldn’t have remembered how to enjoy it without you, Josephine.” He cleared his throat hard. “Now if you’re done being emotional, I need to turn in my scorecard, so I don’t get disqualified.”

“Y-yes,” she stammered, stopping at the bottom of the ramp in an area that, thankfully, was cordoned off from the still-cheering spectators. “Do you want me to hold the bag?”

“Shoulder marks,” he growled, storming into the clubhouse.

As soon as the door closed behind Wells, a woman in a PGA tour jacket and an earpiece ran up beside Josephine. “Miss Doyle?”

“Yes.”

“As soon as Mr. Whitaker is finished turning in his card, his presence has been requested in the media tent.”

“Really?” The blood drained from Josephine’s face. “Oh God.” The woman’s polite smile faltered. “I’m . . . sorry?”

It was on the tip of Josephine’s tongue to inform the official that Wells wouldn’t be making an appearance in front of the sea of sports reporters.

But wasn’t one of the conditions of him being allowed back on the tour that he play nice with the media?

“He’ll be there,” Josephine assured her, weakly. This ought to be interesting.

A few minutes later, Wells exited the clubhouse, bag still perched on his shoulder. “We’re going to eat, belle.”

“Hold that thought. They want you in the media tent.”

“Fuck my life,” he grumbled, without missing a beat. “Why?” “Probably because you just played your best round in two years.”

He hissed an exhale between his teeth. Seemed to ponder the situation for a moment. “If that’s the case, you’re doing it with me.”

Those words did not compute. “I’m sorry, what?”

“Straighten your ponytail.” He took Josephine’s hand, pulling her along behind him toward the tent. “You’re doing the interview with me.”

She gaped. “My ponytail is crooked?”

“Since the eleventh hole.” He jerked a shoulder. “It’s cute, so I didn’t say anything.”

“Wells.” She tried to slow him down, but her heels only skidded in the grass. “Golfers don’t bring their caddies to the media tent.”

“This one does.” “Why?”

“I don’t know, Josephine,” Wells fired back over his shoulder. “I just . . . have this pretty intense need to make sure everyone knows you’re very fucking important. Okay? Could you kindly just go along with it?”

Josephine’s mouth snapped shut. What was she supposed to say to that?

She couldn’t think of a single thing. Not when she suddenly felt . . . buoyant. Like she could float up into the cloudless sky and bask there in the sunshine, never coming down. Was she? Very fucking important to him?

She’d been harboring the hope that her assistance on the course was making a difference, but having Wells say it out loud unlocked something inside her. Something like . . . pride.

A young man with a clipboard waved them into the big, white media tent as soon as they arrived—and dear lord, it happened so fast. One second, they were outside in the blazing sunshine and the next, they were embraced by shade and ice-cold air conditioning. Also, lighting crews, television cameras, and reporters, interspersed with boom mics.

A table waited for them at the front of the room, complete with several microphones proclaiming all the major networks. Her parents were 100 percent going to see this.

“Hold up. Come here,” Wells said, turning her around by the shoulders.

Before she could question his intentions, he tucked a few strands of hair into her ponytail and tightened it gently, making her eyes blink at a very rapid rate. “Thanks.”

In response, he pulled her toward the stage with a grunt, ascending the stairs . . .

And stopping short.

There was only one chair.

Relieved in the most indescribable way, Josephine started to back down the stairs. “I’ll just catch you later—”

“Nope.”

Wells pulled out the chair, guiding her down into it.

Then he stood directly behind her, frowning, with his arms crossed. “What?” he shouted at the tent.

A sprinkling of nervous laughter followed. Face on fire, Josephine watched the reporters exchange glances, some of them amused, others aghast. Finally, one of the brave ones stood.

“Mr. Whitaker,” said the middle-aged man, holding a notepad.

“Congratulations on a successful round of golf today. Would you mind giving us some insight into what led to you returning to the tour?”

“The question is would I mind? Yes.”

Josephine didn’t think. She just elbowed him. Hard. It just came naturally.

The tent erupted in laughter.

She couldn’t see Wells’s face, but she was relieved when he spoke again, dry this time, rather than hostile. “Does that answer your question?”

The reporter rocked forward on his toes, eyebrows elevating. “Your caddie had something to do with your return?”

“That’s right. She bullied me into it.”

Josephine leaned forward to speak into the microphone. “That’s a lie, your honor.”

More laughter, louder this time, echoed in the dim tent.

Wells bent over, nudging her aside to amplify his own voice. “Meet Josephine Doyle, folks. She’s meaner than she looks.”

“Only when you claim the wind speed is irrelevant.”

“That’s when you get run over by a golf cart to make a point, if I recall.” Josephine smiled broadly. “It was a welcome reprieve from you, Wells.” No one was holding back on the laughter at this point.

“Thanks for keeping me humble, Josephine.”

She smiled up at him, surprised to find his usual stone-faced countenance held a glimmer of . . . affection. Her heart pounded in response. “Anytime,” she said, breathily.

The media stared at them in silence for several seconds. And then everyone started shouting questions at once.

* * *

Wells and Josephine didn’t get much of a chance to speak during their late lunch.

Or on the trip through the lobby toward the elevators. People kept stopping them for pictures and autographs.

Now, she stumbled back against the elevator wall after punching the button for her floor and stared straight ahead, shell-shocked. “What was that?”

“I don’t know,” Wells muttered, looking at his phone. “But my ex- manager called me three times in the last hour and he doesn’t get out of bed unless someone offers him a boatload of money.”

“Are you going to call him back?”

“Eventually.” A muscle moved in his cheek. “I need to talk to you first.”

The doors of the elevator opened on Josephine’s floor and they stepped off, moving side by side down the hallway toward her room. And it was really saying something that she could feel the electric pulse of anticipation when she needed to shower and change this badly. Was he going to come into her room again? How could she miss the scrape of his jaw on her

cheeks so badly when she’d experienced it only once? “What do you need to talk to me about?”

“Safety.” He whipped off his ballcap and raked five fingers through his hair, throwing a glance back toward the elevators. “When I said I wanted everyone to know how important you are, I didn’t think ahead far enough. If you could just stay put in this room unless I’m with you, belle . . .” He patted the air with both hands. “My stress level would appreciate it.”

“Wells, come on.” She rolled her eyes. “They’re just asking for my autograph because I happened to be there. They were just being nice.”

“Golf fans are mean as sin, Josephine. I once had a child in a Callaway hat give me the finger. And he was with his grandma. Who told me to shove a club up my ass.”

She slapped a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing.

“It’s not funny. I’m asking you nicely—since nice shit is apparently so important to you—to please not go traipsing around the resort before

sunrise anymore. Call me and I will come get you. Please.” “Wow. I don’t know if traipsing is the right word . . .”

“Josephine.” Wells advanced on her, hesitating with a curse when their bodies were a breath apart. But then he pushed forward the remaining distance, flattening her against the door, making both of them exhale shakily, their bodies shifting together. Closer. “Let me be careful with you, belle. Let me worry without asking a bunch of questions, okay?”

“You hate questions,” she whispered.

“Yeah. But I really, really don’t hate you.” Eyes closed, he rolled his forehead against hers. “Deal with it.”

Why was it that this man saying he didn’t hate her was the equivalent of another man promising to build her a kingdom? “When you retire from golf, you could consider poetry.”

He made a frustrated sound, kissing her hard as he slapped both of his hands down on the door above her head. “If you make me wait one more second to hear your agreement to be careful, Josephine, I swear to God.”

“I don’t know,” she said, her breath beginning to shallow, need causing her thoughts to run together in one high-pitched, continuous note. “It’s kind of fun making you wait.”

Going still, he searched her eyes, and laughed low under his breath at what he saw.

Challenge. Excitement.

Wells looked up and down the hallway. Clearly checking for other guests. Making sure they were alone.

Then in one swift move, Wells lowered his hips and pressed up roughly between her thighs, lifting her feet off the floor. “You like teasing me?” he rasped into her neck.

Did she?

Yeah . . .

“Maybe a little.”

“I could bring you inside,” he said, circling his hips slowly, making

sparks dance in front of her eyes. “Convince you to give me my prize a day early.”

“You could try,” she gasped, the thick base of him rubbing her clit.

He stayed right there, pressing tight. Tight. Tight. Until she screamed in her mouth.

“I could succeed.” He swooped down and consumed her lips in a hungry kiss, drawing her tongue into his mouth with suction, then giving it back and licking deep, groaning with fervent approval. Snagging her bottom lip between his teeth with a growl before letting it go. “But I want to look you in the eye while I’m coming and know I fucking earned it. And I’m not talking about money, I’m talking about . . . you being proud. Of me.”

She could only stare at him, shaken. In fact, he seemed a little caught off guard himself. “I’m already proud of you.”

“Then I want more of it, Josephine.” He kissed her softly and tensed, wincing as he let her feet meet the floor again. “A lot more,” he said, stepping back and adjusting himself with a pained laugh. “I need to go before I change my mind. Are you going to stay put or not?”

Her nod was unsteady, thanks to all her bones transforming into gelatin. “You’re lucky there’s a bathtub.”

“There will always be a bathtub, Josephine.” He plowed his fingers through his hair again and turned, groaning up at the ceiling on his way to the elevator. “Good fucking night.”

The corner of her lips tilted. “Good night, Wells.”

She drifted into her room in a daze and plopped down on the carpet, staring into space, replaying the kiss while her fingers traced her lips. Was she falling for Wells Whitaker? Like the real man and not the persona she’d always admired from afar?

Yes.

Safe to say she was definitely slipping down a steep slope with no brakes.

There had to be good reasons to put them on, but in that moment, she couldn’t fathom a single one. Maybe she wouldn’t until one was staring her right in the face.