Page 52 of Perfect Praise

This used to bemy favorite tournament every year. Familiar faces. Familiar surroundings. It was easy to feel comfortable.

But something doesn’t feel so comfortable anymore. More eyes are on me than usual. I’m not blending in to the room full of reporters. Men keep stopping to smile and tell me hello.

One of the two women at this press conference is giving me a catty side-eye, and I’m trying to remember if she knows Russell and what I could have possibly done to her.

I haven’t seen or heard from Locke since I floated into the guest house last night high on an endorphin rainbow, and I’ve been nearly out of my mind since.

It’s funny that a few weeks ago I felt suppressed and depressed over Russell Ashe, and now, Russell is an afterthought and Locke Hughes’ balls have been in my mouth. How the hell did I get from point A to point B?

I wonder if he’s finished practicing yet or hiding in my photography closet avoiding this crowd. The thought sends blood up to my cheeks and down between my legs.

I could slip in and slip out in under three minutes and leave satisfied based on how incredibly and constantly turned on I’ve been in the last twenty-four hours.

Locke knows what he’s doing to me, but I don’t want to touch myself because I can be good at following his directions, and I know whatever Locke is going to do to me will be one thousand times better.

He could just push me up against the wall in the dark…

“Maren,” a reporter, based on the media badge around his neck, says.

I snap back to reality and blink into his squirrelly face. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”

“We missed seeing you in Mexico.” He winks.

“Oh,” I say as he turns away. “Thank you?”

My co-photographer Jeffrey (“No, not Jeff, Jeffrey”), who’s been taking professional golf shots since before I was born, glances at me, and with a smirk, goes back to looking through his viewfinder.

“What was that about?” I ask.

He stares first, then rolls his eyes. “Probably something to do with your relationship.”

“People still care about me and Russ?” I huff. “Why?”

I don’t even seem to care anymore. Is this what sex does? Well, the kinky friends with benefits kind? Because I haven’t had a second to fit Russell in on top of my thoughts about Locke.

“Not him,” Jeffrey says amusingly. “The other one.”

“What oth—” My scoff comes out too forced. “Locke and I aren’t in a relationship.”

“I don’t really care,” he chuckles. “Not my business. These people, though, want the scoop.”

“There is noscoop, Jeffrey. They never cared about me before when I was with Russ.”

“Locke is very different from Russ. Locke won’t tell anyone anything, so they need to pry. Anyway, like I said, don’t care.” He turns to take some candid shots as two golfers walk into the room and take their seats at the long table. “I did just order this amazing lens. Check it out.”

He steps aside slightly to let me look through his camera so I can geek out.

“The sharpness is excellent. Awesome autofocus. I can’t wait to take it birding,” he tells me.

“Birding? Is that a modern slang term for birdie?”

“Birdwatching.”

I smile, eyebrows raised. “Ilovethat you love that.”

“Don’t look so surprised. It’s fun,” he laughs.

My phone buzzes against my thigh in the little pocket of my shorts.

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