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“The lower the number, the better the pictures?” He smirks and holds out his palm impatiently. “Just like golf.”
I hesitate, hovering just above his outstretched hand. Part of me wants to lecture him more, explain every little piece of the camera, instruct him on how to use every setting and dial, how to time the photos. I could talk for hours.
But Locke reassures me, “Trust me, I got it.”
So, I place my most prized possession in his hand and slip out the golf cart.
The clubs Locke borrowed from the shop for me look like the matching women’s set to his. I slide my driver out from the black bag in the back seat and step up to the tee.
Locke watches my movements intently and steps around me in a long arc. He raises the camera to his eye.
I open my mouth. Close it.
He peers around it with a wink. “Pretend like I’m not here.”
Well, that’s physically impossible. I constantly feel like I’m holding a candle close to my chest when he’s within eyesight. Maybe even when he’s not. Just a running thought across my brain, and I’m suddenly a human heating pad.
After I place my ball on the tee, I concentrate on Locke’s instructions: how to hold the club, how to angle my body. I take a deep breath and close my eyes to calm myself. The last thing I want to do is completely whiff the damn ball and have Locke catch it on camera.
When I finally swing, I know I at least got that right, because it feels awkward as hell holding my one arm so straight to ‘keep the baseball swing out’ like Locke told me.
My ball doesn’t even slicethatfar to the right.
“Shit,” Locke mutters. Whipping around, I see he’s looking at the screen. “I took it too early.”
I squash the smile that wants to push through my lips. His voice sounds so concerned, determined.
“Do it again,” he adds.
And only because I’m so nice, I appease him eight more time before he’s satisfied with his photograph.
I know before he even says anything based on his wide blooming smile that he’s finally reached what he considers perfection.
“I could do this all day,” he says, eyes dark. He doesn’t look away from the camera, almost like he’s stuck. “You’re so beautiful.” Then he pops his head up and uses a free hand to wave me along. He traces my body with a hardened look. “I get why you love this so much. Keep going.”
He sure knows how to motivate a girl. Because now all I want is to play every single practice hole. Three times—even though I look ridiculously silly because itismy first ever lesson. Just so he can take my picture.
After Locke buckles himselfinto the driver seat back in the parking lot of the country club, his hand immediately finds my thigh.
His fingers skim my inner thigh as both of us stay silent.
I try to concentrate on anything but his warm hand. Anything to distract myself from the feeling of how much he seems tolikehaving his hand on me, almost like he can’t help himself.
Until out of nowhere, he says, “Tell me about your mom.”
When I glance at him, he gives me a small reassuring smile without looking at me.
“What do you want to know?”
“What is she like?”
I half laugh, half scoff. “That is a complicated question.”
“I figured,” he says. “But I’d like to know, if you want to tell me.”
“She’s nice,” I say. Locke squeezes my thigh gently, urging me to continue. “Or at least she can be sometimes. But she’s also a lot of other things. Critical. Passive aggressive. She tends to make everything about her.”
He nods. “Does your sister feel the same way? What’s her name again?”
