Page 68 of Perfect Praise

“But that’s what’s great about sports,” he says, pinching my skin. “Keep practicing, or in my case obsessing, which is what I did the entire vacation I spent with an NHL friend in Boston a few years ago. He had to drag me off his ice rink, and if I’d had a week or two, I could have at least put up a fight.” He pauses before his voice drops. “Would you like me more if I played hockey?”

I shake my head no, not sure what is happening, as Locke brings my arm up while holding eye contact that simultaneously scares me and melts me. Then he kisses my wrist tenderly. The low hum that follows from deep in his throat flip-flops my stomach violently.

“Give me a few weeks, and I can practically do anything,” he adds. “So, do you want to quit?”

“No,” I say breathlessly, my heart racing and trying to jump hurdles. “I don’t want to quit.”

He lets my arm drop to pat me on the ass. “Attagirl.”

I pick my club back up as Locke nudges my foot with his, putting it into position. I can still feel his handprint.

“Let me see your grip,” he tells me. I line my hands and fingers up like he showed me. “Remember, not too strong or weak. You want neutral. It will help with the soreness when you get it right.”

I loosen my body and bring my club up.

Locke watches affectionately before he tips his chin toward my left arm. “That arm a little straighter. You don’t want a baseball swing.”

I fix my arm and try again, hitting the ball this time, but it still shanks off to the right.

“Better?” I say, shrugging.

“Better,” he beams. “You’re a quick learner.”

After I’ve finished hitting an entire bucket of balls, most of them shanking far off to the right, I turn back to Locke. “It feels so unnatural. I have no idea how you hit ithundreds of yards.”

He smirks. “That sweet spot.”

“Must you have a little name for everything?” I ask, jabbing the top of his feet with my club. “Sweet spot, eagle, mulligan, cabbage, chili dip. It’s nonsensical.”

He grabs it out of my hand and pulls me into him with his arm around the back of my neck. His chuckle lands in my hair. “I didn’t invent golf.”

“I still blame you,” I joke.

“What else do you blame me for?” Locke brushes my hair back to plant his lips below my ear. When his lips part slightly, his tongue swipes across, tasting me. My legs go weak from surprise, my vision tunneling as I stare at the blue sky.

“Calling me a good girl.”

“You’re my little sweet spot,” he murmurs into my skin.

“Locke,” I whisper hesitantly, even though one of my hands immediately goes to his waist, wishing his shirt wasn’t tucked in, and the other finds his free hand and laces with it. “We’re in public.”

He squeezes my hand, pulls me harder against him when I look up at him. He blinks, eyes never straying from mine, and runs a thumb over my lips, first the top, then the bottom.

Without bothering to look around Locke whispers, “There’s no one out here, but I don’t really give a shit,” before he kisses me.

Strong hands braid into my hair. Tongue teases mine.

My heart starts to float.

I don’t give a shit either, I don’t give a shit either,I repeat in my head, trying to secure it back inside my rib cage where it firmly belongs.

Somehow, Locke has managedto convince me to get on a golf cart and venture out into real golf territory after I was able to not whiff an entire bucket of balls.

Okay, maybe partly because he picked me up by my thighs, wrapped my legs around his waist, andkissedme before throwing me into the seat next to him.

“I’m not ready for an actual course,” I groan.

“Practice course,” he corrects me. “I’m not taking you out on the course where we’re currently playing a tournament.”

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