Page 42 of Locke

I go still and I don’t want to hear what he has to say.The fact I would consider any arrangement that might allow me to kiss him again without consequence is too tempting.

And yet, I find myself asking, “What kind of deal?”

“You want to know about my family, where I came from… what it was like growing up in that environment.”He holds my gaze.“You want to try to figure me out and you’re smart enough to know, we’re all a product of our past.So, I’ll give you a single, devoted session on that.”

I don’t say anything, because I can’t.He’s offering a very tempting carrot.

“One real session,” he says.“You ask what you want about my family.I’ll answer honestly.”

My pulse skitters.He’s offering a window into what made Locke Donovan who he is before everything else happened, and that is more professionally valuable than anything I’ve gotten from him so far.It’s exactly what I need to actually help him.And he knows that, which means he’s offering it deliberately—but also means he’s got his terms.

“What do you get out of this?”I ask.

“Haven’t figured that out yet.”

I blink.“You haven’t figured that out?”

“I know what direction I’m headed.”Those blue eyes, not looking chilly at all, hold mine with a steadiness that interrupts my ability to think clearly.“Just haven’t landed on the specific terms.”

“That’s not how a deal works,” I snap.“You can’t offer something without knowing what you want in return.”

“Sure I can.”He moves toward the door, completely at ease and completely infuriating.“I’m offering.You’re considering.”He reaches the door and looks back at me over his shoulder.“Think about it.”

He walks out.

I stand behind my desk in the silence and stare at the door.

Then I sit down, put my elbows on the desk, and put my face in my hands.

I am in so much trouble.

Chapter 15

Livia

Junotextedatnoon.Crosby’s out.Birdie’s making pad Thai.Bring Molly, wine and yourself.Seven o’clock.

That was the entire invitation and it was enough.After the day I’ve had—which included Locke’s searing kiss in my office—I’m ready to drink wine and forget about the ludicrousness of that hockey player.

Molly and I share an Uber and on the way over we chitchat about our respective lives from the past week, since we haven’t had time to get together, especially with the holiday.

“Tell me all I need to know about Juno and Birdie,” Molly says, so I do.By the time our driver turns into Crosby’s neighborhood, she has a working understanding of Juno’s documentary background, Birdie’s saturation diving career, and the general shape of how I know them both.

“I love them already,” she announces.

“You haven’t met them.”

“Doesn’t matter.Anyone who dives to two hundred feet for a living and anyone who dates a man who plays professional hockey both qualify as my kind of people.”She looks out the window as the house comes into view and goes quiet.“Livia.”

“I know.”

“This is insane.”

“I know.”

Molly pays the driver through the app and we get out, both of us taking in Crosby’s house—the way it sits back from the road behind established landscaping, the gas lanterns lining the front walk, the warm glow of uplighting washing over stucco and tile.It looks like it’s out of a magazine and somehow also like somewhere people actually live.

“Okay,” Molly says.“I need a house like this.”