4. Locke

"Fake friendship," I scowl. This might be my worst idea ever. "If anything."

Maren crosses her arms. "What do I have to do?"

She's quick.

"Simple. We can both get what we want. Come with me to obligations I have during tournaments and whatever else, and talk. I'm sick of it, and you say a lot of words."

She raises her eyebrows and laughs. "So, like a fake girlfriend?"

"There is zero dating in this scenario," I say with a deeper voice. No part of me is going to act like I'm in a relationship when I'm not. "Fake friends."

"And when people question why we're hanging out so much?"

I refrain from rolling my eyes. "Again, I do not care. Let them think whatever they want to think. I won't be making any statement about what we are or aren't doing. It's no one else's business."

Maren surveys me with a look of curiosity, like she doesn't believe it's that easy. But it is.

"You're okay with that? Everyone discussing you behind your back?" she asks. "Even when they're wrong?"

"I have to be. "

She folds her lips together and thinks on that without offering her thoughts.

"So, that's it?" she asks skeptically. "All I have to do is go to some stuff that I was already going to be attending as part of my job anyway but talk to the people you're supposed to talk to for you?"

"Oh no, one more thing." I pause to let my dimples sway her by themselves. "And stop taking pictures of me."

"That's my job ," she huffs after pulling her eyes off of my smile.

"Is there some type of quota you need to fill of me?" I question.

"Well, no, but I can't just not take pictures of you. You win almost everything. You're at every press event. That's impossible, and I'll get fired. If you didn't want your photo taken, ever, then you shouldn't have become a professional athlete."

"The old ‘I owe everyone my life because I get paid to play a sport,'" I say. "Do you believe that?"

Maren shakes her head. "You know what I mean. And I'm not a crazy fan running up to you on the street with a cell phone shoved in your face. My photos go to websites and social media and newspapers and commercials. They're for the PGA—you know them, my employer."

"Take less," I counter. "The bare minimum. One per press conference. I'll allow you to make your own judgment call when I play—as long as you stand farther away from me while I swing so I can't hear the shutter."

She scoffs and narrows her eyes at me. "You cannot hear me taking pictures of you."

"I can," I insist, "and my life would be a lot more pleasant if I couldn't."

Her mouth snaps shut. She sits back and crosses her legs as she considers my offer.

Quiet, less, is just within reach, but I give her a few seconds while I let my eyes drift .

I wish her legs weren't so long. I bet they're even softer than her wrist. And why does she always wear short, tight golf dresses if she doesn't play golf, let alone like it? Yesterday was pink. Today is light purple.

"Well?" I challenge her, trying to distract myself from checking out the neckline of today's purple. She brings her wide, green, still-teary eyes to mine. "Offer expires in three… two—"

"I'm in."

"Good." I go to reach for her thigh without thinking and divert my hand at the last second. "Phone," I demand with my palm out. "First lesson."

She ogles my arm for a second too long, unlocks her iPhone with her face, and places it gently into my hand. "You're like this hot icicle, and I think you know it. Throwing your smile around whenever you feel like it's convenient to melt people."

"That's an oxymoron," I say.

"You know what I mean," she replies slowly, then at the same time seems to realize what exactly she said. The blush starts in her ears and makes its way down her neck and over her chest.

Confidence will have to be a lesson for another day, but I still can't help myself. "Own it, Maren."

"What?" she whispers.

I refuse to break eye contact. "What you said. You think I'm hot."

"I said you think you're hot," she argues, looking down at her feet. The red pushes up against her skin stronger and brighter. "There's a difference."

"Uh huh," I chuckle before I decide to let her off the hook.

Her phone looks like an OCD person's nightmare. The social media apps on her phone are exactly what I imagined—red bubbles with numbers reaching the hundreds. "You read all these comments?"

She blanches instantly and lunges across the foot-wide gap between us for her phone, but she's not that type of quick. I hold it out of her reach until she slinks back into her seat .

"No," she lies.

"None of these people would say this shit to your face. You have to stop reading them."

"I don't read them."

Every line in her face gives her away.

"What do they say?" I press.

Maren looks away with a shrug and sighs out, "Everything. Read them for yourself."

I tap on the one with the most notifications. Under the latest picture of Maren with a woman who could be her twin—I tell myself not to ask because I'm not trying to get to know her—there are hundreds of comments.

I skim to get the general idea:

Maren is gorgeous.

Maren is hideous.

She's just keeping her engagement private since there haven't been any photos of her with Russell lately, and they can't spoil Triple Bogey .

No, Russell's dumped her because he deserves better than a groupie.

There's two of them, and thank god her sister isn't on the show, too, to make it double annoying.

Oh my god, there's two of them, and her twin needs to be on the show as soon as possible because they're adorable together.

I can't read any more.

I switch to her contacts and save my number before I text myself without her noticing. Then I let my irrational instinct to protect this woman overpower my brain for a split second. "From where I'm sitting, you're incredibly beautiful, and Russell doesn't deserve you." When she looks back at me with narrowed eyes, unsure what my motivation is, I hold out her phone to her. "Delete them."

"The apps?"

"Yes, the apps."

She pauses, unsure of what to do, and then lets out a sigh. "How am I supposed to know what people think? "

"Why do you care?" I scoff. "You think you can please everyone?"

"I try," she says with a shrug.

"That is literally impossible. Delete them."

Her eyes drop to her phone and back up to mine, debating with herself, before she nods.

I watch one by one as she holds down and presses delete three times for each app. "They really want you to be sure," I joke.

"I feel lighter already," she laughs under her breath, but I don't think she believes it. "And thanks for saving me earlier."

"Don't get the wrong idea. That was unintentional," I clarify.

She laughs again, louder this time. "Right, Locke. I know. Still, thanks."

I cock my head to the side to study her. "And did you watch your little show last night?"

"Ugh," she says. "It's not my show. Stop saying that."

"Did you watch it?" I repeat, full well knowing the answer is yes. "Don't lie this time. You're not very good at it."

She tips her chin up. "I promise I won't anymore. I already decided last night."

"Good," I say.

"They didn't even show it, you know. The cheating," she says. "I stupidly thought Russ had something to do with it. Which is why I went out searching for him. To say thank you. Can you believe that? Why did I believe that in the first place? Something is wrong with me."

My eyes bounce around her face trying to decipher her emotions as she blinks back happy or sad tears—I can't really tell. I don't have the heart to tell her he would never do something that wasn't for his own benefit. Suddenly, a smile so wide blooms across her face that I instantly relax.

"But," she drawls, "now that I'm going to always be hanging out with you, friend , hopefully they'll have less footage of me to use."

I frown. "Always is a huge exaggeration. See you in San Diego. I hear it's sunny. "

But when she turns to hop off my golf cart, I can't help myself. Just a second longer won't hurt. "Hey, Maren," I say, wrapping my hand around the back of her arm. Her skin is like silk, and I'm already missing the feel of it in the future version of me who will eventually have to let go.

She looks back over her shoulder. "Hm?"

"Being happy is the best revenge."