Page 24 of Fangirl Down

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! Iknewit,” 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 wouldnottake 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 ofyournicknames.”

“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—”

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