Page 9 of Perfect Praise

She gets a heavy eye roll from me because my room isn’tthatfreaking far down the hallway, and I have above-average hearing.

“Where is he anyway?” I ask, looking at my watch.

“He couldn’t take this show anymore,” she laughs, “so he’s braving the gym.”

“After tonight, when we watch Russell humiliate me in front of half of America, maybe let’s not do this anymore?”

Camille’s eyebrows fly up in surprise. “Seriously?” Her face softens before she smiles wide. “I like it. But also, it isn’t half of America.”

Here comes Locke again through my thoughts, eyeing my legs like he’d eat them and telling me all of America doesn’t watch my little show.

It’s notmyshow.

She leans over as much as she can to pick up the remote off the coffee table, scrunching my nephew in the process, and hands it to me.

“Ready?” Camille asks.

I nod and press play. A half second of the theme song blares through the room before I quickly hit pause.

“Did you know Locke Hughes has dimples?”

I think cheese comes up through Camille’s nose when she laughs. “What?”

And he asked me what I want to be called,I don’t add.

Strangely, I think I’d like it if he called me something. Despite thinking about it all day, I’m just not sure what. Though Iamfairly sure that he’s calling lots of women lots of things. But that smile. I can’t erase it from my mind.

“He has dimples,” I repeat.

Her grin starts slowly and widens so far she might split her face. “And…? How do you know that?”

“He smiled at me for the first time today.”

“Huh,” Camille remarks. “I’ve never seen him smile. Or look happy. Or register an emotion.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “Did you give him something to be happy about?”

“No,” I insist. “I wasn’t even that nice to him.”

She laughs. “So, you were absolutely delightful? Got it.”

Then I humiliatingly remember that I implied he wanted to use me as a fakegirlfriend. I still can’t keep the blush from returning, so I cover my face with my hands. “I accused him of trying to sleep with me to mess with Russ.”

Camille gasps into a fit of giggles and kicks me in the side. “What! You did not. Why?”

“Just this stupid press conference thing. It doesn’t matter. I don’t even know what I was thinking,” I admit. “He was looking at me with those eyes. They’re way too dark, by the way. And they were up and down my legs, my body. I swear he was looking at my freckles, and I just went blank.”

What do you want to be called?makes a husky reappearance in my brain for the thousandth time.

I shake it out of my head. “Let’s just get this over with. Please.”

She nods, but I can tell she wants to push me, wants to tell me to have some fun. Even though Locke is not anything close to the word fun.

The theme song ofTriple Bogeystops her before she can open her mouth.

I curl up under a blanket and prepare my heart to watch my already unfolded life through the eyes of everyone else. I can’t stop myself from seeing how the show portrays me. Because the way I remember it and the way they edit it usually come out as two different versions, and I want to see what everyone else sees.

I’ve psyched myself up all day to relive it—not that I don’t find myself reliving it often.

Russ had just moved up to number two in the World Rankings. He’d been ecstatic all week, wanting to celebrate when we got back to Palm Beach after a tournament. We were hosting a dinner party when I excused myself, with Craig at my heels, to grab my camera from our room to document the moment, and there was Russ against the wall with some woman I barely knew.

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