Fangirl Down: A Novel (Big Shots Book 1)

Wells was in the middle of a press conference when he saw Josephine step quietly into the press tent out of the corner of his eye. His hand shot out involuntarily and knocked over one of the dozens of microphones in his face, sending a peal of feedback through the tent.

She tucked some hair behind her ear and smiled at him, and his concentration leaked straight out of his nose. Was that a new blue dress she was wearing? Josephine probably had a lot of items in her wardrobe he’d never seen before and that fact might have annoyed the shit out of him—a lot like this press conference—if his girlfriend hadn’t been making moon eyes at him.

Last night, after getting confirmation from the limousine driver that Josephine had connected with Tallulah, he’d relaxed. Briefly. Then he’d gone for a walk through the lobby of the resort, on the off chance he’d catch a glimpse of Josephine. Sure enough, he’d seen her in the cocktail lounge looking so happy, he’d stood there grinning through the glass like a bozo, before eventually tearing himself away and going back to his room.

This was the first time he’d seen her in three days.

Which was not that long. But it might as well have been a decade.

Honestly, did she have any fucking clue how beautiful she was?

Beautiful and smart and adaptable and funny and adventurous. He could have sat there for a week listing her attributes, but the clearing of a throat into a microphone lassoed Wells, rudely pulling him back to the here and now.

“How did the practice round go, Wells?”

“Decent.”

“Do you feel more confident coming into this tournament than say . . . a month ago?”

“Why? What happened a month ago?”

Laughter filtered through the tent. His manager all but slumped over in the back row, a relieved smile on his face. All it took to get his head together was Josephine showing up and smiling at him. Something about that nipped at the back of his neck, like a problem that was beginning to sprout teeth, but Wells ignored it. There were no problems to speak of when his girlfriend was wearing a blue dress and a smile.

The media waited for him to give a serious answer to their question.

Was this his moment to let it be known once and for all how indispensable Josephine was to their partnership? To make it clear that she was far from a charity case, but more like an untapped talent that he’d been lucky enough to find and benefit from?

Yeah. It was.

He’d done more than irritate their sponsor and tussle with photographers over the last two days. He’d drawn up a new contract with Nate. The kind of agreement that had never been executed between a golfer and his caddie before on the tour.

“Yes, I feel more confident,” Wells finally answered. “A lot more.”

“Would you say that’s because of your good luck charm?”

Was it his imagination or did Josephine’s smile falter a little bit?

Yeah. Definitely. But the change had been fleeting. Maybe being the subject of their question had just caught her off guard, because she was back to being her usual serene self now. “Why don’t you ask her?” Wells jerked his chin toward where Josephine hovered inside the entrance. “She just showed up.”

Every head turned at once.

A few camera flashes popped. Murmurs carried down the rows of reporters.

Someone in a headset rushed out onto the stage with a second chair and Wells stood, holding it for her. “And it’s her birthday week, so everyone better have something to say about it.”

A chorus of baritone happy birthdays rose from the gathered media while Josephine smoothed her dress and climbed the three stairs onto the stage. “Hey,” she whispered, her green eyes turning any remaining waves inside Wells into a placid lake. “I was going to come see you last night, to say thank you, but Tallulah and I didn’t stop talking until they closed down the bar. Like, we were physically removed.” She took a shallow breath and released it shakily. “Wells, I’ll never receive a better present as long as I live. I don’t know what to say.”

He didn’t, either.

Who had filled his chest with sand?

“Uh-hmm.” He grunted. Pulled her chair out farther. “Nice dress.”

Her sides shook with silent mirth. “Thank you.”

Another grunt, as they both took their seats.

Jesus, are you okay?

Was he feeling unbalanced because he hadn’t kissed her yet?

“Miss Doyle! Do you think you’ll inspire more women to become caddies on the PGA Tour?”

“I hope so.”

“How has the reception been toward you on tour?”

“No complaints.” She hedged. “I mean, there’s always a little ball-busting in the locker room setting, but it helps that I don’t have any balls to bust.”

Laughter boomed through the tent—and some of it came from Wells.

There was nobody like Josephine.

In the wake of her joke, she turned and smiled at him, her eyes twinkling like twin lakes beneath a sunset, and he lost his ability to speak.

I’m in love with you, Josephine.

“I’ve got a question for both of you,” said a man standing at the back of the tent. “The internet seems pretty determined to prove you’re a pair on and off the golf course. How do you feel about the speculation about your relationship?”

Wells’s ability to speak came roaring back. There was his opening. He leaned forward to speak into the group of microphones. “She’s my professional partner. My equal partner. That’s the only relationship that concerns anyone in this tent.”

“What do you mean by ‘equal partner’?” pressed the reporter.

“I mean, she’s just as responsible for any success out there as I am.”

Several beats of silence followed. They were visibly nonplussed.

“Are you going to give her fifty percent of the winnings, too?” asked the man, dryly.

Skeptical snorts followed that question. Most of the press, however, looked peeved by the reporter. A couple of them even threw crumpled-up paper cups at the man, which he batted away.

“Wells . . . ,” Josephine whispered. “Ignore him.”

He covered the microphone with his hand. “Do you trust me?”

Her brow wrinkled. “Of course.”

Victory bobbed in his throat. She’d said it faster this time than last time.

Wells dropped his hand from the microphone. “I don’t give her anything. She earns it. She’s that good at reading a course. Making calls based on strengths and weaknesses I didn’t even know I had. Hell, her drive is better than mine. To say I’m lucky to have her on my team would be an unforgivable understatement.” He pressed his thigh against hers, where no one in the tent could see. “That’s why I am giving her fifty percent of my winnings.”

Silence abounded.

Josephine’s head turned slowly, her eyelashes fluttering a mile a minute.

Everyone started talking at once, taking pictures and shouting questions, but he didn’t have time for any of that. He needed to be alone with his girl.

“No more questions, you beady-eyed pack of vultures. We’re out of here.” He stood abruptly, sending his chair skidding across the podium, and waited for Josephine to rise, as well.

Which she did. On visibly wobbly legs.

He tried to gauge her reaction. Did she understand why he’d done it? She’d asked him to refrain from trying to correct the media’s misconception of her and her so-called victim/hero relationship with Wells, because he might make it worse. But he couldn’t do that. He couldn’t stand by and let people believe Josephine wasn’t the hero in this situation. And he hoped, maybe, once people stopped seeing her otherwise, their relationship could thrive out in the open.

Not now, obviously. Someday.

But Wells was shocked down to the soles of his feet when—right there in front of everyone—she reached out and took his hand, winding their fingers together tightly. Lights flashed, feet stomped, more questions were shouted, but they ignored all of it, communicating with nothing but their eyes.

I can’t believe you did that, said hers.

His responded with, You haven’t seen anything yet.

Side by side, they walked out of the tent.

And Wells only shot the reporters the briefest of middle fingers behind his back.

*  *  *

Wells stared at the dinner menu in his hands, the words blurring together in indecipherable lines. What did “braised” mean? He couldn’t remember.

He was in the players’ lounge having dinner with Josephine and Tallulah, but he’d barely managed a proper greeting for Josephine’s best friend when they arrived.

Because he’d been rendered speechless by sex. Utterly fucking speechless.

“Wells, do you want one of these rolls?” Josephine asked, nudging the breadbasket in his direction. All he could do was look at the baked dough in confusion.

“Huh?”

Josephine pressed her lips together in amusement—because she knew exactly what she’d done to him. Scrambled his brain like a couple of farm fresh eggs, that’s what.

She’d given him head. Twice.

Enthusiastically.

Were his legs even attached to his body anymore? He couldn’t feel them. Couldn’t hear or see anything but Josephine on her knees in that blue dress, telling him softly that it was okay to come in her mouth. That she really wanted him to.

You better not be doing this because of the press conference, he’d said, while flexing his hips toward her mouth. Or because I flew in your friend, Josephine, I swear to . . .

Can’t I just miss the taste of my boyfriend’s cock? she’d purred, kissing his crown.

And his brain went offline after that.

He’d literally passed out from the sucker punch of relief she’d given him. And when he’d woken up, she was back at it. Moaning as she sucked him.

No clothes this time. Not a single stitch.

Now he was supposed to make small talk. Chew things and operate utensils.

How.

Wells watched the waiter approach with a sense of dread. “Something to drink, folks?”

Josephine and Tallulah ordered glasses of white wine.

Wells helplessly gestured to the bar.

“A . . . beer, sir?” guessed the waiter.

Wells nodded, his neck so loose, he probably resembled a bobblehead.

He had no idea what he’d done to deserve the Cadillac of sexual favors, but he wanted to be a better person now. Volunteer more. Build orphanages with his bare hands. Save the bees. All of it.

“So, Wells . . .” Tallulah buttered a roll. “Do you have rituals you perform before a tournament starts? Like, is there a song that hypes you up?”

Both women looked at him expectantly. As if his brain wasn’t still a pile of mashed potatoes on the pillow upstairs. But didn’t he want to make a good impression on Josephine’s best friend? Get your head on straight.

“Lately, I usually just argue with Josephine.”

Tallulah snickered. “How long did it take you to realize she always wins?”

“Day two, I think. Maybe three.”

“And yet, he keeps trying,” Josephine said, squeezing his thigh beneath the table.

Making him think of how she’d held on to his thighs while she stuck out her tongue for his spend. “I’m never going to argue with you again,” he rasped. “You win forever.”

“Oh. This is a victory dinner?” Tallulah raised her glass of wine. “Aren’t those supposed to come after the tournament?”

“Yeah. But we’ve always been a little unconventional,” Wells said, and he could actually feel his fucking heart pounding in his chest as he looked at Josephine. “And I don’t want to change a single thing.”

Josephine’s smile dipped a little, seemingly beneath the weight of the moment. “Me either.”

“Holy shit,” Tallulah said, setting down her glass with a clink. “Look at that giant man with a child’s backpack on his shoulder.”

Halfway through Tallulah’s exclamation, Wells somehow knew she was referring to Burgess. In his panic to reach Palm Beach, followed by the rush to reach California early, he’d forgotten all about his phone call with the hockey bruiser. Now, Wells tore his eyes off his girlfriend and followed Tallulah’s line of sight toward the lobby, where, indeed, Burgess was towering among a sea of people with a miniature, sparkly silver backpack on his shoulder, a very solemn young girl holding his hand in the check-in line.

“Wow, he actually brought his kid,” Wells said. “To a golf tournament.”

Tallulah raised a dark eyebrow. “You know him?”

“Yeah.” Why was he shrugging so much? “Casually. Like, beers and the occasional phone call, but it’s not a big deal.”

Josephine tapped her temple. “Making a mental note not to fly him in for your birthday.” She split a look between Wells and the lobby. “Do you want to ask them to join us?”

“With a kid?”

“Kids eat, too, last time I checked,” said his girlfriend.

Suddenly, he was very fixated on what Josephine was saying. “Do you like kids?”

“Of course, I like kids.”

“Do you want one?” he half shouted.

“Oh, I wish they had popcorn on this menu,” Tallulah said wistfully, tipping her glass to her lips. “But I guess wine will have to do.”

“Maybe,” Josephine answered, finally. “Not yet. But maybe someday.”

“I don’t know a damn thing about kids,” he warned her.

Josephine opened her mouth, closed it. “People usually don’t know, until they have one. Not really.” She very clearly kicked her friend under the table. “Right, Tallulah?”

The aspiring marine biologist choked on her wine, but recovered fast. “She’s right. You have to have one to find out if you actually want one. It’s pretty fucked. Unless your mother had one of your siblings late in life, like mine did, and you helped raise them.” She rubbed her hands together. “That’s how I know I want ’em. Bring me that child!”

Wells had the very distinct urge to witness Josephine around a young kid and he had no idea where it was coming from. “I’ll ask them if they’re hungry.”

Josephine slumped, as if relieved to be done with his line of questioning. And he was done with it. For now. He’d never been remotely serious about a woman, the way he was with Josephine. It stood to reason that he should know her vision for the future. Obviously, she wanted to turn the Golden Tee into a premier destination in Palm Beach for golf, but beyond that . . . what did she want? A house? Did she want a split-level or more of a ranch style?

Unbelievable. He knew nothing.

When Wells reached Burgess, he briefly clapped a hand down on the man’s gargantuan shoulder. “Hey, man. You made it.”

Burgess turned halfway. Dipped his chin. “That’s right. You better not suck tomorrow.”

“Dad!” The little girl punched her father in the leg. “Normal people say hi?”

The hockey player grunted. “This is Lissa. She’s eleven.”

“Hi, Lissa who is eleven.” Wells stuck his hand out for a shake. To his surprise, she didn’t hesitate to take his hand and squeeze it firmly. “Do you eat? Food?”

“No, she eats tree bark,” Burgess deadpanned. “Of course, she eats food.”

“Look, I’ve had an afternoon. All right? I’m lucky to be alive right now.” Wells jerked his thumb at the restaurant, his ridiculous heart skipping when Josephine waved. “We’re having dinner over there. Me, Josephine, and her friend Tallulah. You’re welcome to join. They’ve got a lot of things that are braised on the menu. That’s all the information I have to report.”

“Do they have chicken fingers?” asked Lissa.

Shit, that sounded good. “I don’t know. But if they do, I’m fucking ordering them.”

Burgess’s left eye twitched. “Watch the language, Whitaker.”

Lissa doubled over giggling.

Wells stared in stunned silence.

Holy shit. He’d made a child laugh.

Wells turned and made eye contact with Josephine, pointing at Lissa.

She’s laughing at me, he mouthed.

Josephine sent him a double thumbs-up.

“We’ll check in and come join you,” Burgess said, already walking toward the attendant who was waving him over from behind the check-in desk. “Come on, Lissa.”

Wells went back to the restaurant and sat down in his chair, feeling more than a little smug. “Pretty sure I was born to be a father.”

“Wow.”

“Wow.”

“I’m as impressed as you are, ladies.”

A few minutes later, Burgess and Lissa entered the restaurant, the hockey player required to duck to make it beneath the doorframe without smacking his head. Lissa looked embarrassed just to be alive, hugging her elbows and hiding behind her fall of blond hair as she wove her way toward the table and sat down, expelling a breath.

Wanting to keep his Cool Adult streak going, Wells picked up the breadbasket and dropped it in front of the eleven-year-old. Zero movement at the table. Why was nobody speaking? Wells traded a look with Josephine, who tipped her glass subtly at the hockey player . . . who was staring at Tallulah like she’d just arrived on a cloud, wreathed in sunbeams.

“You want to take a seat, B-man?” Wells asked, nudging a chair out with his toe.

Which just happened to be the seat beside Tallulah.

“I . . . yeah. Uh.” Burgess made no move to sit.

Thankfully, Josephine set down her glass and sprang into action, because she was perfect. “Burgess, it’s so nice to meet you. I’m Josephine.”

“My girlfriend,” Wells added, leaning forward. “And equal partner.”

“Yeah, I saw a clip of the now-famous press conference.” Burgess shook Josephine’s hand. “You’re the one.”

A wrinkle formed between her brows. “The one what?”

“My one.” Wells frowned at her. “Get on the same page, belle.”

Josephine stared.

“And I’m Tallulah,” blurted the other woman, leaning forward, while very clearly kicking Josephine under the table. Two, three, four times. “Nice to meet you, Burgess.” When she got no response, she tilted her head at the eleven-year-old. “What’s your name?”

“Lissa.”

Tallulah reached out and gave her a fist bump. “Hey, Lissa.”

Burgess finally sat down across from his daughter, very careful not to brush any part of himself against Tallulah. “Do you want me to see if they have a placemat you can color?”

“Dad, I don’t color placemats anymore,” she whispered, blushing furiously.

The man known as Sir Savage hung his head slightly, appearing to mentally berate himself. This was the first time that Wells had ever seen the athlete with his child—and there was no comparing the two sides of the man. Usually, he was dry-humored and relaxed. Right now, he appeared to be at a total loss. “Let’s get those chicken fingers, right?” Wells said, not sure if he was helping. “But if anyone dips them in anything other than ranch, they can go sit somewhere else.”

Lissa giggled again.

Wells gave Josephine a pointed look. See?

“I’m having the veggie burger. One of the hazards of studying animals for a living is I feel too guilty eating them. I can’t chew without thinking ‘poor George’!”

“What kinds of animals?” Lissa asked in a mumble, fiddling with the sugar packets in the center of the table.

“Emperor penguins, most recently. I love cold-weather animals.”

“Like . . . polar bears?” ventured Lissa.

Tallulah beamed. “Yes!”

That got a smile out of the kid.

“Tallulah is part of a research team studying in Antarctica,” Josephine said.

Lissa’s jaw dropped. “Isn’t it freezing?”

“Yes. I have to put on eight layers just to walk outside. I feel weirdly naked right now.”

Burgess coughed. Snatched up his water and drained it. “How . . . long are you here for?” asked the hockey player, once he’d set down the glass.

“Just until tomorrow morning.” Josephine and Tallulah traded a pout. “But the project runs for only another month and then it’s back to school. I’ll be working on my master’s at BU.”

“Burgess lives in Boston,” Wells pointed out absently, while looking around for the waiter. “Remind me which neighborhood, man.”

“Beacon Hill,” Burgess said.

“Is that a nice area?” Tallulah asked. “Are there parks?”

“Parks?” Burgess echoed.

Josephine nodded. “My best friend loves a park.”

“They’re free,” Tallulah explained. “You can sit in them all day. Reading, suntanning, people watching. It’s a very underrated activity.”

Lissa threw a sugar packet at Burgess. “Dad, there’s a park on our roof.”

Tallulah reared back slightly. “Okay, baller. I doubt I’ll be able to afford a neighborhood that has roof park buildings.” She grinned. “Not while I’m still in school, at least.”

“Where would you live, instead?” Burgess wanted to know.

Tallulah shrugged. “Not sure yet.”

Burgess made a long sort of grinding sound, like a car engine turning over and over and over. “We have space.”

Josephine kicked Tallulah under the table. Tallulah kicked her back.

The athlete coughed into his fist, leaned back. “The roof park has a waterfall.”

Tallulah pretended to faint.

“Dad, I thought you were going to rent that room to a nanny.” Lissa rolled her eyes at the table. “He thinks I still need one.”

“I’m going to be on the road, off and on, Lissa. Not to mention practices . . .”

“If you need to rent the room to a nanny, that’s fine. I totally understand.” Tallulah traded a conspiratorial wink with Lissa. “Lissa and I can still have a park date or two.”

Lissa’s spine snapped straight. “Unless you want to be my nanny.”

There was a tremendous amount of kicking happening beneath the table.

Wells wondered if the women knew he and Burgess could see all of it.

“I-I guess . . . I mean, that would depend on what it entails . . . ,” stuttered Tallulah.

“Fifteen hundred a week. Free room and board.” Oblivious to the fact that Tallulah’s mouth had dropped open, Burgess continued without ever once looking at Tallulah. “I wouldn’t expect you there every second of the day, just mornings, evenings.” He shifted in his seat. “Through the night. Especially while I’m not there, of course.”

“Of course,” Tallulah said quickly, she and Josephine trading some silent girl communication with their eyes, lips moving imperceptibly. Wells could only watch in fascination. “I’ll be home most nights anyway, since I’ll be studying. But I’ll need to negotiate at least two nights for social activity.”

Burgess squinted at her. “As in?”

“Partying, of course. Life can’t be all work and no play,” Tallulah said brightly. “Mornings are no problem. If my terms are acceptable, I’m . . . not sure I can say no to the offer.”

“Fine,” Burgess boomed. “Done.”

Lissa clapped her hands.

Tallulah very discreetly sipped her wine while checking out Burgess’s biceps.

Wells and Josephine turned to stare at each other.

What the hell had just happened?

Any why was . . . Josephine suddenly rocking in her seat?

Not just rocking, but kind of . . . shimmying.

Dancing.

She was dancing.

Spine snapping straight, Wells desperately tried to dig through the restaurant din to unearth the song that was playing. “California Girls.” But not the one by Katy Perry.

Tallulah let out a hoot. “Oh, they knew you were coming, Joey!”

“Holy shit.” Wells fell back in his chair. “The Beach Boys?”

“My grandparents used to play this on vinyl when I was little and went to visit. It’s in my bones,” Josephine said, wincing, but still dancing. “I’m sorry for what you’re about to witness.”

Wells grinned. “I’m not.”

Tallulah grabbed Josephine by the wrist and hauled her toward a space between tables that was decidedly not a floor designated for dancing, but they were obviously determined to make it one. Both of the women gestured enthusiastically for Lissa to join them. When the eleven-year-old responded by bounding out to turn the duo into a trio, Burgess couldn’t seem to hide his shock. In no time, Lissa was stepping side to side between Josephine and Tallulah, if a little self-consciously.

The Beach Boys.

A little old-fashioned, uplifting, positive, revolutionary, warm.

It fit Josephine so well, he should have guessed it before.

“Wow. Look at you. You’re a goner,” Burgess remarked into his beer.

“I’m well past gone, man.” Wells managed to tear his eyes off a joyful Josephine long enough to spear the hockey player with a look. “Looks like you’re headed in the same direction. Enjoy the trip.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The only part of your new nanny you’re supposed to check out are her references.”

Burgess seemed to realize he was staring at Josephine’s friend and ripped his gaze downward, growling into his beer. “She’s too young for me. Probably . . . eight? Ten years?”

“Yup.”

“Look, I play hockey, I raise Lissa, I stay home. I don’t people watch. I definitely don’t party,” he spat, like the very idea was laughable. “She’ll probably have a boyfriend—her age—before she’s fully moved into my place.”

“Okay.”

Burgess bared his teeth. “Stop giving me one-word responses.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“I don’t know what the redhead sees in you.”

Wells laughed. Just let the happiness escape him in the form of a sound without trying to smother or temper it and Josephine met his eyes, her own softening at the sight of him enjoying himself. “Me either, man, but I’m not questioning it.”