Total pages in book: 118
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111959 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 560(@200wpm)___ 448(@250wpm)___ 373(@300wpm)
“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?