Total pages in book: 81
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76846 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 384(@200wpm)___ 307(@250wpm)___ 256(@300wpm)
“What are you doing?” he snapped, making my gaze lift.
“Care to elaborate?” I asked, barely able to contain my sigh at how ruddy his face was. He was pissed about something. And, it seemed, it involved me.
“We’re supposed to be in the car already,” he said, pointedly flicking his wrist and turning his arm to check his Rolex.
“Remind me for what?” I said, my mind too chaotic to pull the schedule up right then.
“The town hall meeting,” Michael said, tone clipped.
“Right,” I agreed, gathering my things and shoving them into my purse before getting to my feet and following him down the hall.
I was busy fretting about being in the car with him with unknown bad guys wanting to hurt me possibly following behind, but the senator interrupted that train of thought that was swiftly barreling off track.
“Am I to assume you haven’t written me my notes?” he asked.
“I have them mostly done,” I admitted, pulling them out of the folder in my purse. The tops of the index cards were tipped in various highlighter colors to coincide with the “issue” that might be brought up at the meeting, so he could quickly glance at them and find an artful response written by me rather than some unhinged rant he would likely go off on given the chance.
“Mostly isn’t going to help me, is it?”
“I’ll finish in the car,” I said, trying to keep my tone neutral as he rushed ahead.
As always, he slid into the back.
Normally, I would sit with him.
But I climbed into the front passenger seat instead, using the dashboard to steady my tablet as I used it as a desk to scribble my notes as clearly as possible. In big, block-like print. The senator hated cursive and small print, even if it would allow me to fit more on the page. He was too vain to wear his glasses.
It was about a ten-minute drive to the meeting hall that was taking place in a middle school gymnasium, even though I was reasonably sure the senator wouldn’t draw the kind of crowd that would require that large of a space.
He went in to get his makeup touched up—and hopefully look over my notes—as I rushed into the gym itself, running around trying to rearrange the folding chairs so there were fewer of them, each of them spaced much further apart. This way, it would look full, even though I’d removed more than half of the actual seats.
I didn’t realize I wasn’t alone until I heard a familiar, teasing voice call out, “Expecting a big crowd, huh, Beth?” Nathan Evans, a popular political vlogger, asked as he strolled, casually cocky in his jeans and t-shirt. To be fair, all handsome men had a bit of a swagger. And Nathan was definitely attractive in a dirty-blond, blue-eyed way that had just never been my type.
“Nathan, you’re supposed to be waiting outside with the press,” I reminded him.
“Finally willing to admit I’m part of the press?” he asked.
“I’ve never had any problem admitting that,” I said, standing back to check my configuration of the chairs, then trying to hide the ones I’d taken out behind the bleachers where Michael wouldn’t see them. “Any idea how to close the bleachers?” I asked, thinking we would definitely not need more than one on each side, not all four of them.
“There’s a button right back here,” Nathan told me, showing me it, but reaching around me to push it himself.
This was the moment when, if I was just horny because I desperately needed the touch of a man, any man, I would have felt the spark of interest again. Especially given how worked up I’d been since the night before.
But there was just… nothing.
Actually, no. There was a slight annoyance that he felt like he could press up against me like he did.
So it was just about Elian.
The man I was living with.
Who I needed to avoid from now until eternity, lest I die of humiliation.
Great.
Just great.
“So tell me, Beth,” he said, seeming to enjoy how my eyes narrowed at the nickname, “when are you going to quit working for Westmoore, and sign up to work for the candidate who actually has a chance to win this race?”
“Senator Westmoore has as good a chance as anyone,” I insisted.
“The only chance he has is because you’re crafting his statements for him,” Nathan insisted, and I knew he was right. “Maybe I’ll ask him something that you didn’t think to jot down in your notes for him,” he said, looking smug.
And, damn him, how did he know that?
“The senator will surely have the answers to any questions you may ask.”
“Oh, I’m sure he will,” Nathan said, smirking. “Looking a little tired there, Beth. It’s stressful to be at the helm of a steadily sinking ship, isn’t it?”