Page 1 of Perfect Praise

For myself: I don’t give a shit.

I’m still scared ofthe dark.

Never mind my age (twenty-nine) or the fact that there’s a room full of people packed shoulder to shoulder (press conference) in the next room of this country club.

The hairs on my arm stand in a wave as I grope the wall, searching for the light switch and reminding myself for the thousandth time to never let the door shut before I flip it on.

My fingertips catch warmth. It’s round, I think, as I try to wrap a thumb around it. It moves, tenses. And…?

“That’s my bicep.”

I shriek.

“Thoseweremy eardrums.”

I flatten my back against the far wall of the closet, which isn’t very far at all, at the sound of the deep male voice. I could still kick this guy in the groin—well, where I’d assume his groin is since I’m temporarily blind.

“Maren,” he says into the dark.

The light flicks on, flooding my small photography closet with too-bright fluorescent light and filling the space with a low buzz that emits from the long bulbs.

My thudding heart slows at the sight of Locke Hughes.

His deep brown eyes are smirking at me. His lips are even, but I can somehow still see him laughing at me.

Blond hair combined with dark brown eyes is so strange, but it definitely works on Locke in a weirdly sexy and intense way. Maybe it’s the lighting—even under the ugly too-white hue of humming fluorescent bulbs, Locke is undeniably gorgeous.

Light: possibly my favorite thing. It’s why I became a photographer.

The shadows it casts, the way it lands on things, brightens them. You can completely change the effect of something by simply altering the lighting around it—highlight a smile, darken a look, emphasize an emotion. You can make people see things they couldn’t see before.

Except Locke’s eyes. They’re almost black—and black is the absence of light.

Now, Locke’s face, on the other hand, is made to be in front of a camera. It’s a travesty he wants nothing to do with one.

“How’d you know it was me?” I accuse him.

His eyes lift over my shoulder, sweeping an arc over my head as he surveys all the camera equipment I use to take pictures of him and every other golfer on the PGA Tour, and land above my other shoulder. “Who else uses this closet?”

“You, apparently.”

He shrugs. “I’m avoiding the press conference until the very last minute.”

“Right,” I say, waving a hand toward him. “Cameras. People. Talking.”

I think Locke hates the fact that my camera is practically an extension of my arm and that I’m always following on his heels on the golf course, so ipso facto he hates me.

He says nothing, but I didn’t expect him to.

I turn and stand on my tiptoes to reach the camera lens sitting on the top shelf. I hear Locke shuffle silently across the two-foot gap between us to reach high above my head and grab it for me.

“Thank you,” I gush, maybe too much.

All I get is a head nod.

Locke Hughes doesn’t give anyone anything. His time? Fuck you. A hello? You’re not worth it. A smile? He’d rather melt his lips off in a fire.

So, I’m still surprised that he stooped so low as to lift his arm and use his neck muscles for me. And I’m still beaming about it back out in the hallway when I leave him to continue his isolated avoidance for another minute.

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