Page 20 of Perfect Praise

“He didn’t know I was coming?” Maren whispers, confused.

I shrug as we approach. “He assumed when I said I was bringing someone that it was Conrad. He should learn to ask better questions.”

“Maren!” Graham smiles brightly and holds his hand out for her. “It’s so nice to officially meet you.”

“I’m so sorry,” she replies, shaking his hand. Her eyes flutter to mine, wondering how he knows her name. “Locke didn’t tell me your name.”

“Graham, his agent.” He sits after I pull Maren’s chair out for her and settle into the chair beside her. “He didn’t tell me his…”

“Co-worker,” I offer before I shoot him a stern look warning him not to mention any fake PR bullshit.

“—co-worker was joining us.” Graham’s eyebrows fall in disappointment before he places a hand on Josh’s shoulder to his left. “This is Josh, VP of marketing at Rival, and his wife, Shelley.”

They both smile a little too much, like they’re trying to impress Maren. Josh’s dark beard surrounds his bright white teeth, making them look impossibly whiter, and Shelley’s deep red lips curl up like she’s hoping to become her best friend. But Maren doesn’t seem to notice.

Instead, she nods and tries to pull a face like she knows exactly what Rival is, though it’s clear she has no clue. “Nice to meet both of you. Maren Murray.”

For some reason, hearing her say her last name startles me. I’d never thought about it before, but now I’m wondering what her middle name is, how old she is, when her birthday is, what her favorite color is.

After Josh and Shelley greet us, I find myself leaning into the side of her face.

“You’re an alliteration,” I chuckle for her ears only and watch her shiver. “Rival is a sports drink, by the way.” I straighten. “Josh and Graham have been with me since the beginning.”

Maren’s eyes light up as she looks between them both. “When was the beginning?”

“God,” Josh says, thinking. “Almost a decade ago.”

“How old are you?” she asks, craning her neck toward me.

“Thirty.”

Her smile starts in her eyes first like she likes my answer, then she sticks her tongue between her front teeth and playfully bites it.

My eyes have a hard time pulling themselves from her mouth until she eventually turns back.

“So, what did you do? Force him to give up college?” Maren questions Graham.

“Trust me, I tried,” he laughs. “Many times. I backed off. I’m a patient man. And then one day, suddenly, he was ready.”

Another turn of her body into mine. “Where’d you go to college?”

I’m equal parts impressed and disappointed she didn’t google me because I can tell she truly doesn’t know the answer. Of course, the asshole never mentioned it to her. Which then leaves me dreading the moment she learns, “The University of Florida.”

Her brows knit, and she chews on her lip as she no doubt does the math in her head.

“Oh,” she says, wide-eyed, when she’s figured out the answer. Her pupils look like pinpricks against the green shades of her irises. “So, you and Russell were teammates?”

“We were,” I confirm, “for a year.”

Maren blinks at me then erases all traces of confusion with a soft smile, almost as if she’s apologizing. “I’m—he never mentioned that.”

I scowl. “You’re saying you’re sorry in your head, aren’t you?”

“No,” she says, tipping her chin up in defiance, and changing the subject, thank god. “When did you start playing golf?”

“Don’t remember,” I say.

Graham knocks a knuckle on the table. “Twelve.”

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