Saoirse laughed. “Ah, Angus, love, there isn’t enough money in the world for that.”
CHAPTER 3
Jax
The cell reception in Ballybeg was about as reliable as my golf swing on a windy day, but I finally managed to find one corner of my room right by a window where I could hold a call without it cutting out.
I watched the rain batter the rolling hills that were somehow still postcard-perfect with my phone pressed to my ear because my earbuds weren’t charged.
“You’re gonna have to explain that. You know I don’t do social media.” I ran a hand through my hair and looked around the tiny room, which was surprisingly charming, and I wasn’t even into the whole cozy-and-cramped aesthetic.
“She said you cheated on her?”
“Who said that?” I struggled to remember who I was rumored to have been dating recently.
As a rule, I didn’t date.
I had sex when the mood struck and a suitable partner was available, but spending time alone with women who weren’t friends or family was off the table. Which meant I couldn’t cheat on anyone. I wasn’t with anyone.
“Francia Agnelli,” Brad ground out.
“Francia?” I wondered if I had heard Brad wrong. She was a model turned actress, and I’d probably spent a minute with her in the large scheme of life.
“Yes,” Brad screeched. “She talked to Howard Stern and told him you broke her heart when you fucked someone else.”
“I barely fuckedher,” I protested.
This is why I didn’t date.
Women be crazy!
“Well, according to her, you’re the love of her life. She even fuckin’ cried.”
“There’s nothing between Francia and me. It was casual.Verycasual.”
“You need to make a statement,” Brad demanded.
“Nope. She’s the one turning this into a circus, not me.” I didn’t give statements about my personal life. Brad knew that, my PR team knew that, and the PGL PR team knew that.
Brad sighed on the other end of the line. “Jax, you’re a professional golfer. You know as well as I do that what happens off the course gets just as much attention as what happens on it. This will hurt your sponsorships.”
“Okay.” I didn’t give a shit. But Brad did. And so did my team—the people whose paychecks depended on me. “Look, Francia’s got herself a movie deal now. She’s probably riding my name for all it’s worth.”
“If the tabloids think Jax Caldwell broke the heart of the latestSports Illustratedcover model, then?—”
“Brad, there will benostatement.”
“Jax, listen, I?—”
“Brad, you’re the one not?—"
“This is news,” he cut me off. “The paps are looking for you. I got a call from someone at TMZ asking if you were back in Charleston.” Brad paused for a moment. “Where the fuck are you?”
“In a bunker.”
I heard Brad sigh rather audibly. “Jax,” he warned.
“I was driving around Ireland after that charity golf thing in Killarney when Nikolai’s car decided it had had enough. Now I’m stuck in a village called Ballybeg—the ass-end of nowhere—my phone clinging to two miserable bars of service.”
