Page 69 of Perfect Praise

“I don’t think that makes any difference.”

“It’s completely different,” he says without a hint of irony.

I go to roll my eyes but find the edge of his lip shadowed in humor. “Let’s talk about this sense of humor you’ve got buried deep, deep down.”

Locke keeps his eyes on the golf cart path, his mouth shut, face blank. And I know in my bones he’s messing with me.

“I have a proposition for you,” I say slyly.

He snorts. “Fake dating?”

He’s not laughing, but I still say, “Laugh all you want. It would have worked. People would fawn over you if you cared about PR,” because I know he is in his head.

“That shouldn’t even be a thing, and I have no idea why anyone would actually need one.” That low, throaty chuckle finally pushes out of his mouth. “But I’ll admit, you would have been the fucking best fake girlfriend.”

I shift closer, cross my legs. “Thank you,” I drawl playfully. “I would have. I’m very… compliant.” I smirk when Locke sideways glances, the tone of my voice causing his face to blank, like his mind stumbled. “Now, while I play these practice holes, you’re going to take my picture.”

I tap the top of my camera bag that sits between us on the floor with the bottom of my foot.

Locke’s eyes heat as he traces the bag, then my foot.

Then my leg.

A century passes inside of a split second before he stops the cart, sweeps a warm palm up my shin, and bends at his waist to press his lips into the top of my knee.

Just when I think he’s going to protest, his dimples divot deeply when he straightens and pulls me two inches into him so our thighs are flush.

“I’m going to take the shit out of your picture,” he says.

He will, since he demands perfection from himself, and my chest blooms with something that feels like pride before he’s even had his first lesson.

Locke pulls off the cart path at the first practice hole and patiently watches me unzip my camera bag and snap a lens onto the body.

“Why do you hate having your picture taken so much?” I ask him.

“As much as I’m seen,” he says, “I don’t like to be seen. If that makes any sense.”

I nod. He continues.

“And I don’t know why anyone would want to see me, even a picture.” He laughs. “I don’t even like looking in the mirror. I know what’s going on in my head, and I know how I feel, and when I look at myself, it always seems fake. I’ve had my picture taken more than enough, without my consent, for a decade. What do you love so much about it?”

“For me, it’s about the memories,” I explain. “You think you’ll remember the little things, but time passes, people forget. A picture, though, can spark the feeling you tried to preserve, bring it back.”

“I like that. Those are the pictures you want of yourself, the ones that hold love. Not the ones of a crazy fan snapping a blurry camera picture of you buying toilet paper.”

“Celebrities,” I tease. “They’re just like us.”

“We’re worse,” he jokes, then holds out his hand, smiling. “Now… come on. Teach me about this thing.”

“First,” I say, twisting the camera away from him, “you need to learnabout aperture.”

“Aperture,” he repeats.

“Do you want the background of your photos to be clear or blurry?”

He thinks, looking out over my shoulder. “Blurry.”

“I approve,” I tease. “So, your aperture needs to be wide. It lets in more light by opening the diaphragm.” I wait for him to make a joke, but his eyes lift to mine, all the lines of his face etched in serious concentration, waiting to hear my next explanation. I angle the camera’s screen toward him and turn the dial to show him how to set it. “It’s measured in f-stops. The lower the number, the higher the aperture or the hole in the lens that light is coming through. This camera is an f/2.8, which means that’s its minimum f-stop, and it goes up from there.”

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