6: Harriet.

I press my face to the smooth bamboo of the cabana wall, staring through the gap toward the Olympic-sized swimming pool in Locke's backyard.

Why isn't he swimming?

He always swims on weekday mornings. It's his ritual.

Wake up. Down a cup of black coffee.

Drop his sleep boxers and tug a Speedo up those enormously thick thighs. Watching him through the windows of his house as he treks to the pool, still half sleepy, is usually the best part of my day. But he's not here. He's not even home. Did he go somewhere last night?

Is he with a woman?

"No," I whisper. My legs give out at that possibility and I sink down to the floor of the cabana, hugging my knees to my chest and rocking. I'm an idiot. I'm such an idiot. Why did I come on so strong yesterday? Of course he thinks I'm a gold digger. Of course he suspects there is something wrong with me—because there is. I need help. I'm not only infatuated with Locke Atwood to the point that I stalk him like it's my job. I'm also keeping a terrible