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)
“Set the phone down,” she instructed. “Let’s see how close you came.”
He dropped the device onto the grass and opened his eyes, dismayed to find himself a full two feet from the hole. “I already know I’m going to regret asking, but what was the point of this little exercise?”
She appeared in front of him, stooped down, and picked up his phone, placing it in his hands with a slap. “You could have walked past the hole, if you wanted. You didn’t have to stay between the pin and where you started. You’re not in the box. Look at this whole giant field . . .” Passion flickered in her green eyes and he couldn’t help but feel an answering spark inside himself. “Don’t limit yourself. Don’t live in a stressful little box. Go as far as you want. That was the point.”
With that, she gave him a cheerful smile, folded her hands behind her back, and walked away. Just dropped that mindfuck on him and skipped off toward the resort lobby entrance, like she hadn’t just dropkicked his brain.
“I’m going to get a muffin, if you want one,” Josephine called over her shoulder.
Goddamn right he wanted a muffin. After that eye-opening lesson, he wanted to eat enough carbs to kill an ox. And then another, equally pressing thought occurred to Wells and he found himself stomping after her in something of a daze. “You shouldn’t be by yourself when you’re wearing pajamas.”
Without halting her stride, she spun around, giving him a look that implied he was smoking the good stuff. “Giraffe pajamas are probably a great conversation starter.”
“You’re my caddie. I’m the only one you need to have conversations with.”
“Sounds bleak.” She pushed through the double doors that ran along the side entrance to the lobby, sauntering toward the coffee counter, where the employees were still in the process of setting up. “Can you order me a muffin while I do my stuff?” She scanned the glass case. “Cranberry orange.”
“They invented that flavor in hell, but sure.”
The kid behind the counter asked Wells what he’d like, but he was distracted by Josephine swinging around the small cross-body bag and taking out the green object that looked like a pen. When she uncapped it, he could see that it was a needle. Insulin. She was eating, so she had to give herself insulin so her body could process the carbs. How easily he’d thought about consuming a mountain of them without worrying how it would affect his body, the way it would Josephine’s. Biting her lip, she clicked a wheel on the end to a certain setting.
His heart lurched up into his mouth when she lifted her shirt and jabbed the needle into her stomach, two inches to the right of her belly button.
“Sir?”
“Uh . . .” Why couldn’t he swallow? Did taking the shots hurt? He’d never actually seen her—or anyone—do it before. “One cranberry orange muffin, one blueberry, and . . .” Coffee? he mouthed at her.
“Water,” she said back, smiling, tucking her tool back into her pouch.
A moment later, Wells handed Josephine her breakfast, wanting to offer her a lot more. Anything. Needing badly to make her life easier.
Maybe . . . he could?
Not that he would let her know. If Josephine realized he cared as much as he apparently did—according to the heart still stuck behind his Adam’s apple—things could get messy and complicated. His focus needed to be on winning for her.
“Listen,” he said, before they could part ways in the elevator. “Text me your father’s number. I forgot to tell him something about that shot I made at Pebble Beach.”
She fumbled the muffin. “You’re going to . . . call my dad to talk golf?”
Wells shrugged. Bit into his muffin. “Purely to brag about my genius play.”
“Right. I’ll text you.” Backing away, she gave him a little wave. “See you at tee time.”
“Yup.” He tipped his chin at her as they parted ways. “Is it Rihanna that makes you dance?”
“Nope.”
“Something disco era, like the Bee Gees?”
“Wrong.”
He cursed as she disappeared. Which freaking band?
The text arrived as Wells was crossing the threshold into his room. Of course, it was accompanied by an abundance of smiley face emojis. He waded through the cheerful yellow circles and tapped the number, holding the phone to his ear. Both of Josephine’s parents answered on the second ring. Was this a . . . landline?
“Yes, hello. This is Wells Whitaker.”
Silence.
“Is everything okay with Josephine?”
Oh God, they thought he was calling with bad news. Not surprising, since he sounded like an undertaker with bronchitis. Which probably had something to do with how unnatural it felt to do something for purely unselfish reasons.
He hadn’t always been this self-centered, had he? No, toward the beginning of his career, he’d routinely volunteered at local after-school programs, mostly for troubled youth, since he’d been one of them once upon a time. He’d sent tour tickets to his uncle every time he was in Florida. At the very least, he hadn’t snarled at everyone he met. But when his game started to decline two years ago, he’d taken a wrong turn. Well, maybe being around Josephine was pushing him back in the right direction.