Zara
We arrive at the clubhouse late.
Not dramatically late, not middle-of-the-afternoon late, but close enough to noon that the second Locke pulls his bike into the lot and cuts the engine, I can already see the front windows of the clubhouse brimming with observers. They’ve clearly been waiting for us, with the kind of organized enthusiasm usually reserved for ambushes.
I remain pressed against Locke’s back for an extra few seconds, my arms still wrapped around his waist, my cheek almost resting between his shoulder blades. It occurs to me that I should probably move before the audience inside starts applauding.
Which, knowing my family, is absolutely possible.
“You see them?” I ask.
Locke glances toward the windows. “Yep.”
“You could sound more concerned.”
“I’m not concerned.”
