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)
Sure, he was out of practice caring about anyone but himself. But he couldn’t help but watch Josephine give herself insulin and wonder if she couldn’t use a second set of eyes. Not help, necessarily. Just some backup. Even if he was totally out of his depth.
Maybe he needed to walk past the hole a little, instead of being so limited.
“Josephine is fine, apart from her terrible taste in muffins.” He walked to the window and looked out over the course, his gaze dropping to the hole where he’d stood only minutes earlier with his caddie. “First of all, please don’t let her know I called about this. As far as she knows, we talked about Pebble Beach.”
A slight pause. “Sure, son,” her father replied.
“Second . . .” He swiped off his ballcap and scrubbed at his forehead. “Could you tell me what I need to know to help her take care of herself? Please.”
Josephine’s mother burst into noisy tears.
Great. I’m already regretting this.
But he didn’t, really. Not even a little.
Chapter Twelve
Josephine stood outside of the door to the “bag room,” so marked with a golden plaque, where caddies arrived to retrieve their golfer’s clubs before tee off. Loud laughter reached her from the other side of the door. All men. Obviously, she’d known that would be the case—there were no other women caddying on the tour. Having grown up on a golf course, this male-dominated world was familiar territory. But she wouldn’t be working behind the counter of a pro shop today or giving someone’s teenager a golf lesson.
This was the highest rung on the professional ladder.
She’d absorbed every ounce of knowledge there was to soak in on this sport. She’d lived, eaten, and breathed it for years. Technically, though, one could make the argument that she hadn’t quite earned a spot this lofty—and she was positive that argument had already been made by the other caddies. Possibly even expounded on.
Deep breath.
Deep breath.
She would earn the right to be there. Starting today.
Josephine ran a finger over the golden plaque and started to push the door open—
“Hey.”
At the sound of Wells’s voice, her insides joggled. She turned to find him approaching, obviously having come from the player’s locker room, located on the other side of the clubhouse . . . and wow, time was doing nothing to dull the impact of him. She’d seen him only a matter of hours ago. And she’d seen him a ton over the last five years. But there was something about having all of that glowering energy directed at her that made certain parts of her anatomy bat their eyelashes. “Hey,” she responded. “I was just going to grab the bag and meet you at the starting point. I’m not late!”
A riot of laughter blasted through the door.
Wells looked at it. Then back at Josephine.
“Why are you standing out here?” Danger flickered in his eyes, muscles tensing, as though preparing for a fight. “Are they not letting you in?”
“No, nothing like that. I was just taking a second.”
He relaxed. Slightly. “Why do you need a second?”
There was no way on God’s green earth that she was going to tell her boss she was having a rare moment of intimidation. He needed to have full confidence in her now or he wouldn’t be able to trust her out on the course. “I was admiring the plaque.”
“Josephine, you’re such a fucking golf nerd.”
“I know.” She took a hard swallow. “Meet you down there?”
“Yeah.” He started to move, then stopped. “Do you want me to ask the tournament director for a separate bag room? No one would question it. And I guess . . .” He rolled a shoulder. “I would prefer it.”
“Why?”
“Might be some shirtless guys in there.” He glared at the door, then Josephine. “Just so we’re clear, this is not a jealousy thing. I’m just trying to preserve your modesty.”
“My hero,” she breathed. “Protecting my innocent nature one hairy nipple at a time.”
“Quit that.” He adjusted his stance and hesitated before asking, “Do you not like hair on a man’s chest, or . . .”
Why was he asking? Did he have a lot of the stuff?
Did he like it when a woman twisted it? Or would he rather twist a woman’s hair?
The breath seemed to get trapped in her lungs until she could slowly let it out.
Whatever Wells had underneath his shirt, he probably owned it. Just swaggering around in unbuttoned jeans, wet hair, and bare feet like a cowboy after a one-night stand, the very picture of confidence.
“I don’t deem men dateable or undateable based on body hair,” she said, trying successfully to rid herself of that far too appealing vision. “But I am very picky about feet.”
A dark eyebrow shot up. “Feet?”
“Yup.”
Briefly, his attention dropped to his cleats. “What are your judging criteria?”