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)
“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.
Wells dug his knuckles into his eye sockets and filled the suite with a semihysterical laugh. “You’ve lost it. You’ve completely lost it.”
That might have been true, but there was no denying that an atomic bomb of relief and pride and hope, goddammit, had imploded in his stomach when he’d pulled off her socks and seen those little blue miracles staring back at him. There they were, proof that Josephine still had faith in him. She was still his number one fan. He hadn’t lost her. And there had simply been no way in hell he was going to let her regret that.
Wells pushed to his feet and paced to the bathroom, planting his hands on the marble vanity and looking himself in the eye. “Do not go to her room.” He shrugged with forced nonchalance. “Just don’t.”
It wasn’t as though the mere act of going to her room meant something sexual was going to happen. Strange things were taking place inside him, though. Every day that passed with this woman in his life, he shed another layer of numbness and indifference. He was actually looking forward to playing golf tomorrow.
With her.
Near her.
Beside her.
Anywhere she happened to be.
Wells dropped his head forward. “Oh my God, get a fucking grip.”
He might have given her initiation rites when it came to flirting, but the complicated power dynamic between them remained. Currently, Josephine was depending on him for an income. She had a lot at stake.
His phone chimed in his pocket, dissipating his wayward thoughts.
Speak of the . . . angel.
It was Josephine.
Trying valiantly to ignore the tightness in his throat, Wells slid open the text message—and felt every ounce of blood in his body race south. It was a bathroom selfie of Josephine wearing her caddie uniform. And he didn’t know where the hell to look first. Because she’d definitely come through on her end of the bet. Big time.
No pants.
No panties, either, as far as he could tell.
“Holy mother of God.”
She’d tugged the hem of the pinnie down to cover her pussy, but the uniform was cut short by design, so he could see her hips, and there was no sign of underwear. Smooth porcelain as far as the eye could see, with a dusting of freckles in spots that made his mouth water. He was dying to grab and knead and lick her curves. Holy—she wasn’t wearing a bra underneath, either, but it was a fucking tease, because of the mesh. It allowed for only tiny peeks at the flesh beneath, but he wasn’t even going to pretend not to zoom in, trying to make out the dusky color of her nipples.