Page 6 of Perfect Praise

“Weird alpha-male game,” I repeat slowly. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk a lot? What are you even saying?”

She waves her hand at my face like I should know exactly whatever the hell she’s talking about. “Like hook up with you or be your fake girlfriend or something to give a giant middle finger to Russ.”

“Fake girlfriend?” I laugh. That sounds like a lot of fucking work with zero reward. “Pass. You went there rather fast. And that is the furthest thing from what I was trying to do.”

A blush creeps over her cheeks. Her patience is growing thin, even though she’s trying to hide it, and she asks me rather nicely, “Then what were you doing up there?”

“Like you said, I wasn’t giving a shit. You should try it some time,” I say, lifting an eyebrow.

She sighs and tucks a strand of her long brown waves behind her ear. “You’re… infuriating.”

I laugh internally. Even insulting me, she sounds like she’s elated. Poor girl has zero chance.

“You don’t need someone to teach you. It’s easy. I don’t tell people my business, Maren. Let them think whatever they want to think. I’m not going to change anyone’s mind.”

“Do you watchTriple Bogey?” she asks.

I roll my eyes. The name alone is enough to make my brain shrivel from severe stupidity. “What do you think?”

“Do you know what it’s like for people to think they know you when they don’t at all? Like half of America hates me and half loves me. And all they really know is what the show chooses to show them. They don’t really know me at all.”

“Nope,” I deadpan. “No idea what that could possibly be like. Besides, all of America is not watching your little show.” My own annoyance is bubbling to the surface, so I slip a hand in my pocket and thumb the tee I have in there at all times. “Is this conversation over?”

I expect her to fight me harder, longer, but she just sighs and accepts defeat. The competitive asshole in me almost feels disappointed.

“Sure,” she concedes.

I glance over my shoulder and motion for Casie to roll down the window. “I don’t feel like hanging out anymore,” I tell her. “Going to go practice.”

Casie whines out a “Loccckkkeee,” that sounds nothing close to nice, rolls her eyes, and practically peels out of the parking lot.

“I’m sorry,” Maren mutters apologetically to my back as I walk off, “for ruining your mood and messing up your plans.”

I stop short and turn slowly. Her face starts to lift, grow brighter, thinking I’ve somehow changed my mind. I slip my hat from my back pocket and put it back on my head. My voice comes out harsh. “Here’s one for free—don’t say sorry.”

I just catch her start to smile as I backpedal around the corner. That’s the only piece of life advice she’ll get from me, so she should wipe that look off her face quickly.

The driving range is surprisingly quiet this morning. Conrad, all alone, has parked himself at the very far left bay.

I saunter up quietly, eyeing his nearly perfect backswing, and joke loudly, “Why did I hire you to be my caddie again?” He flinches, and the ball shanks hard right. “God, you suck.”

“Asshole,” he laughs. “Speaking of…” He takes his time putting another golf ball on the tee. “What was that up there?”

“It was nothing,” I say. “Just Russ being Russ.”

Conrad holds his eye contact like he knows I’m lying. Which he does.

Sometimes I wish he didn’t know me so well, but he’s the only real person in my life—technically my brother and definitely my cousin.

We have the same dirty blond hair, but Conrad got the blue approachable eyes to go along with it.

“I’m not in the mood to talk,” I add.

He nods. “Got your ass chewed out by that girl you love to hate?”

“No,” I counter. “She wouldn’t be capable of chewing out anyone. And I don’t hate her. I hate how her camera is always pointed at me.”

“That’s literally herjob.”

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