Page 77 of Fangirl Down

There was only one thing Wells wanted in this life—and it was to fuck this woman.

He wanted to get her somewhere dark, tear down her panties, and bury his cock between her soft, sexy thighs. And for some infuriating reason, everyone and their mom wanted to stop him. A crowd followed him to the clubhouse when he turned in his scorecard. Reporters shoved microphones in their faces, using the C-word on a loop. Comeback. Comeback.

Is she responsible for your comeback?

Josephine, how do you feel about being a good luck charm for Wells Whitaker?

Will we see you at the Masters together?

If Wells was even remotely capable of responding with anything butplease I need to come inside my caddie, he would have told them yes, Josephine was unequivocally responsible for his comeback. Two weeks ago, he was a corpse. He’d never expected to pick up another golf club as long as he lived. Now he had a beating pulse. A purpose. The potential revival of his career. His blood was flowing again.

He hadhope, because of Josephine.

And he just wanted to worship her for all that he was worth. Praise her and get lost in her and... demand to know what the hell they were to each other.

That’s right—he wanted specifics.

Were they a golfer and caddie who incentivized sex as a strategy?

Stranger things had happened.

Maybe friends with benefits? Boyfriend and girlfriend?

Shit. He liked the sound of that last one.A lot.It was too soon, though, and what would it mean for their dynamic on the course? Would they have to keep their love life and golf separate in order to be ethical? In order to have a healthy relationship, in which she wasn’t constantly having to refocus him and talk him out of killing people?

Labeling what they had could complicate everything.

Josephine would have to be out of her mind to want to be his girlfriend, really.

Still, it had a nice ring to it.

Oooh. Rings.

Wow. Pump the brakes, man.

They were almost to the lobby of the hotel when a crowd swelled through the doors, holding up their phones to take pictures of Wells and Josephine.

They traded a pitiful glance and reversed direction.

Josephine laughed, stumbling a little as he pulled her along.

“What could possibly be funny at a time like this?” he demanded to know.

“You’re dragging me all over this family-friendly golf resort looking for a place to”—she waved a hand—“collect on our wager. There is something funny about it.”

“I promise you, Josephine, there is not.”

“Wait!” She yanked him to a stop on the path. Eyes wide, she slowly drew a single key out of the pocket of her skirt, holding it up to the light. Sun glinted off its majestic surface like the angels were ordaining it the new Holy Grail. “We’re forgetting I have my own bag room.”

“Where is that from here?” He pressed both thumbs into hiseye sockets. “Christ, I’m so fucking horny, I’ve lost my sense of direction.”

“This way.”

“Fair warning, Josephine, I don’t even have two seconds of foreplay in me.”

“Aw, honey.” She batted her eyelashes at him over her shoulder. “I don’t need it.”

Wells’s tortured groan would echo on the pathway to the clubhouse for the next century. And it only grew louder when they saw that it was blocked by a group of autograph seekers.

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