28. Locke

I'm an asshole for dotting Maren's skin with hickeys. But at least I never claimed to not be one.

She didn't have to spend time covering the ones on her inner thighs, so we're not that late.

And besides, I love that I can see the one on the back of her neck when she turns her head a little too quickly to survey the room.

I cradle my hand around her throat, letting my thumb rest on top of it, as she swivels her head to take in the room.

This building was converted into a hotel last year after it sat abandoned for decades, and the restoration makes it look like it straddles the elegant 1920s and modern twenty-first century with its exposed brick walls, floor-to-ceiling arched windows, and huge shimmering chandeliers.

The band on stage in the center is singing a low-key song without words as everyone finds their seats.

"What would you like to drink?" I ask, leading her to our round table near the front marked with a RESERVED sign.

Maren sits down in a gold chair and crosses her legs. "Champagne, please."

I press my lips to hers and kiss her across the top of her shoulder, breathing in the strawberry scent of her skin. When I straighten, Russell, from four tables behind us, stares at me over the whiskey glass he's sipping from.

Enjoy fucking her while you have her. We both know she's nothing special, but I'll take her from you when you eventually ruin it, just because I can.

I'd love nothing more than to shove my golf club that's been up his ex-girlfriend's cunt down his throat. Let him get a taste of how special she is, because that would be the closest he'd ever get to her again.

Instead (obviously), I flick my eyes back to Maren. I can just make out the hickey buried in her cleavage. Then again, she's mine, and no one else will ever know how fucking good she is for me or get a chance to experience her like I do.

"Of course, beautiful," I whisper in her ear. "Now, sit here like a good, perfect girl and show off what I get to fuck tonight."

Her chest jumps as she inhales a sharp breath. It's not about Russell; it's about everyone. Anyone who thinks they can do it better than me. They can't. Anyone who thinks she's weak. She isn't.

I brush my smile along her jaw. "You're going to be wet for me all night, Maren. Get used to it because this is the game I want to play, and you win every time."

"You're such a tease," she sighs happily to my back when I start to walk away.

The blonde bartender watches me approach from ten yards away. Her hint of a smile tells me she'd go home with me if I made any sort of move on her. And a few months ago, I'd have zero problem indulging her with some fantasy she has about me until I got bored.

Now, it doesn't matter what, but I'd rather do anything else as long as it was with Maren: fuck, fight, talk, listen to camera jargon, lie there in silence and stare at the ceiling.

"What can I get for you?" she asks, her tone resting on the edge of fuck me, please . The tone of voice that means she knows who I am and it's not me but rather the idea of me she likes.

"Champagne and a water with lime, please. "

She nods and adds a sexy "Of course," before she turns her back to make the drinks.

It's not that I don't find this woman attractive. She's tall, has a nice ass, and looks like she knows how to handle herself.

It's that I'm not interested.

Even if she threw herself at me, I don't want my hands on anyone else.

Is this what love is? Finding the person you'd choose every single time, no matter the circumstances? I've certainly never felt that way before about anyone that I wasn't related to.

And now I want to scratch my skin off where the bartender lets her fingers linger on my hand. She doesn't miss the look I level on her that says not to fucking touch me before I yank back Maren's drink.

Back at the table, Maren is patiently waiting for me while she reads the night's itinerary.

I place her champagne flute on the table next to her arm and hover my hand in front of her face. "Kiss me right here," I tell her softly, running my thumb over the spot where the bartender left her unwelcome presence.

Maren, confused but obedient, inches forward and brushes her lips along my fingers, replacing the scratchy tingle with warmth.

"Thank you," I say.

She giggles with one eyebrow raised. "You're welcome?"

As I pull my chair closer and sit beside her, Maren chokes on her first sip of champagne. Her eyes widen, and for a second, I think she's actually choking, my arms readying to grab her and do the Heimlich maneuver, until I realize two people have walked up to our table.

"Tripp," I say, doing a double-take before I stand to shake his hand.

He extends his over the table. "Locke, man. Good to see you."

Maren tries to contain another cough. Fuck, please don't tell me this is another one of Maren's ex-boyfriends, because Tripp Owens is one of the few guys I like .

She swipes at her mouth with the back of her hand, and I notice she's not looking at Tripp, but the woman beside him. Who I pray to god I haven't slept with, because she looks that familiar. I don't want to sit here the whole night with some past fling.

I rack my brain, though there's no way I've talked to her before. Her face only registers me with a soft smile. But I have no idea how I know her.

"Locke Hughes," I offer, "and this is my girlfriend, Maren."

Maren stands but apparently hasn't found her voice yet. This mysteriously familiar, stunning brunette woman has rendered her speechless for the second time since I've known her.

Or was it because I just called her my girlfriend out of nowhere? So out of nowhere that I don't know where it came from myself, or how a word I haven't uttered in over a decade slipped out of my mouth so easily.

Maren stands like a statue looking at me, her throat stuck as she chokes on words now.

"Willow," she replies as she brings Maren into a brief hug before sliding into her seat and Tripp places a white wine in front of her.

Maren comes to life like Willow shocked her heart back to baseline, her huge smile following. "Maren Murray."

"It's so nice to meet you both," Willow says. "So, are we teaming up to win something or outbidding each other in a full-on war?"

I laugh. "I'll pay good money for the football lesson with Tripp." My arm goes around Maren's shoulder, and I kiss the nape of her neck, let my fingertips glide over my little hickey. "Tripp is a former Super Bowl MVP. Do you like football as much as you like golf? I can play that too."

"About the same," Maren quips, leaning into me.

"Give me a golf lesson," Tripp scoffs, "and we'll be even. I broke eighty-five a couple months ago, and now I'm thinking I missed my calling as a professional golfer. Those birdies have me wanting to get back on the course every damn week, but how am I going to do that with my schedule?"

"Let me know when you break eighty," I joke. "Willow, what do you do?"

Maren and Tripp smother a laugh as Willow says, "I'm a musician."

My brain thuds. "Oh," I chuckle, "right."

Willow is… Willow. The same Willow who Blake went to see in concert last year. Who sells out stadiums and plays during the Super Bowl halftime show. Who I have absolutely never slept with (why the hell did I think that?), let alone met, because I'm not in the same stratosphere as her.

"This is one of those times I wish I paid attention to the internet," I add.

Willow laughs and waves a hand toward me. "I don't blame you."

"Willow!"

We collectively look up to see an event photographer decked out all in black, her brown hair piled high on her head in a messy bun, looking back at us hopefully.

"Do you mind if I take a picture of the table?" she asks.

"Of course," Willow says. "I'd be happy to."

"Oh, god," Maren says under her breath at the same time, laughing into my neck. "Is this how you feel about me?"

I kiss her temple and say, "Not anymore," just as the photographer's flash goes off. A warning would have been nice.

And as all four of us stand and smile for the camera, mine a little less wide than everyone else's, my mind is only on Maren's, hoping like hell she's not thinking about what will be all over the internet tomorrow.