25. Maren

I step back and admire the now light-yellow accent wall of my old room—I mean, my nephew's room.

We've been painting for hours, and my arms hurt after lifting a paint roller above my head on top of carrying two heavy cameras all day.

"This is the perfect shade," I smile.

Camille nods in excitement. "I knew it would be." Her shoulders fall when she looks at the crib, which is in a million disassembled pieces in the corner. "Now this crib, on the other hand. How long do you think this will take?"

"Suspicious that Parker is conveniently out of town when this thing arrived," I tease. "What do doctors even have to travel for work for?"

"Right." Camille narrows her eyes. "That orthopedic surgery conference he booked a year and a half ago. He knew. "

"We shouldn't have promised this room would be done when he got back, even though we've been procrastinating. What's another couple of months?" I joke, crouching down and picking up an L-shaped tool. "What is this?"

"Pliers?" she guesses. "Oh, an Allen wrench."

"Okay," I say, sitting back on my heels and mimicking how I assume it's used. "I can twist. "

Camille sits on her new trendy brown pouf and spreads the five-page (front and back) instructions out across her belly. "Find piece A."

My eyebrows pinch at her bossy tone. "Is this the dynamic we're going to have?"

"I can't twist," she says, imitating me sarcastically, "or I'll hurt baby boy."

I roll my eyes as I search for a light brown piece labeled with an A sticker. "What's the latest name list?"

"Finn, Noah, and Parker Junior."

"I still like Finn," I pout.

She smiles. "I think Parker Graham Blanchard, Jr. is going to win. I like thinking he'll be just like his daddy."

"What if he doesn't want to be a doctor?" I question her.

"He can be whatever he wants to be. We'll support him no matter what."

"Good answer," I quip.

Camille isn't going to fail at motherhood, just like she doesn't fail at anything else. Not that our mom did, but she doesn't support photography, my passion, or anything that makes me happy in general. I wish I knew why because I think it would help me understand her better. But I don't think I could ever gain the courage to ask. I'd be afraid her answer wouldn't satisfy me.

Holding up the long and skinny piece A like a trophy, I ask Camille, "What does it connect to?"

She tuts like I'm an idiot. "B." I search the pile in silence for a minute until she asks, "What about your photography business?"

"You're my only client," I say, "and it wouldn't be a good look for my one review to be from my sister."

"You need a website," she says.

"I dunno." I shrug. "Maybe. I'm taking photos of Locke's aunt and his niece tomorrow evening. "

"Maren!" Camille gasps, eyes bright. "That's amazing. Why didn't you say anything?"

"Let's see how it goes first. She's just being nice."

"She's not just being nice . People aren't just being nice when they tell you your photographs are fucking good."

"I'm not naive," I groan, fitting my new B piece that looks like a slat for the bottom into the first set of holes in A. I start twisting away with my Allen wrench. "I want people that don't know me to tell me."

After I've screwed every slat into piece A and set aside the bottom of the crib, Camille joins me on the floor to help me find the side railings.

I try to ignore the buzz of a text message in the corner where I threw my phone—and Camille's multiple sidelong glances—but I'm itching to run and pick it up, even though I know I shouldn't. I know I shouldn't feel this way.

I last six twists of an Allen wrench.

Hottie Icicle

My backyard is too dark :(

Me

It's one night. What have you been doing for the past however many years you've lived in that enormous house alone?

Hottie Icicle

6. And in the last two months I've done a million things I never would've done before. One of which is telling you I miss you.

Me

We can do other things .

"Having fun?"

I look up into Camille's smirking face, now acutely aware that I'm grinning too wide.

My smile falls as I toss my phone down beside me. "Yeah," I sigh, "but I need to stop."

"Why?" she asks, exasperated. I busy myself by opening a bag of screws. "Maren, you're allowed to have fun. You can do things for yourself sometimes."

"Something happened last night," I admit.

She folds her lips into her smile and raises her eyebrows in mock surprise.

"I mean, something different," I add. "On top of that." I can't look Camille in the eye, so I crawl back to the pile and start sorting identical pieces together. "I pretended it was real. I imagined that Locke actually liked me, that I was his girlfriend. It felt real, Camille."

"It's okay if it's real," she counters.

"It's not. I said I wouldn't let my feelings get in the way, and now, here they are. I couldn't even last a month and a half. I'm pathetic."

"It's not pathetic to care."

I scoff. "It is when you set out to do the opposite."

Camille opens her mouth, hesitates, then closes it.

"What?" I question her.

"You obviously haven't cared about looking at the internet lately," she says, "or watching that stupid reality show."

"Is there something on the internet I should be aware of?" I ask, narrowing my eyes. "Did something happen on the show?"

She shrugs. "I mean, yes and no. The usual. There are pictures."

"Of?"

"Things."

"Like?"

She waves her hand airily. "You and Locke in the car. You and Locke talking, walking on the course, smiling and laughing with each other. You and Locke playing golf together. You and Locke kissing. Was he taking pictures of you? "

I blink. My mind flip-flops, wondering who was taking photos of us (not that it really matters), then one harsh laugh comes out of my mouth. "People are nuts. People thought we were dating when I'd literally had one conversation with him. People thought we were dating when we went to dinner together professionally. People thought we were dating when we kissed once and he walked away, when I moved into his guest house, when we became friends with benefits. And guess what? We're still not dating. No one is right, and no one knows anything. I literally don't care. People can think whatever they want because they're all wrong. It's not like they have any idea what is actually happening in my life, but sure, let them pretend like they do. I'm tired of worrying about other people."

"My point exactly!" Camille exclaims. "You don't care about the right things. Maren, you've been this carefree human the last few weeks, and I love it. But you should still care about the things that matter. It's okay if you like him."

"I can't," I say, trying to convince myself mostly. "That was the deal. He doesn't want a girlfriend, but then he's suddenly opening up to me like I am one. He's telling me things. Personal things I don't think people know. He's asking me about myself like he wants to get to know me. He knows how to keep his sex life separate. And now I'm left wondering if he's messing with me, playing me like a game."

I'm the mouse—dangling from his paw by my tail as he watches me wiggle and fight for my life helplessly.

Camille stares at me while I try to fit the wrong screw into a hole. "What if he likes you ?"

"Ha," I sputter. "You think I have imposter syndrome about being a photographer? I wouldn't even know what to call myself as Locke's girlfriend. A joke?"

My stomach turns heavy and drops like a rock. I've never considered the fact that Locke is probably telling Conrad all about me. Maybe they're laughing at me behind my back while Locke recalls every position he's had me in .

Heat unfurls across my cheeks, feeling like an inexperienced and childish thirteen-year-old. I can't imagine the things Conrad probably now knows, especially with all the curious attention he's given me.

Camille sighs when I continue, "I don't want to talk about it anymore. Can we just finish this and then watch a rom-com please?" before she nods.

I've been missing this—just me and her. The girl time. I have no friends to talk to anymore, but whatever I said to them would just travel along the grapevine and make its way back to Russ if I did. For some reason though, I still don't want to talk to Camille. I'm on an island alone—in both a good and bad way.

I snatch the instructions out of her hand and flatten it out on the floor in front of me. I stare, holding back the tears wanting to push through. It takes me reading the first two lines and over twenty seconds of pure confusion before I realize I'm looking at the instructions in French.

In the tiniest moment of weakness, I pick up my phone and google Locke Hughes.

The first article has a photo of him kissing my wrist at the golf range yesterday. It only shows the back of my head, but the first thing I notice is Locke's dark eyes—how trained they are on my face, like he can't look away. It's every bit as vehement as I remember.

The headline reads: Locke In Love.

I wonder what the headline would be if the world actually knew the truth.

I truly wish I could do this every day—instead of following men around as they swing clubs and try to hit a tiny ball into a tiny hole.

Emmie is the cutest mini-human to ever exist (I'll reevaluate when Parker, Jr. is born) in her ruffled blush pink dress and white monogrammed bloomers. I'd eat her cheeks in the un-creepiest way possible .

I adjust the bow on her white headband and step back.

Elise looks equally as stunning barefoot in a white maxi dress, and Emmie is the most happy and comfortable babbling baby in her arms.

I want to wrap this feeling around me tight. The sun setting perfectly above the water. The light casting over Elise's and Emmie's smiles. The way Blake coos and then jumps up and down behind me when I want Emmie to look at the camera. I haven't clicked the shutter this many times in months.

These are the little moments of life I want to capture and allow people to cherish—not the moment a golf ball rolls into a hole or when a golfer is in their backswing.

I want people's memories to live forever on their walls, in picture frames on the mantle. I'd be responsible for bringing someone joy.

Honestly, it's like a people pleaser's wet dream, and my career dream wrapped into one.

As Elise spins, I snap a few before I tell them, "Now, walk toward me."

I back up a few feet slowly to let Elise take her time. Every minute I have to stop to make sure I've gotten some good ones, and then I proceed to gush about just how damn good they are.

"Elise! I can't wait to start editing these. You look beautiful. Okay, put Emmie down on the blanket," I instruct her.

With Emmie on her back on the white blanket I laid down in the grass, she kicks her feet into the air and sucks on her toes.

"Someone discovered their toes," I murmur in my baby voice.

Conrad, sitting on the porch behind me, chuckles. I haven't been able to look him in the eye. For the last hour, he's just been staying around the perimeter of this bubble, watching, observing, judging .

Since I slept at Camille's last night, Locke and I took separate cars to the tournament today, and when I made it back home, his family was already here.

Instead of sticking around to watch the fuss, Locke took off on his golf cart to practice .

After snapping a million and one pictures of Emmie kicking happily, I motion to the back porch steps. "I'd love to take some of the whole family if that's okay."

"Why do you think I look like this?" Blake says, laughing. She looks sun-kissed and ready in a flowing white shirt and jeans. "I was hoping you'd ask."

Conrad smirks at her as he rises from the black wicker chair. "You're lucky Maren is so nice." When he sits beside Blake, he drapes an arm over her shoulder and kisses her temple before looking back at me. "Actually, we all got lucky Locke likes you so much."

Blake pipes up before I can since my tongue is now lead. "Psh, no, I think we're lucky you like Locke so much. We're obsessed with you almost as much as he is."

"Oh," I choke, then cough out, "No, it's not that. Us. We're not an us. You know. I just needed a place to live."

"Like Locke would do that for just anybody," she says, amused.

I laugh uncomfortably. "Don't believe everything you read."

…or see with your own two eyes?

Jesus. Stop talking.

There are pictures of us kissing—what the hell must they think about me? I can only imagine the comments under those pictures. It's not the internet strangers' opinions I care about though. I care about what Locke's family thinks of me. Do they think I'm a gold digger? A groupie? And why do I suddenly care?

Blake guffaws, but Conrad rubs his hand over his mouth like he's rethinking what he said.

Elise is silently kissing the top of Emmie's head, who is babbling incoherently, while she peers at me like I'm the Mona Lisa and she can't quite find my eye line.

I'm not sure where to look myself. They're all smiling at me like I'm God's gift to Locke, so I just shove my face into the camera to cover the embarrassment taking over my cheeks .

They pose for me, but I already know I'll love the ones where they're passing Emmie around, kissing her, laughing when she drools the most.

I wish Locke was here so I could capture his dimples.

No, no I don't , I tell myself.

When we're done, I smile from ear to ear. I'm already itching to get back to my computer and start editing these.

Instead, I corner Conrad before he can make his way inside. "Whatever he said," I start with a deep breath, "or told you…" I will the blush to stay away, which only deepens it faster, more intensely.

Conrad studies me for a beat. "He hasn't told me anything. Locke isn't like that."

My heart slows, but Conrad keeps watching me with a serious upward curve of an eyebrow, like every twitch I make makes him more and more curious about me.

Just as I'm about to retort, he cuts me off.

"My guess is he hasn't figured it out himself yet either. Just so you know."

He disappears through the door before I can ask him what the hell that means, so I turn on my heel, more confused than ever. But all I want to do is lie in my bed with my laptop and make these photos even more gorgeous.

I follow the path through the palm trees slowly, flipping through my camera. When I make the last curve, I look up to see Locke lining up a putt on the hole in front of his guest house.

He's concentrating so much that he didn't hear my footsteps. I stand completely still as he crouches and studies the twelve-foot gap between him and the hole. He's probably played this six-hole course a thousand times, and yet he's still taking three practice swings and crouching again.

When he finally steps up for his actual putt, on instinct, I raise my camera and take a picture of him.

Locke snaps his head in my direction just as his club taps the ball .

I gasp under my breath. He can hear my shutter.

But Locke doesn't look mad. A smile radiates across his face, dimples pinching his cheeks, and he doesn't even look to see if his ball rolled into the hole.

Is it possible that he does like me?

"Hey," he says, letting his golf club fall to the ground before walking toward me.

My nervous system ticks up, blood speeding through my veins. My stomach loops. My heart squeezes.

Fuck .

That was the hottest fucking thing I've ever seen—him dropping his club like he doesn't have a care in the world besides me.

And double fuck, I definitely like him.