Fangirl Down: A Novel (Big Shots Book 1)

She was one of those women who took forever to get ready.

Wells stood across from Josephine’s door, his back against the hallway wall, and attempted to glare her into emerging. He could hear her jogging back and forth in there. Between what and what? Why were the things she needed to get ready spread out all over the room? It didn’t make any sense.

Maybe after he’d left, she’d taken another bath, since she’d loved the first one so much.

The memory of her moaning made him curse, a weary hand raking down his face. That sound was never going to fade away, was it? All husky and uninhibited. If she reacted that way to a tub full of water, he wanted to know what kind of noise she’d make if he went down on her. Just . . . spread her thighs open and fucked her with his tongue. His goal wouldn’t be to make her moan, though, it would be to make her scream.

Wells cleared his throat hard and started to pace.

He never should have gone into that bathroom. As a man who had been around the block a few times, he should know the difference between a moan of pleasure and a moan of pain. But some intuition had informed him that Josephine was inside that bathroom—and the mere possibility that she could be hurt had propelled him forward without a second thought. His impulsiveness had cost him. Big-time.

Now he’d seen her pale, round tits and those berry-colored nipples.

Life was going to be a lot harder from now on.

Harder. Yeah, that about covered it.

Knowing her naked body rivaled the temptation of her mouth . . . was going to be taking up a lot of space in his head. There was no way around that fact. No way to forget her thighs, slippery from a bath. Or her skin, softened and dewy from the heat.

“Fuck my life,” Wells muttered, right as Josephine dove through the hotel-room door.

“Sorry! Sorry. My parents called.”

“Your what . . .”

He’d been all prepared to complain. To give her a hard time about taking eight hundred years to throw on some clothes. Unfortunately, as soon as she came out of the room in a strapless minidress, he forgot the state they were in, let alone remembered to be angry she’d taken so long.

Nothing had ever been more worth it.

He’d never had a favorite color before, but the deep emerald of her dress instantly became the one. It covered more than the towel had earlier, so why did it make her skin look so different? Almost . . . glowing? She’d done something to her hair, too, because it was usually up in a messy knot. Now it was down and sort of flowy? Shiny, too.

Oh shit, and then she looked up at him, rubbing her red lips together.

Red.

Maybe that was his favorite color.

Focus, man. “A call with your parents took an extra half an hour?”

“It does when they think you’re experiencing a delusional episode.”

“Come again?”

“They don’t believe me. That I’m here caddying for you.” She fiddled with something in her purse. Was that a purse? It was the size of a wallet, yet it appeared to hold a hundred items. Chapstick, a mini comb, eye drops. A green, cylindrical penlike object and alcohol swabs. Was that her insulin? He’d done some research on type 1 diabetes before coming to San Antonio, enough to know that there were more ways than one to administer insulin. Since she didn’t appear to have a pump, he assumed she took shots. “At first, my parents thought it was funny,” Josephine continued, recapturing his attention. “But my father is now speculating that I suffered a concussion during the hurricane. My mother’s theory is that I met a man and eloped, but that might just be wishful thinking on her part. Either way, they’re ready to call the FBI.”

“You know, I can easily clear this up.” He waved a hand at her purse-thing. “Let’s go. FaceTime them.”

“Really?” Hesitantly, she opened her bag again. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now,” he said, impatiently. “Unless you’d like to spend another half hour brushing your hair or something.”

“Thank you for noticing.” She pressed her lips together, seemingly to trap a laugh, and he found himself wishing she would just let it out already. It had been a long time since he’d heard her laugh and it had probably been at something someone else said, while she was standing in the crowd behind the rope. He wouldn’t have minded being the reason for that laugh just once. “Okay, here goes,” she said, the distinct ring of FaceTime connecting filling the hallway. “Hey guys, there is someone here who wants to speak to you.”

Wells took the phone, frowning down at the screen. “You’ve raised a daughter who can’t be ready on time, even though she had a full four hours. I hope you’re proud of yourselves.”

One of the people staring back at him had pink curlers in her hair.

The man was wearing an apron.

Something sizzled on the stove behind them.

“You’re . . . ,” the man started, setting down the spatula in his hand. “You’re actually there with Wells Whitaker, Joey-Roo.”

“Yes, I know, Dad. I told you.”

Joey-Roo? Wells mouthed at Josephine.

She rolled her eyes at him.

“How did you manage to birdie the fifth hole at Pebble Beach back in ’21? Did you go into the rough on purpose?”

Wells thought back. “Yes. I didn’t like the angle after my drive landed, so I bypassed the rest of the fairway and gave myself a better position to the green.”

“Brilliant! I knew it,” whooped Josephine’s father, before he promptly lost his grip on the phone and it went crashing to the ground, giving Wells a sweeping view of their über-Floridian household.

He squinted an eye. “Dear God, that is a lot of plants.”

“Be careful how you speak about my brothers and sisters,” Josephine deadpanned. “They can hear you.”

The golfer shook his head at her. “As you can see, she hasn’t eloped or suffered a brain injury. But she might get fired if she keeps me waiting this long ever again.”

With that, he hung up the phone and handed it back to Josephine.

“Ready?”

Appearing dazed, she took back the device. “You didn’t even say goodbye.”

“Yes, I know.” He put his hand on the small of her back and ushered her toward the elevator, trying very hard not to move his thumb, even though it itched to memorize the spot. “When you draw out goodbyes on the phone, there are inevitable promises to call again soon. I’m not falling into that trap.”

“Who hurt you, Wells?”

He ignored the twinge in his chest and stabbed the down button for the elevator.

Surprisingly, one of six sets of doors opened almost immediately. Wells sighed when he saw half a dozen other people were already occupying the car. They were obviously staying at the resort specifically for the tournament, because their jaws hinged open when they noticed Wells. He was inclined to wait for the next elevator, but Josephine stepped inside without hesitation, and since he wasn’t about to let her go down alone, he was left with no choice but to follow suit.

The lack of space put them in close quarters. Enough that when the elevator jolted and began traveling downward, he had to brace a hand above Josephine’s head or risk their bodies colliding. From his vantage point, the bow of her upper lip was even more distinct. There was also a little freckle buried in the right side of her hairline. And God, her skin . . .

Christ. Get it together, man.

Now would be a good time to recognize one very important fact. Technically, Josephine worked for him. Meaning, he needed to stop wondering if she had a sensitive neck. Or if she’d touched herself in the bathtub. Shit like that was off limits. He might not be the most ethical of golfers—or human beings—but he would not take advantage of his position as her boss.

So if she could stop smelling like flowers and sneaking looks up at him with her beautiful green eyes, that would be fucking amazing.

“What pit of hell did the nickname Joey-Roo come from?” Wells grumbled.

He regretted his tone when she choked a little. “Oh. Well, they started calling me Joey when I was a baby, which as you know, is what they call a baby kangaroo. Hence, Roo.”

“Ridiculous.”

“It’s better than all of your nicknames.”

“Which are?”

“The Prick of Putting, the Doomsday Driver. And my personal favorite, Unhappy Gilmore.”

Someone behind him snorted. Another coughed.

Josephine bit her lip, her body shaking with mirth. Would she still be laughing if he backed her up tight to the wall and took over the job of sinking his teeth into that lip?

You’re not going to find out.

Although . . . was she thinking the same thing? His caddie’s gaze skated down to his lips, before zipping away, a flush creeping into her cheeks. Was he utterly insane for putting himself into a situation where he would be spending hours upon hours upon days with a woman he found this attractive, while also having her on his payroll?

“Wells,” she said huskily. “It’s our turn.”

He shot a look over his shoulder to find the entire elevator had been vacated and they were the only remaining occupants. Meanwhile he was still towering over Josephine in the corner. Music and laughter from the party had invaded the tiny space and somehow, he hadn’t heard a thing. Cursing inwardly, he backed up, gesturing for her to precede him.

“After you.”

“Oooh.” She sailed by with a smirk. “Careful, they’ll start calling you the Gallant Golfer, the Princely Putter—”

Wells snorted, catching up to her in one stride and walking beside her down the lantern-lit hallway. “I just don’t want to deny you the fashionably late entrance you so desperately wanted.”

“How long exactly are we going to dwell on this? Until you find something else to tease me about?”

They paused outside of the entrance to the ballroom, waiting for the group in front of them to give their names to the clipboard-toting young woman. “That sounds about right. Got anything good?”

“I’m a treasure trove of material, Whitaker, but you’re going to have to work for it.”

Wells suddenly wished he’d blown off the pointless party and taken Josephine to dinner, instead. Maybe it wasn’t too late? Sharing a meal with one’s caddie was the furthest thing from unusual. In fact, it was normal. Expected. And Wells was dead positive that he would enjoy talking to her more than anyone on the other side of those doors. “Listen, the food in there is going to be fancy and bite-sized. Maybe we should—”

Josephine gasped and gripped his forearm, her attention focused on something inside the event. “Oh my God, it’s Jun Nakamura.”

He was forced to switch gears. “What about him?”

“What about him? Oh nothing, just a couple of major titles.” Stars sparkled in her eyes. “His precision is incredible.”

She was . . . fangirling? For another golfer?

Envy dug into his throat like a rusty nail.

“What happened to Wells’s Belle?” he half-shouted.

“Maybe if he has an earlier tee time than us tomorrow, I’ll go see him in action. What do you think I should write on his sign?”

“Nothing, Josephine. You’re not making him a sign.”

Slowly, her mouth spread into a grin. “I thought you said you could take a little trash talk. The vein in your forehead leaves me skeptical.”

Wells stared down at her.

His heart dislodged itself from behind his jugular, moving back into place, but still pumping at an uncomfortable rate.

She’d been teasing him about cheering for another golfer.

And he’d swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker.

A lot of things occurred to Wells at once. The fact that he really liked Josephine, probably too much, was first among them. Second, he started to wonder if he might grow to trust her. Like, actually trust her. One of the reasons he never kept a caddie around for long was his inability to believe that (a.) someone might know more than him. Or (b.) want the best for him.

The one time he’d experienced those things was with Buck Lee. The one time he’d trusted anyone had been with his mentor, too. But Buck’s friendship had been conditional. Dependent on Wells’s continuing to win.

Wells swore he’d never place that kind of faith in anyone again.

And he wouldn’t.

But for the first time in a long time . . . he was tempted.

In more ways than one.