Page 82 of Perfect Praise

The trophy, a cup-looking shape made completely of glass and shimmering in the sun, sits next to him on a black podium.

Locke’s face turns back to a slight scowl as soon as the television cameraman steps up to start recording.

After the president makes his speech congratulating Locke, I snap photos of them shaking hands and Locke holding up the cup in front of his chest.

He’s not looking directly into the camera. Instead, his eye line is just an inch off, always on my face in some capacity.

When I straighten, he places the trophy back on the podium and strides toward me with long steps. Skirting around my tripod and making me squeal like a silly girl, he picks me up with his arms around my waist.

I don’t know whether to laugh or hide my face. “Locke!” I exclaim somewhere in between. “Congratulations!”

“Winning is much more fun with you,” he says, planting a kiss on the side of my neck. “Take a picture with me.”

“I got them all,” I promise, brushing a fingertip over his left dimple. “They’re perfect. All the angles.”

“No,withme.” He roves his eyes across my face and drops his voice. “Please.”

I nod, before I can second guess the thoughts whirling in my head, and whisper, “Sure.”

Locke slides me back down to my feet. “Jeffrey,” he calls, “will you take our picture?”

It takes everything within me not to swivel my head to determine who’s staring and who’s got their phone camera trained on us. Not that any of them know me or care to know me.

He leads me back to the podium by the hand, fingers intertwined with mine, before he throws his arm around my shoulder and brings me in tight.

This feels like a declaration.

For now, I’m not going to overthink. I’m going to allow myself this moment, this day, this week. Whatever. However long it lasts. I’ve already screwed it up.

I wrap my arms around his waist. Locke buries his face in my hair and kisses my temple.

Jeffrey winks at us before he starts snapping away like we’re rare birds. I swear I hear him mutter something aboutlovebirdsbehind his camera and chuckle to himself.

“Your face was made to be in front of a camera,” I tease, looking up and sticking out my tongue. “Smile.”

“My smiles are yours,” he whispers into my ear.

After the trophy presentation,it’s a jumbled crowd pushing along the path into the clubhouse.

Locke and I are separated when the path splits so he can walk in the back door to get ready for the press conference.

When I set up next to Jeffrey inside the banquet room, he looks at me a little too long.

“Don’t say anything.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, but don’t.”

“I won’t,” he confirms, holding back a smile with the slightest twitch of his lip. “No more birding jokes.”

As soon as I turn toward the table, I know one person who will definitely say something: Russ.

His eyes are fueled by hate watching Locke sit on the other end of the table. Locke looks completely oblivious and unaffected.

I wish I could disappear into the wall. Just flatten my back and become the paint. I want nothing to do with whatever I think Russell is going to do or say.

How can I possibly feel bad? I don’t want to makehimfeel bad.

---