Page 46 of Perfect Praise

Emmie bats the book out of my hand, and after I pick it up, I have to orient myself back in their conversation.

“—honored to take photographs of you and Emmie. I could never charge you.”

“Does this weekend work?” Elise asks. “We could swing back by here. Take them outside in the backyard.”

“I would love that,” Maren replies. I can hear the huge smile that she must have plastered across her face in her voice, and she can’t hide how happy she sounds.

“You have to charge people if you want it to be your job,” Elise teases.

Maren drops her voice to an exaggerated whisper. “Locke won’t cash my checksso we’re even.”

“Fine, then I will recommend you to all of my friends,” Elise says.

“Thank you! I’d love that. I’ve been wanting to do some family portraits in my spare time. It’s not practical and will never happen, but I do wish it could be a full-time job for me one day. My sister is having a little boy in a few months, and I took some maternity photos of her if you’d like to see them.”

I steal a glance.

Maren is leaned over the island, her dress riding up a few inches and the bottom of her assjusthidden from view. Elise is hunched over looking at the phone between them and admiring the pictures withohsandahsandbeautifuls.

“She looks just like you,” Elise says.

I already know Maren is more beautiful. Her sister doesn’t have the same freckle pattern or the same shade of brown hair.

Maren turns her head so quickly that she catches me staring at her.

Alarm bells ring in my head. I shouldn’t touch her,andI shouldn’t look at her.

My mind and body are rewiring themselves. IknowI shouldn’t, but I can’t exactly make myself stop.

I frantically look away.

Every time our eyes meet, sparks burst and singe my skin everywhere from the thought of his lips on mine. They aren’t very good for smiling, but they are far better at other things, and I can still feel the brush of them against my neck, like a searing hot brand.

He must feel it too by how quickly he averts his eyes at the same time.

He lives here. I live here… but over there.

Best behavior, I repeat to myself.I have a brain.

“Locke,” Elise calls, “bring Emmie in here and help with the green beans.”

I bury my head in my lemonade-making station and pretend not to watch him in the living room as he picks up Emmie. From my peripheral vision, hedoessmile at her when he lifts her into his arms.

Even if I don’t look at him, it’s hard not to be very aware of his presence. First, he buckles Emmie into her highchair, then wheels her next to the island, where he starts trimming the greens beans on his cutting board.

He murmurs at Emmie through the whirring of my juicer, explaining everything he’s doing to her like he’s an instruction manual.

I let my eyes wander for split seconds when I know he’s not looking.

It’s amazing watching Locke in his element. He’s always so sure of himself, but in his own home with his family, there’s something about him that seems more at ease. Like maybe one layer is missing, the layer that he uses to protect himself from the outside world, and he can breathe better. I wonder how many layers he has.

“So, real photography?” he asks out of nowhere.

I look up from where I’m focusing extra hard on opening a bag of sugar to find Locke tossing green beans in olive oil. His eyes stay trained on the bowl.

“Yeah,” I say, amused. My brain ticks up from the excitement of knowing that he’d been pretending that whole time like he wasn’t listening. “But it’s allrealphotography.”

His eyebrows raise like I’ve answered life’s deepest question. He dumps some garlic in his metal mixing bowl before I pour the sugar I measure out into my pitcher and use a long wooden spoon to stir.

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