Fangirl Down: A Novel (Big Shots Book 1)

Watching the barber whip a teal cape around Wells’s shoulders and fasten it behind his neck was nothing short of surreal. Wells was a mysterious celebrity creature she observed from a safe distance or on television. Now she was watching him gripe under his breath about being required to take his hat off. A moment later, it became obvious why.

He looked like he’d miraculously survived a trip to the electric chair.

His chocolate-bark hair was flat in some places, pointing like a broken spring in others.

And still, still, he managed to retain his beastly attractiveness.

Not that she would let him know that.

“Wells.” Josephine walked to the front of the barber’s workstation and laid a gentle hand on the reflective surface. “Let me introduce you to this incredible, new invention called a mirror.”

He flashed her his teeth. “Did I hire a caddie or a comedian?”

“Seriously.” She let her hand drop. “When is the last time you brushed your hair?”

“I’ve been busy.” He waved a hand at her, disrupting the fall of the cape. “Sit down and be quiet, would you? You’re distracting the barber.”

Josephine remained standing. “I’m going to take a shot in the dark and say you don’t have a woman in your life.”

“Thank God.”

“What does that mean?” she asked, tilting her head.

Wells glanced around. “You’re answering your own question by dragging me to get a haircut.”

“I should have let you be your own worst enemy in peace?”

“Exactly.”

She hummed while trading an amused glance with the barber. “Don’t forget to shave his neck.”

A few beats of silence passed, the spritz of the spray bottle filtering in between the sound of hair dryers and muted conversations throughout the salon. Wells flicked her a curious look and sat up a little straighter, earning him a sigh from the barber. “What about you? You got a boyfriend, or what, Josephine? I’m guessing not.”

The barber whistled under his breath. “Brave.”

Josephine covered her wave of embarrassment with an eye roll.

“What?” Wells jerked a shoulder. “I’m not saying she isn’t . . .” He trailed off, visibly searching for a new direction. “I’m not saying she doesn’t have one. But if you had a boyfriend, I’m guessing he wouldn’t love the fact that you spend entire afternoons cheering me on so enthusiastically. That’s all I meant by guessing you’re single.”

“You’re saying I can’t be an avid spectator and have a boyfriend?”

He gave a brief headshake. “Not if I was your boyfriend.”

“No chance of that,” the barber commented. “You’re digging a pretty deep hole.”

“Could you mind your own business and just cut my hair?” Wells griped, before shifting in his seat and retraining his attention on Josephine. “Boyfriend or not, belle?”

“Not,” she said sweetly. “Thank God.”

Why did he seem weirdly pleased by that? “Now it’s my turn to ask what you mean.”

“I don’t really know what I mean,” she said honestly, after a short sifting of thoughts. Snippets of time she’d spent on dates or attempting relationships that never quite entered a comfortable phase. “I guess . . .”

Wells was watching her closely. “What?”

“Women are expected to be kind of . . . demure. Or grateful. Most of the time I’m neither of those things.”

“How is that?”

Josephine braced her shoulders against the wall and looked up at the ceiling, trying to put into words why she’d slowly let dating take a back seat to her job for the last couple of years. “I think it’s partly that I learned to challenge myself growing up, because no one was going to do it for me. I talked myself into trying things people cautioned me against—like playing sports or entering a dance contest. Challenging myself and succeeding made me feel good, so . . . I don’t know, maybe I falsely expect people to appreciate when I challenge them—”

“Trash-talk them, you mean?”

“Sometimes.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “Also, I grew up on a golf course where the love language is trash talking. That’s how I communicate. And guys can dish it out, but they can’t take it.”

Wells snorted.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“No, really. What?”

The barber had stopped trimming Wells’s hair so he could listen to the conversation. Wells leaned back and raised a lazy eyebrow at the man, and he promptly got moving again. “You claim you want a guy who trash talks you, but your feelings would get hurt.”

“It sounds like you’re speaking from experience, Whitaker. Exactly how many women have you sent to therapy?”

“No idea.” He winced as the barber sharpened his blade. “I don’t conduct exit interviews.”

“Maybe you should start. It could be enlightening.”

“I’ve got a pretty good idea what they’d say. I don’t need to subject myself to—”

“Trash talk?” She let her smile expand. “Oooh. Yet another one who can’t take it.”

He let out an indelicate snort. “I can take it.”

She pursed her lips.

His features transformed with disgust.

A laugh wiggled around in her chest, begging to burst out of her mouth, but she put a lid on it. She’d wholeheartedly meant to needle him and wouldn’t be jogging back any of her statements anytime soon. However, she was having fun. Which was a lot more than she could say for the last, hmmm, eight men she’d gone on dates with. And there had been only eight, total, in her life.

She’d traded words with Wells on occasion at tournaments and their exchanges had been interesting. Snappy. Memorable. She couldn’t help but be kind of pleased to know they shared the same dynamic in real life. Not because she wanted to date him. Or because he was a shade sexier when he was in a foul mood—fine, several shades—but more so because his crabby disposition made her feel . . . open to challenge him. She’d never really experienced that before.

“Beyond that, I had this thing growing up. None of the other kids had it. So I doubled down to prove I was not only the same as everyone else, but stronger.”

Josephine couldn’t believe she’d said that out loud.

Actually, she wasn’t really sure she’d even acknowledged that truth to herself before. Now that she’d plucked at the thread, though, she felt compelled to keep tugging until the thought had been fully realized. “One time, in sixth grade, my class went on an overnight camping trip in Ocala. No parents. I think my mom and dad secretly got a hotel room nearby, actually, in case of an emergency, although they’ve never fessed up.” She shook her head. “Anyway, this one kid, Percy D’Amato, claimed he’d seen a black bear in the woods and everyone was freaked out.” She paused to remember. “I took out my flashlight and went out into the woods by myself. And you know what? There was a bear.”

Wells did a double take. “No, there wasn’t.”

“Yes. There was. I screamed bloody murder, and it ran in the opposite direction.”

“It’s starting to make a lot more sense why you’re not intimidated by me.” This time, she couldn’t quite hold in her laugh—and the briefest of smiles carried across the lips of Wells Whitaker, before he quickly went back to frowning, heaping more shades of sexiness on top of what was already a veritable mountain. Even in a barber’s chair, while having shaving cream dolloped onto his jaw, he looked more like an angry gladiator than a golfer.

“Is it your goal to intimidate people?” Josephine asked.

He didn’t answer right away. “It’s not something I think about.”

“Your impenetrable darkness just comes naturally.”

“Sort of like your brightness.”

That caught her off guard. “You think I’m . . . that I have brightness?”

“Better . . . better . . . ,” murmured the barber.

“I . . .” He opened his mouth and closed it, making an irritable gesture that sent the edge of the cape flying. “You would have to have a certain brightness. On the inside. To keep showing up with a smile on your face for a losing player. Not that I was paying attention.”

Josephine felt an unwanted, possibly dangerous tug in her throat.

She rubbed the spot to make it go away.

“Of course not,” she said.

“Maybe, initially, I intimidated people on purpose. I grew up without a dime, walked to school when everyone else was getting dropped off by parents, lunches packed. Birthday invitations in their backpacks to hand out at recess. I wanted them to know I didn’t give a shit.”

This time, there was no ridding herself of the throat tug, so she didn’t bother trying to massage it away. “But you did? Give a shit.”

He stopped just short of confirming, visibly uncomfortable with the direction they’d taken. “Maybe. I don’t know.” He transferred his glare to the barber. “Could you please stab me in the neck to get me out of this conversation?”

“Texas ought to be fun,” Josephine said cheerfully.

“There’s no fun in golf, Josephine.”

She swiped a finger through the shaving cream and tapped the dollop onto his nose, trying valiantly not to consider the perfect slope of it. “You’ve never played with me before.”