Page 57 of Perfect Praise

“Locke,” Maren sobs. Her tears have been soaking into my polo. “I’m so sorry.”

“I promise I don’t regret it. I’m happy.” I laugh. “I have an extremely addictive personality which turns out to be great for professional sports. I channel my obsessive energy into winning, and I can pay for my mom to go to rehab however many times it takes for her to stay clean. She’s tried twice already, so I’m just waiting for her to want a third chance. I like my life, and yes, I’m a closed-off asshole, but it’s better that way.”

“You’re not an asshole,” she says. Her tears fall faster against my skin. “I’m ashamed I loved him, that I didn’t know who he really is. Howcould I have been so blind? I can’t believe he treated you that way.” She pauses. “I feel like I’m in shock.”

The room falls silent. I listen to Maren breathing, feel her chest rising and falling against mine. My mind twists back and forth wondering what she’s thinking, how she’s processing all of that, as she hugs my waist and runs her fingers over the notches of my lower spine. She’s the first person outside of my family I’ve ever told the story to, but I’m not sure she’ll ever realize that.

“Thank you,” she whispers eventually, “for telling me and trusting me.” She kisses my neck lightly. “Will you take me home now?”

After our eyes haveadjusted to the bright lights of the country club and then the brighter sun outside, Maren sits in the passenger seat of my car and stares out the window.

Her face is still a little puffy, and she wears a slight frown as her eyes scan the passing trees and houses.

Maybe I made a mistake telling her my and Russell’s history. I never want her to doubt that I’m not in this to get back at Russell, and I have no idea if she believes that I moved past it a long time ago.

In hindsight, we shared a way too intimate moment, and I made myself incredibly vulnerable. Even more disturbing is I’m thinking about her reaction, her own vulnerability that I want to see, and craving more.

I can’t help but keep glancing at her brown hair curling over her shoulder. Her teeth nibbling at her bottom lip. Her hands stuffed under her thighs.

My body is buzzing with the need to touch her. All while I wonder about every question I won’t ask her, because women don’t want a man who is addicted to them. They want a man who loves them.

We stop at my gate for me to punch in the numbers on the keypad, and when it swings open slowly, Maren takes a deep breath in through her nose and leans her head against the window with her eyes closed.

She has a small smile playing on her lips. I hope my house feels safe for her, that she loves it here, that she’s breathing in the fresh air breezing in through the open window because it calms her.

When we pull into my garage and the door starts to close behind us, the room slowly turns dim.

Maren is still sitting there with her eyes closed.

“How old are you?” I ask, breaking the silence.

She opens her eyes slowly and swivels her head toward me. “Twenty-nine,” she says with a bright smile.

It’s not much. Just the tiniest bit of information. But I feel a thud against my sternum, and I want to feel it again.

“What’s your middle name?”

“Ruth. After my grandmother.”

“When’s your birthday?”

“May second.”

“What’s your favorite color?”

“Yellow.”

I nod. “Just curious.”

She unbuckles her seatbelt and lets it slap back against the side of the car before she climbs into my lap. Unlike before when her hips were straddling me in the closet, this time they’re desperate. She bears her weight into me, and I feel myself sinking like quicksand, molding around her, trying to claim her. I want her somehow inside my body like my own personal drug.

“You’re allowed to be curious,” Maren whispers breathily, wrapping her hands around my neck as I grip her ass hard under her dress. Her kiss that comes next is light. “Make me forget.”

Locke opens the cardoor and slides us both out. He doesn’t even bother shutting the door because he’s too busy kissing me back harder.

We’re frenzied, nails digging into each other, tongues pressing into each other’s mouths. Moans and grunts slip between us as he navigates us through his house.

My back hits the banister of his stairs. His shoulder hits the doorframe of his bedroom.

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