Page 47 of Fangirl Down

“Wells, it barely hurts anymore,” Josephine said, trying to work herself free of the steel banded hold keeping her in place. “I was just caught off guard.”

“Is this the wrong time to point out that this wouldn’t have happened if you’d stayed with me, where you belong?”

“Yes, it’s the dead wrong time to point that out.” Her neck lost power, dangling back over the crook of his elbow. “Please God, don’t let my parents see this.”

“Here comes the medical cart,” Wells said, still sounding far more anxious than the situation warranted. Three long strides and she was being settled onto a leather bench. The medic didn’t even have a chance to climb out of the driver’s seat before Wells knelt down again in front of Josephine. “I can’t remember. Are you supposed to leave the shoe on when it’s a sprain, so it doesn’t swell? Or am I wrong?”

“It’s not a sprain!” Josephine shouted.

“Sir, I can take over from here,” said the medic patiently.

“Just a second. I’m going to check the damage.”

Wells eased off Josephine’s shoe and that’s when everything started to move in slow motion. She thought back to the evening when she’d painted her toenails and denial swung inside her like a pendulum. “Not the sock. Leave my sock on.”

“How am I supposed to see anything with your sock on?”

“There’s nothing to see—”

Off came the sock.

There they were. Five freshly polished blue toes. With yellow letters on them. Spelling out W-E-L-L-S’. He went very still. Three seconds passed. Four. And then, ignoring her sputtering protests, Wells yanked off the other shoe and sock, revealing the word B-E-L-L-E.

He said nothing.

No movement.

He’d become a statue.

Josephine held her breath as he stood up, braced a hand on the top of the golf cart, and looked at her, long and hard, wheels turning behind his eyes.

His voice vibrated when he said, “We’re making the cut.”

Josephine jumped when he slapped a hand down on the roof of the cart.

“We’re making the fucking cut, Josephine.”

“Okay,” she whispered, her embarrassment turning into something else. Pure hope. Hope and... connection. To this man.

For better or worse.

Chapter Fifteen

Wells watched the leaderboard shift on the television screen, his name slipping into the green bracket of players in the top sixty-four.

Unbelievable.

He fell back against the cushions of his hotel room couch and let out a gust of air. An odd, thick feeling crept into the space between his chest and throat, making it difficult to replenish the air in his lungs. He’d made the cut only once this entire season and it had been on a technicality, because the golfer ranked above Wells made an error on his scorecard.

But this?

This was legitimate.

And today’s comeback could be credited to only one thing.

Or... ten to be exact.

Josephine’s toes.

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