Locke cocked a brow. “Making friends again?” “Don’t I always?” Locke chuckled and opened my car door. “Not really, queenie.” I dropped the hammock on my seat and faced him. “I’m your friend, aren’t I?” Locke kept his eyes on my face, pupils expanding as he gazed down at me. “If that’s what you want.” What I wanted had never been that important. I’d waited years for Nash, and in so many ways I was still waiting. For him to come home at night. Or to put himself first. For him to be himself, and for reasons I’d never understood, Locke felt like the pot of gold at the end of a Nash-shaped rainbow.
