27. Maren

Two things I'm going to do:

1. Not freak out.

2. Remain professional.

Because I'm still left wondering: if I openly like Locke, will this all come crashing down around me? I could make one wrong move, say one wrong thing, and destroy everything.

God, but I'm so happy—for him.

I'm happy for him because I didn't do anything.

It's Locke who won the tournament. He puts in the time and the work. He has the drive.

It's me who simply takes pictures of him.

But at the same time, I can't help the selfish little hole in my stomach that screams I have more of a right to be happy than these strangers. Everyone around me is clapping for him and calling his name and whispering about his eagle on the seventeenth hole.

It's also me who feels like I know him now, who thought he was a completely different person. Maybe I'm suddenly the lucky one. Maybe he's etched me as a blip into his tiny circle, and I get the rare pleasure of seeing the real him.

It's also Locke who's smiling at me as he stands there awkwardly waiting for the trophy presentation to start .

I've pulled more smiles from this man in the last two months than the last six years I've had this job combined, and I have no idea how, other than wanting something for myself.

The trophy, a cup-looking shape made completely of glass and shimmering in the sun, sits next to him on a black podium.

Locke's face turns back to a slight scowl as soon as the television cameraman steps up to start recording.

After the president makes his speech congratulating Locke, I snap photos of them shaking hands and Locke holding up the cup in front of his chest.

He's not looking directly into the camera. Instead, his eye line is just an inch off, always on my face in some capacity.

When I straighten, he places the trophy back on the podium and strides toward me with long steps. Skirting around my tripod and making me squeal like a silly girl, he picks me up with his arms around my waist.

I don't know whether to laugh or hide my face. "Locke!" I exclaim somewhere in between. "Congratulations!"

"Winning is much more fun with you," he says, planting a kiss on the side of my neck. "Take a picture with me."

"I got them all," I promise, brushing a fingertip over his left dimple. "They're perfect. All the angles."

"No, with me." He roves his eyes across my face and drops his voice. "Please."

I nod, before I can second guess the thoughts whirling in my head, and whisper, "Sure."

Locke slides me back down to my feet. "Jeffrey," he calls, "will you take our picture?"

It takes everything within me not to swivel my head to determine who's staring and who's got their phone camera trained on us. Not that any of them know me or care to know me .

He leads me back to the podium by the hand, fingers intertwined with mine, before he throws his arm around my shoulder and brings me in tight.

This feels like a declaration.

For now, I'm not going to overthink. I'm going to allow myself this moment, this day, this week. Whatever. However long it lasts. I've already screwed it up.

I wrap my arms around his waist. Locke buries his face in my hair and kisses my temple.

Jeffrey winks at us before he starts snapping away like we're rare birds. I swear I hear him mutter something about lovebirds behind his camera and chuckle to himself.

"Your face was made to be in front of a camera," I tease, looking up and sticking out my tongue. "Smile."

"My smiles are yours," he whispers into my ear.

After the trophy presentation, it's a jumbled crowd pushing along the path into the clubhouse.

Locke and I are separated when the path splits so he can walk in the back door to get ready for the press conference.

When I set up next to Jeffrey inside the banquet room, he looks at me a little too long.

"Don't say anything."

"I didn't."

"Yeah, but don't."

"I won't," he confirms, holding back a smile with the slightest twitch of his lip. "No more birding jokes."

As soon as I turn toward the table, I know one person who will definitely say something: Russ.

His eyes are fueled by hate watching Locke sit on the other end of the table. Locke looks completely oblivious and unaffected .

I wish I could disappear into the wall. Just flatten my back and become the paint. I want nothing to do with whatever I think Russell is going to do or say.

How can I possibly feel bad? I don't want to make him feel bad.

The amount of times I had to listen to him bitch and compare himself to Locke is one hundred times too many.

There has always been something about him that gets under Russ' skin.

He'd come home annoyed that he was paired with him all day, that Locke won, or that he had to film a commercial with him or attend the same function as him.

"What'd he do?" I'd ask Russ empathetically.

"Nothing," he'd huff. "He didn't do anything."

Silly me. I used to think Russ didn't want to talk about it, so I'd back off. Now, I realize he meant it literally.

Locke was doing nothing , other than not caring, which just made Russ madder.

"Alright," a reporter starts. "Congratulations to Locke Hughes, the winner of this year's Palm Beach tournament, and runner-up Russell Ashe, who both join us now. Locke, let's start with you. That eagle. What was going through your mind on that swing?"

His eyes flick to mine so quickly that I second guess what I saw. "That Conrad, my caddie, better be right. Which he is ninety-nine percent of the time."

Half the room chuckles.

"Russell," another speaks up, "you battled back from sixth to second. That was some amazing golf."

"Just not amazing enough," Russ sneers. "But who could ever compete with Locke Hughes?"

The next reporter pounces. "This dynamic you've both found yourself in. Are you able to compartmentalize and leave your personal issues off the course? "

"I have nothing to compartmentalize with regards to Russell," Locke says.

After four mundane questions about golf, one reporter steers back to personal territory. "Russell, with the season finale of Triple Bogey airing this week, how are you feeling, and will you be renewing for a second season?"

"Bittersweet, I think," he replies. "I'm ready for a break, but this past year has been one of the best and hardest of my life." His eyes find mine in the back of the room. "But I think in a couple of months, it will be even better, and we'll be back gracing your television screen."

We . I almost laugh out loud. There will be no Russ-Maren we, even when Locke is sick of me, because I'm sick of the Russ-Maren game.

The same reporter turns to Locke. "And Locke, we've now gotten a glimpse of your life behind the scenes for the first time in your professional career. How—"

"My personal life will continue being my personal life," Locke interrupts him before he throws a sidelong glance at Russ, "well past the next couple of months. Let's keep the questions pertaining to golf."

"Where's the fun in that?" Russ quips.

The other half of the room chuckles.

When the press conference is over, Russ holds his hand over his microphone and leans to his side to get as close to Locke as possible on the other end of the table.

Locke flattens his microphone against the table and wraps a fist around the end.

They exchange inaudible words. Looks. One fist on a table. And then Locke pushes his chair back and strides off.

Screw golf. This feels like a game of chess.

Two kings battling it out with their own strategy. One always on relentless offense, the other playing strong defense. And we're all their little pawns being used and discarded.

Hours later when I open my front door to the sound of a knock, I blink at the sight of Locke in a tuxedo on my welcome mat.

"Why do you look like that?" I question him before I look over his shoulder and lower my voice. "Are we role playing?"

He smirks. "The charity auction."

"I forgot," I say, squeezing my eyes shut.

"Forgot?!" he teases. "We talked about it earlier on the way home."

"Well, I may have picked up my laptop and started editing your family's photos, which then led me to forget that time existed."

Locke tsks playfully and sweeps me off my feet as he steps across the threshold of my door. "Is that why you're ignoring my texts?"

When he sees my phone charging on the kitchen counter, he detours to allow me to pick it up before he proceeds to carry me up the stairs.

Hottie Icicle

Have you ever seen an icicle in a tuxedo?

It's hot.

:)

I look up and laugh. "Who are you?"

"You like what you see. Admit it. I saw your eyes almost bulge out of your head when you opened the door."

I bite my lip in protest and throw my phone on the bed as we pass. Locke places me back on my feet only when we navigate through the bathroom and into the walk-in closet.

He pulls my T-shirt off over my head and tugs my leggings down. He bends down to his knees, so I use his shoulders to keep myself balanced as he slips each pant leg off. Then he rustles around in the top drawer of the closet island to find me a thong.

Determined, sweet, purposeful. He's very many things .

"What did Russ say to you earlier when no one could hear you at the end?" I ask, curiosity overpowering.

"Nothing. He's an asshole," Locke scoffs and bends back down to kiss my knee. "Don't worry about it." He chuckles when I sigh, because he knows that's the last thing I'll probably do. "In the absolute nicest way I can put it, he told me he'll win in the end."

"Locke," I say, amused, "you're a million times better at golf than he is."

His hand runs up my inner thigh before I step into the underwear he pulled out for me. "He wasn't talking about golf."

"Oh," I breathe. My mind stretches into infinite directions wondering how Russ tried to tear down both of us at the same time before I laser in on one thought. "What did you say back?"

Locke pulls the nude satin thong up, but not before licking me once, slowly, like he wants the taste of me on his tongue the rest of the night. "That he will never touch you again."

My legs wobble as my heart beats wildly into my throat. This man is dressing me—pressing, imprinting himself on my heart.

"You're not…" I start, barely a whisper. Maybe I know it's a ridiculous thought as soon as I think it, but that doesn't stop me. "This isn't, like, a test?" Locke furrows his eyebrows, but I've said it now, and I need to keep going. "You're not playing a game with yourself to see if I don't give a shit. You're not trying to see if you can make me care or like you. Like you're timing me, or timing yourself to see how long it takes for me to fall for you. Right?"

He bores his eyes into mine. "You don't actually think that, do you? That I'd do something like that to you?"

"No," I insist, my cheeks heating. "I don't know. I feel insecure, Locke."

Exposed. Vulnerable. Defenseless. I'm very many things too, but strong isn't one that comes to mind first .

He could squish me underneath his heel without a second thought, but for me, it would cause lasting effects. I'm realizing now I've already given him too much of me.

"I would never intentionally hurt you, Maren."

"And unintentionally?" I ask, running my hands through his hair.

"I don't know," he says as he stands. "I've never felt like this. I do know I would inject you straight into my veins if I could."

I tip my face up toward his, resting my hands against the island. "Why do you talk about me like you're addicted to me?"

"Because I am," he growls, hoisting me to sit on top of it. "I'm fucking obsessed with you. Does that scare you?"

"No," I insist. "I like the way you look at me, like you want me all for yourself. I want all-consuming."

" You are all-consuming. You consume my thoughts, and I would watch my life go up in flames just to have the smallest piece of you." He nips at my ear before he pulls my head back, forcing me to look up at the ceiling and straight into a can light. Locke sucks my throat so hard he's going to leave a hickey. "You think I want to get jealous when another man talks to you? You think I want to worry about you getting scared of the dark? I didn't set out to get to know you. I wanted to escape from my life for a little while. I wanted peace and quiet. But now, I want you above everything else."

"Locke, I didn't think you cared," I breathe into the air. My eyesight has been glazed by the bright light, and all I see now is a halo of white. "I've been trying not to care. But it's not as easy for me."

His mouth drops to my boobs, and he sinks his teeth into one before he continues to suck my skin so hard there will be dark hickeys across my chest, marking me as his. I try to grind my pussy against him, but he holds my hips firm before he drops his face and bites one.

"You've altered my brain chemistry." Goosebumps prickle everywhere when he inspects his teeth marks, looking satisfied at the deep grooves he's made. "I care," he says hoarsely, his face now between my legs. "I care because I like you."

Another hickey blooms on my inner thigh from the suction he applies. I'll be black and blue when he's done with me, but I'm actually smiling at the thought. The whole world will know who I belong to.

"God, Locke," I moan. "I like you. Us. This."

I'm not sure I've ever liked anything more.

"I take care of what's mine," he says gruffly before he switches thighs. This time sucking even harder.

He backs up, leaving me cold without his touch, and runs his eyes along the dresses on the right wall before he finds the only formal floor-length dress I own: a sexy navy strapless number that's tight around the bust and waist before flowing perfectly down to my feet.

Locke slips it off the hanger and unzips it. I step into it when he holds it out for me.

I stand in front of the mirror and twirl to give him access to the zipper again, but he brushes my hair to the side. At the nape of my neck, he raises the darkest purple from under my skin.

"Don't cover that one up," he whispers, eyes black and locked to mine in the mirror as he zips my dress. "I want to be able to see it whenever I want."