Page 4 of Perfect Praise

Russell thinks he can rattle Locke, and he’s loving every second of it. To hell if it’s at my expense. And Craig just wants to stir drama for the sake of good reality television and make it seem like I was in the closet hooking up with someone; tie it in a nice bow.

My eyes connect with Locke’s, but I try my best to ignore the shiver that zigzags down my spine.

Maren and I hardly know each other.

Maren and I work together and nothing more.

Maren and I are like oil and water, the sun and the moon, a mosquito and… everything else.

There are so many options he could choose to tell the reporter if he could mind-read, but of course, he’s going to go with whatever he wants to say anyway. He flicks his eyes off me as quickly as humanly possible, like I’m the mosquito in this scenario.

Locke mimics Russell’s posture as he speaks into the microphone, and everyone turns back to him. “If I were dating someone, I wouldn’t confirm it. If I weren’t dating someone, I wouldn’t confirm it.”

The smile Locke gives Russ makes him seethe behind his fake look of camaraderie.

My mouth drops open behind my camera. It takes everything in me to remain professional and not cry out of mortification. But my face doesn’t emerge from behind my viewfinder until every mundanequestion has been asked, until they’ve both explained their outlook on this week’s upcoming tournament in San Diego, until almost everyone is out of the room.

I leave every piece of equipment I have behind as I rush out the back door, praying no one steals my stuff.

I spot Locke through the enormous glass doors of the country club first, talking to his caddie. Behind him, Russ climbs into a golf cart and drives away before I practically smash through the door into the bright Florida sun.

“What the hell was that?” I huff before I second-guess my anger. I hardly know the guy, and it already annoys me that no matter how many times I smile at him, he blankly stares and looks away. “I mean, what was that?”

I register the tiniest bit of shock in Locke’s eyes before they calm. “What was what?”

His caddie shrinks off inside, like he wants no part in this conversation, leaving the two of us alone.

“That! Everyone was staring at me, waiting for you to acknowledge ourrelationship.Then you got all mysterious and let everyone just believe we’re together.”

He shakes his head before his hand comes up to smooth the back of his hair. “I did no such thing.”

“Yes. You. Did.”

“I didn’t confirm it or deny it,” he insists.

“They’re going to air that, Locke. The entire world will think I’m your girlfriend.”

“I think you’ve misplaced your anger. Blame Russell for the shit he pulled.”

I swallow down my feelings. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?” he says. “Whatever, never mind. You’re in the clear anyway. Your dumb show can’t air me.”

“Trust me. They’ll edit it and get across exactly what they want, despite the truth—and that press conference will be on TV.”

He shrugs. “So? Don’t watch it.”

I fist the sides of my golf dress. I have a right to be mad, right? I have a right to express it, right?

“Right. So easy for you to say. I’ve had to follow you around and take your picture for years. You don’t care about anything or anyone. As long as it doesn’t mess with your golf game or your workout schedule or your domination of all things male.”

“How would you know what I care about?” he asks flatly.

“This is the longest conversation I’ve ever had with you, and you’re literally telling me not to watch my life fall apart.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“Well, you know about me,” I say, a pathetic twinge hollowing out my voice. “All you do is glare at me when I try to take your picture and do my job. The helpless sports photographer who dated Russell Ashe and was the only one who didn’t know he was a lying, cheating asshole.”

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