by Haley Cass
Finally, Dean sighed. “I don’t doubt your ability to charm; I doubt his ability to be charmed.”
“Everyone can be charmed,” she challenged. “There is always an angle,” that, she murmured mostly to herself. The issue was finding the right angle.
She could see the amusement bright in his expression as he shook his head. “Well, you know the deal. During the campaign, your office hours are as flexible as you need, as long as you still get your work done, which I have no doubt you’ll do.”
Before she could thank him, the phone on the desk next to her rang. She shot him a smile before sliding off of her perch on the desk. “I’ll see you later.”
He gave her a nod as he reached for the receiver, and she closed the door behind her on the way out.
By her estimation, she had forty-five minutes before Jack Spencer’s meeting with her grandmother would be finished. Well, technically it was an hour before his scheduled appointment would be over with, but she’d put together all of the information she knew about him and concluded that he would probably be as efficient as he could be in order to spend as little time in the meeting.
It was not a well-kept secret that the Jack Spencer would much rather keep to dealing with his own state and matters of interest that he was working on, rather than collude with the other politicians. He had some very close friends and politicians he worked with in Massachusetts and in a few other surrounding states, and would make the requisite trips to D.C. when necessary, but other than that . . .
He seemed to like her grandmother more now that she was no longer the President, and was instead the head of the Thompson Foundation. With a focus on poverty and homelessness, her grandmother had her home office here in New York, and, as it was also an issue of interest for Spencer, he made the trip to discuss initiatives every so often.
Just as she made it back to her seat, she felt her phone vibrate. She was fairly certain that even without looking, she knew who it was from.
Sutton – 11:47AM
Should I even ask why you answered my text at
three o’clock in the morning?
Charlotte – 11:49AM
You probably shouldn’t. I will, however, tell you
that it was for a good cause.
While Charlotte would be drinking a bit more coffee than usual today in order to stay alert, this was one of the first days that could truly matter for her campaign.
Sutton – 11:51AM
I shouldn’t judge how late you stayed up last night
anyhow. I was up later than usual, too. I only missed
your text by less than an hour.
Intrigued, Charlotte hummed under her breath. She’d been talking to Sutton through text for nearly a month now. In that time, it was impossible for her to not have learned her schedule by now. Even on weekends, Sutton didn’t typically stay up later than one in the morning.
Charlotte – 11:53AM
And why were you up so late, darling? Hot date?
Hot date, and you never even told your lesbian guru?
She sent it with a smirk, before setting her phone down and combing her fingers back through her hair, reaching for a clip. Her hair was curled today, and she clipped it back, only taking a moment to double check that her curls were over her shoulders, not out of place.
Despite the fact that Sutton had still yet to delete her account on the app, she also hadn’t actually gone out with anyone, either. Charlotte knew Sutton well enough to know that she certainly hadn’t gone out to browse any profiles. But she knew women – especially many women who used SapphicSpark – and she was correct in thinking that she would have been eager to scoop a pretty little thing like Sutton right up, considering the amount of messages Sutton would tell her she’d received.
The only thing was that out of the women who had messaged Sutton, they fell into some category on the red flag list in some way, shape, or form. At least, that was as far as Sutton told her. Charlotte would never tell Sutton not to go out with someone, but Sutton never seemed terribly interested in anyone despite her warnings.
Sutton – 11:56AM
Ha ha. You’re hilarious. Take your show on a
comedy tour.
Sutton – 11:57AM
I never should have told you that my friends called
you that.
Charlotte – 12:00PM
Probably not ;)
It amused her to almost no end.
Sutton – 12:02PM
Regardless, no, there was no hot date. Pretty much
the opposite, actually.
Charlotte – 12:03PM
A not-hot date? That’s not very nice, you know.
Sutton – 12:05PM
No date at all! I wanted to get everything done for
today and tomorrow, because I have plans with my
family. Well, my dad, really.
Charlotte – 12:06PM
Your father is here? You must be happy.
She’d learned that Sutton was not from New York and that she missed her family quite a bit. However, much like she’d not told Sutton the actual details of her family, she didn’t know the specifics.
It was strange, knowing someone the way she knew Sutton. She knew her personality, at least through text message. She knew her sense of humor, that she had a good heart. She knew facts about her, like that she loved Casablanca and preferred tea to coffee, but not the big picture.
They’d formed . . . a friendship, in a sense of the word. A friendship in the sense that she felt comfortable enough to discuss some things with Sutton that she wouldn’t have discussed with a woman she was hooking up with.
In hindsight, it truly was an arrangement that worked well for Charlotte. While she had Caleb and Dean, she didn’t have any female friends. No one close who knew of her sexuality, who she could speak freely with about things like that. No one who hadn’t known her for years or knew the side of her that she couldn’t be at work.
This way, she had somewhat of a friendship with Sutton – where Sutton knew her personality and she had someone to talk and joke with – but it didn’t get caught up in the very real, complicated matters of her plans, her goals, her career.
Sutton – 12:09PM
I am. I didn’t think I would be seeing him until
the holidays.
She received Sutton’s text at the same time as her phone buzzed with the alarm she’d set, to make sure that she wouldn’t be late to her plan of cornering Jack Spencer upon coming out of his meeting. Her stomach twisted in excited anticipation, the same feeling she got whenever she was proposing a new plan or especially when she’d been mapping out steps in her campaign in the last few weeks.
After taking a moment to make sure she was as composed and as well put-together as she always made a point to be, she grabbed her purse and her phone. She typed quickly as she walked.
Charlotte – 12:11PM
I’m sorry to cut this short, but I’ve got to meet
someone. I hope you’ll have fun with your dad.
Sutton – 12:12PM
That’s all right! I’m going to see him shortly,
anyway. Good luck with your meeting!
Charlotte walked with purpose out of the office, even as she couldn’t resist tacking on another message.
Charlotte – 12:13PM
You always say that, you know. Every time that
I’m going into a meeting, you wish me luck.
Sutton – 12:14PM
Is that . . . a bad thing?
Charlotte – 12:16PM
No, not at all. It’s just, I could be going to a meeting
of ill repute, and you are still wishing me luck.
Sutton – 12:18PM
I can’t wish you luck in your meetings regarding
drug dealing or murdering or the like?
She grinned, even as she shook her head. Sweet, trusting Sutton. It was that aspect that made her feel this strange protective urge in the first place, and the joking wit of h
er first message that she’d discovered in the last few weeks that made Sutton even better to talk to.
Charlotte – 12:20PM
I’ve got to deal some drugs into my hitmen ring,
now. Have a good day, Sutton.
She tucked her phone away as she power-walked her way to the Thompson Foundation building, checking her watch to make sure she was on time just as she reached the double doors that would lead into her grandmother’s office. With a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and nodded to the security team on either side of the entrance, before she pushed the door open and strolled in, right on time. On time as in fifteen minutes early.
Only to falter in her steps, when she saw through her grandmother’s open door that she was on the phone, with no one else meeting with her in the office.
For a moment, she saw the plans she’d concocted start to fall away, before she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Warding away the disappointment, she turned to face her grandmother’s secretary. “Elinor, where is Mr. Spencer?”
The woman looked up at her from where she’d been typing at her computer, uncertainty on her features. “I’m not sure. His meeting with your grandmother was scheduled through twelve forty-five, but they seemed to have wrapped business up early.”
“I can see that,” she kept her voice light, measured, even though there was a potential headache brewing behind her eyes, “When did he leave?”
“Hmm.” She checked her watch. “A little less than ten minutes ago, I would say.”
Ten minutes . . . she could work with that. The wheels in her head were already turning. “Do you know where he went?”
Elinor grimaced – an answer even before she reluctantly shook her head. “I’m sorry. But I can pull up his schedule for tomorrow, if you’d like to see if there is an available meeting time?”
Charlotte was already shaking her head, but she gave her a quick, appreciative smile. “No, but thank you.”
She hitched her purse over her shoulder, her pace hurried but not breaking into a run. Barring an emergency, never in public would she do that. A dignified composure was one of the best armors she could have.
She didn’t want to have a meeting with Jack Spencer; that would clearly show her hand. A person didn’t outwardly lobby for someone’s respect – not a smart person, anyway. It had to be done naturally.
Or, appear to be done naturally, she thought with a grim amusement.
It was a friendly but terse conversation with one of the security guards outside of the foundation, a subway ride, and twenty minutes later that found Charlotte paused outside of Topped Off. It was a small, but brightly and neatly decorated café, rather close to an NYU campus.
She’d never been here and she took a moment to frown up at the sign. It was a cutely designed coffee cup, with the Topped Off logo splashed into a coffee mug. But she could not for the life of her imagine why Jack Spencer would be going here, out of all of the places to get a cup of coffee in the city.
The security guard had assured her that he’d just had a conversation with Mr. Spencer on his way out of the building, and that this was the place he was going . . . but he could have been wrong.
She took a deep breath and smoothed her hands down the sides of her skirt, wishing it would ward off the slight October chill in the air; she hadn’t exactly been prepared for a prolonged period outside. Then she peered into the window of the café. It was decently empty, only a few of the tables taken up, with two young women working behind the counter. None of the patrons were the man in question.
Which had been the reason that she’d taken the subway in the first place. She’d wanted to beat him here, rather than make it appear as it truly was – that she was following him. After learning that he’d intended to walk, she went in the opposite direction to the closest subway stop.
But maybe she was in the wrong place entirely and this was all for nothing. Which would be such a frustrating waste of valuable time.
The only outward sign she allowed herself was a sharp, huffed out breath.
Which got cut off as when she looked up as someone turned the corner. The vexation that had been coiling inside of her melted away, her mouth shifting into an easy smile. Because perhaps this café was an unforeseen destination for Jack Spencer, notoriously serious Senator of Massachusetts, yet here he was.
Though she was curious about what the hell he was doing here, she couldn’t care about anything other than the fact that she was in the right place.
Standing up straight, she turned to look at him fully. “Mr. Spencer! Coming for a cup of coffee?”
His footsteps faltered and he paused a few feet away, somber gray eyes scanning over her face in an obvious search for recognition. She knew he was coming up short, even before he spoke. “Uh, yes. I’m sorry, I don’t recall . . .”
She offered her hand. “Charlotte Thompson. We’ve only met once, years ago, so no need for apologies.”
He nodded and gave her hand a quick, firm shake. “Ah, right. We met at your grandmother’s inauguration. How are you?”
“Quite well, thank you. I’m working as a Deputy Mayor for Dean Walker now, actually,” she slipped in, as her hand fell back to her side. “Mostly focused on human services.”
He gave her a considering look. “That’s admirable work.”
She felt slightly victorious already. She’d thought that he would appreciate her focus area, as it did often align with his own priorities when it came to social issues.
“Thank you. I’d actually read over several of the plans that you’d implemented when I was developing a deal between the homeless shelters and food banks. They were extremely helpful.” It didn’t really count as schmoozing when she was telling the truth, and her grin was genuine.
“I’m glad the plans could help.”
His words were concise and final, his expression was still not engaged, though polite; he didn’t want to discuss work, wasn’t interested in jumping into a discussion on policy, as many other politicians she’d met were.
What was the way in?
His eyes wandered to the door of the shop behind her and she astutely stepped aside. “Would you like to perhaps get a cup of coffee with me?”
As he took a step forward toward the café, he shook his head. “Sorry, but I’m meeting my daughter here, very soon.”
She appreciated that even though he wasn’t actually regretful – that much was clear – he had the grace to apologize. But that wasn’t enough to make her give up, especially not when she saw the way his gaze flit over the window, clearly looking for the daughter in question.
There was a triumphant feeling in her chest when she saw the slight changes in his expression, because that was it. His family could be the angle she’d been looking for. For a moment, she cursed at herself because of course she was well-read on his policies and the history of his leadership, even the history of his family.
However, she was unversed on the matter of his actual family, his children. It had been a naïve mistake of hers, she realized now, to assume that he wouldn’t be a father first. Because of the fact that he was reputably somber, she’d assumed he would be all business. It had been a miscalculation.
But one that was easily remedied, and she reached for the door of the café. “Well, I certainly wouldn’t want to get in the way of any father-daughter bonding time. Do you see her often?”
He beat her to it, opening the door for her, gesturing for her to go first. “Not nearly as much as I’d like. Neither of them, really.”
Charlotte watched carefully as he spoke, even as she walked past him into the café. His expression didn’t really change so much as slightly shift. Get a little softer at the mention of his children.
She could work with that. “You have two daughters, right?”
“Yes. My youngest, she’s in England at the moment. But my oldest goes to grad school here,” he explained and the location clicked. Knowing it was chosen by a college girl made much more sense.
“And your wife, is she here, too? Meeting you and your daughter?” She hadn’t been able to confirm whether or not Katherine Spencer had joined her husband when she’d done her limited research last night.
“She’s working on a deadline of her own.”
She, of course, was familiar with Katherine Spencer’s writing, whic was another avenue of conversation. But there was something about the succinct way he’d said it that told her he didn’t like people questioning into his wife’s business.
Before she could say anything, the woman behind the counter popped up from where she’d been behind the pastry counter, a bright smile on her face as she enthusiastically called out, “Mr. Spencer!”
A bigger smile than she’d been given crossed over his features and Charlotte turned to look at the woman. She was pretty, maybe a few years younger than herself. She had dark hair pulled into a ponytail, and she brushed her hands on the apron she was wearing.
He stepped forward. “Regan, how are you? Staying out of trouble?”
There was affection in his tone, but not quite warm enough to be the daughter who’d made him seem so soft in the eyes.
She winked. “You know me.”
“That’s why I asked.”
She didn’t even take his order before she called to the other woman working behind her, “Large, plain black coffee. Strong as we have. I got you, Mr. Spencer.” The woman turned toward her. “And what can I get y – oh, my god!”
Both Charlotte and Mr. Spencer started. She looked around, searching for the cause of the outburst. But there was nothing amiss and the woman’s – Regan, as Jack had referred to her – dark eyes were focused on her, uncomfortably alight.
Suspicious, she quirked an eyebrow and kept her expression firm in a way that she knew often cut through people’s amusement. “I’ll also take a plain black coffee. Large.”
