The elevator doors slide shut with a quiet, pneumatic hiss. Five minutes later, through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I watch Locke’s broad, leather-clad back drive off into the distance.
He’s headed to the clubhouse on pretty short notice. Dad called an emergency meeting, and whatever it’s about, refusal wasn’t an option.
Before he walked out the door, Lockes pulled me into his chest, resting his forehead against mine for a quiet beat.
“Good luck with Willow, baby," he murmured. "If she gets weird or says anything that upsets you, you call me straight away."
I trace my thumb over the rim of my empty mug now, feeling a quiet bloom of warmth at the memory. I glance up at the wall clock on the kitchen island.
It’s 12:58 PM.
This morning, Willow texted and asked if 1:00 this afterno
