13. Maren

The door swings open.

If Locke wants me hot and bothered, walking around his house with wet underwear just for the fun of it, he's succeeded.

I gasp as soon as I take a step inside.

Everything is white with black accents and glass on glass on glass. My eyes land first on the curved glass staircase to my right. A sleek white sofa sits in the middle of the living room in front of a huge flat-screen TV.

The kitchen is open to the left with a granite island bigger than my old bedroom. I count six acrylic bar stools lined up along it.

And the far back wall is—shockingly—all glass, two stories high.

Living here must be like a permanent beach vacation without the sand. No wonder Locke just wanted me to come inside.

"Who would ever willingly leave this place?" I say.

"Exactly," he deadpans. "Where should we build your darkroom?"

My eyes scan the room. It could definitely fit one.

"I haven't said yes yet," I argue as Locke's watch starts beeping. He moves a little too quickly to silence it. My mouth drops open. "Were you timing me?"

"Technically, I was timing myself."

"To see how fast you could get me inside?" I guess. "And you won? "

He smirks. "I always win."

"You do, don't you?" I say slyly as I brush past him to survey the kitchen.

His eyes follow me intensely, like they're full of questions, while I run a hand over every smooth, white surface.

"If it means anything, it's not like I'm always trying to. I just can't stop myself until I've—" He cuts himself off so abruptly I stop walking and turn around. I hit my hip against the corner of the island and wince. Locke swallows, his throat muscles working to bury his next words, his eyebrows furrowed deep with confusion, before he leans a hand on the island. "Well?"

"Well what?" I ask, dizzy from the whiplash, before I realize he's asking me if I like the house. "Oh. I don't know. It's almost too nice."

He takes a step into me, his fresh air and leather scent surrounding me, and says sternly, "You need a place to stay. I have a place to stay. Accept my help."

Without breaking eye contact, his thumb finds my hip bone on the first try to soothe the pain that's pulsing through it.

"I don't know if it's a good idea," I say hesitantly, mostly because I can't stop imagining what he looks like without a shirt. I'm already a step closer to him, and I don't know how I ended up here.

Locke places a hand to his chest where I'm staring. "I'll be on my best behavior."

I nod—certainly not wanting to be on my best behavior. "I need to talk to Camille."

This is crazy. This is really crazy. Also, it's crazy that this entire house has never been lived in. What a waste.

He steps to the side and holds his arm out. A smile stretches. "Take the stairs up to the bedroom. It's even better up there. Text me when you've decided."

Don't touch him , I tell myself, sliding by him in the tight space between the sink and island .

While my phone rings, Locke exits out the front door, and I climb the staircase.

When Camille answers, balancing her phone on her stomach and her face all up in the screen, she scrunches her nose and examines my background. "Where are you?"

I pan the phone across the first floor so she can get a good look. "I'm in Locke's house ," I whisper like he can hear me. Maybe he can because I would assume there are security cameras in here, and he's probably watching me on an app or something. I hear his car start as I sit on a step midway up. "Well, guest house, I mean."

"No fucking way!" she screams and shimmies her boobs at me. "Maren, what did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," I say. "I'm still dumbfounded how I've ended up here. He wants me to live here."

Her eyes bulge, and she drops the phone. The screen goes black when she says, "Back way the hell up and tell me everything. You said he was avoiding you like a few hours ago."

"I don't know. I don't think he was." Camille comes back into view with a chocolate chip cookie in her hand. She takes a bite and waves at me to continue. "My car wouldn't start, and I was supposed to go see all those apartments, and he brought me because he refused to let me take a taxi like an annoying man."

"A swoony man," she interrupts. "He's protective and didn't want you to get murdered."

I roll my eyes. "Not that I could afford it anyway, but I didn't want him to know that, and he lured me into his car with promises of a ‘talk,' and I'm a sucker because it's Locke and Locke doesn't talk. So, he's driving me around West Palm Beach, and he's finding things wrong with all the places."

"They were shitty, weren't they?" she lectures.

"Of course, they were shitty, but that's beside the point. I didn't need him to tell me, I already knew, and he's giving me his opinion anyway. "

"Like a swoony man," she interrupts again. "He's sticking up for you."

I roll my eyes again. "Then I've finally got him lukewarm on one, and…" I trail off, realizing that his mother's situation—whatever that might be—is something that Locke obviously holds close to his chest. "And of course, he finds black mold in the bedroom, so I'm out of options. Now I'm sitting on the stairs of his guest house, and he's negotiating the terms of my lease—which happen to be ‘do whatever the fuck I want.'" I take a deep breath. "What do you think?"

"I think I need to see your bedroom to decide."

I stand, flip the camera around, and climb the remaining steps. We both gasp at the same time.

The modern king-size bed to the left sits in front of a black accent wall and the sun is starting to set, bringing in a gorgeous blend of pinks and purples across the room.

"Fuck yes," Camille says delightfully. "When do I move in?"

"I don't know what to do with myself," I admit, falling on the bed like an angel. I sink. "Wow, this bed is soft."

"Did you get your talk he promised you?" she asks.

"Yes," I sigh. "I told you it wasn't a good idea. He didn't want me to think he was using me to get back at Russell for something that happened between them. Before you ask, I don't know what it was. And he acknowledged that I'm a relationship girl and he's a fuck-buddy guy. Oh, and I can't forget that golf is more important than everything combined in the entire world. So, yeah, we talked. We're mature adults. We're friends. The end."

Camille nods. "So mature."

"Do any of us ever mature?" I joke. "I still feel like I'm figuring myself out. I don't think my thirties are going to be any different."

"Figure it out while you live there. Also, if your car is broken down and you're stranded there, at least sleep on it. Locke is too much of a gentleman to drive you home anyway, and you're not welcome here tonight." She winks and yells off to the side. "Parker! Change the locks!" Her eyes go molten, I suspect in response to something sexual Parker has done off camera. I'm tired of being in their way, all up in their space. They deserve at least tonight.

"Goodbye," I say.

She grins. "Good night ."

I let my phone drop beside me as I make an Egyptian cotton five-thousand-thread-count sheets angel. Then I pick it back up and text Locke.

Me

One-night trial.

Hottie Icicle

You're so good at making me happy. I'm proud of you.

Ugh, if I don't melt into the bed thinking about Locke's deep voice repeating those words into my ear. I'll probably dream about pleasing him.

I think if I sleep here, I'll never leave.

When I wake up the next morning, my car is sitting outside, newly washed and sounding like it has a brand-new engine. On the hood sits my lease.

One page. One paragraph. Written below a letterhead that reads Carmichael, Berry, Franklin, and Powell.

I can't help but laugh. Locke has already signed it above his printed name along with David Carmichael, Attorney at Law. There's a blank line waiting for my signature. I squint to see if he printed this off the internet as a joke, but no, it's completely official.

Except for what Locke must have forced an actual lawyer to type out and sign: Maren Murray, the alliteration, can live in Locke Hughes' guest home and do whatever the fuck she wants. Locke Hughes can kick Maren Murray out anytime he feels like it, though he will never do such a thing. Maren Murray can write Locke Hughes checks that equate to whatever she was paying when she previously lived alone, but Locke Hughes will never deposit them. If any other confusing legalese arises that Maren Murray does not understand, her opinion will always be correct.

It's been three weeks since I signed my name on the line, wrote out a check for the deposit, first month's rent, and an estimation of my car repairs, and dropped everything in Locke's mailbox.

The first week, I was back in California for half of it while Locke skipped another tournament. The second week I was off from work while Locke played in the tournament in Mexico.

He'd come in second, but Landon won his first PGA tournament, which was pretty exciting. When I watched the highlights on television, Locke shook his hand and clapped him on the back, and I think he did it because he was happy for Landon—despite his face looking unemotional.

The only evidence that Locke lives next door is the occasional light I've seen come on, or the television glow from what I assume is his bedroom. He parks in the garage, so I never know if he's home or not.

When I knew for certain that he was over a thousand miles away in Mexico and not spying on me from one of his enormous reflective windows, I felt comfortable enough to roam the backyard—if you can call it that. It's more of a vast expanse.

My front yard is the second hole of Locke's six-hole golf course that winds along the outer edge of his property. His pool had been calling my name ever since I laid eyes on it, but I had to wait until I was sure he wasn't home to feel okay enough wearing a swimsuit and traipsing around like I was on spring break.

The one thing I wasn't prepared for with living here is the loneliness .

When your core group of friends is rooted to your ex-boyfriend, you're usually the one who gets left behind. And when your best friend/sister is about to have a baby, she and her husband are marathon dating before they're too tired for shit like that.

So, one might be desperate enough to call their mother just to hear a human voice.

And desperate enough to fake enthusiasm when she answers the phone with, "Hi, Maren, sweetie. Oh, Camille told me all about your new house. Is this my invite call?"

"Hey, Mom. And soon," I promise, making a mental note to yell at Camille for I-don't-know-what-yet. "I've been trying to get settled in."

A small laugh slips out at the thought of my mother meeting Locke. I wonder what some of the first words out of her passive-aggressive mouth would be:

You've always lived alone in this huge house?

Why golf? No, I can't say I watch it. It's boring. I've always preferred football.

A smile would make your face so much more handsome.

She sighs. "Of course, I'm sure you'll invite me when you're ready. Speaking of invitations, I can't believe you'll be thirty in a couple of months. Seems like yesterday I was giving birth to you."

"All eighteen hours of it," I say before she can. Usually, she makes it seem like I should feel bad and take responsibility for my unborn fetal self.

"Eighteen and a half," she laughs. "But how are you feeling?"

"About?" I question her, despite knowing exactly where she's going. To hell if I'm not going to make her say it out loud.

"About turning thirty."

"Fine," I say. "I think it's going to be the same as twenty-nine."

"Sure," she says, "but I'm sure it's scary starting over. Thinking you were with the man you were going to marry, and now you're single."

"Thank you," I say, immediately regretting that I picked up the phone. "I always welcome the reminder. "

"Sweetie, don't be sensitive," she says. "We all get old."

"I'm not old, Mom," I insist. "And I don't want to marry someone who doesn't love me. That's not too much to ask."

She hums in response somewhere between agreement and condescension. "How's your job going? Anything interesting or new?"

"Sadly, no. It's men still swinging golf clubs. But I like it enough. After Camille's maternity shoot, I was thinking I might start doing that in my free time."

"Don't do anything rash, Maren."

"I wouldn't," I stress. "It's just an idea. I still need a pesky little paycheck and health insurance and a 401k. I don't know. Forget it. It's just a dream."

Her chuckle scrapes along my eardrums. "I'm only looking out for you. I wouldn't want to see you make a huge mistake like quitting your job."

"I know," I sigh.

She sighs harder. "What?"

"Nothing, Mom. I'm not a child, and I can make my own decisions. I know I need money to live."

"I'm trying to give you advice because I love you."

And she does. In her own way. But that way, I'm starting to see, has shaped the person I've become. No wonder I'm a people pleaser. No wonder I have a praise kink.

"I know," I say, softening. "I'm sorry. I'm tired, but I promise I won't make any stupid decisions."

My phone buzzes, and I pull the phone away from my ear to see Locke has texted me.

Hottie Icicle

My family wants to meet you if you'd like to come over for dinner.

I shoot off my reply, happy to have anything other to do than converse with my mother over my age and profession. I'd accept an invitation to sit on a transatlantic flight in the middle seat next to a screaming baby right about now.

"Oh, Mom," I say hurriedly, "I have to go. I have plans with a friend."

"A frien—"

"I love you," I say, cutting her off and hanging up before she can play 20 Questions about my fake friend.