Their Discovery (Legally Bound Book 3)

by Rebecca Grace Allen

  She’d been anxious pulling the outfit from her closet that morning. She hadn’t worn it since Allegra was in diapers, but it slid on like a glove. Classic, too, so it wasn’t out of style. Paired with cream-colored pumps that were black at the toe—Hope had them dubbed Sam’s Barbie-doll shoes—and her hair loosely curled, she looked put together, professional.

  The Boston Bombshell by dress, even if her brain hadn’t caught up yet.

  She’d felt like a fraud walking toward the building from the parking garage. Standing outside, she’d craned her head up to see all of it, a reflective blue glass that stretched high into the sky. Who the hell was she? What shot did she have? Jobs in places like this were reserved for people with more experience than temping and two years as a congressional staffer. But standing in the elevator, Sam had dredged up her former self—the young girl who’d gone to Washington without a doubt in her mind.

  That version of her yelled from the past.

  Suck it up, buttercup. I handled DC. You can handle a damn interview.

  The door behind her opened. Sam stood and turned around, immediately recognizing the man standing there from his profile on the company site. She’d made a point to peruse it before today’s interview. He walked toward her with a smile and a hand extended for her to shake.

  “Samantha, thank you for coming in.”

  She responded with a firm grip of the man’s hand. “My pleasure, Mr. Phillips. It’s nice to meet you.”

  Sam’s initial phone call had been with one of the HR assistants. Now she was dealing with the big guns—Johnson Phillips was the Director. Grabbing a legal pad from the pile, Phillips unclipped a packet of information and plunked it on the table. She resumed her spot in her chair as he sat across from her

  “Let’s get right to it, shall we?” he asked.

  Sam nodded. “Fire away.”

  “Tell me about your most recent position.”

  Most recent was a decade ago.

  “My last job was temping. Filing, typing, minor office work. Before that, I was a congressional staffer for Representative Arnold Dawes.”

  “I saw that on your resume. What were your responsibilities there?”

  Sam did the mental equivalent of cracking her knuckles. “I started as an intern during college but was invited back after graduation. I was the first point of contact for the office. I managed the front desk, answered phones, directed people to the right staffer, often taking over myself during late-night hours. I sorted the mail, too, which doesn’t sound like a lot, but trust me, it was.”

  “I imagine. We get overloaded with mail, too.”

  She’d seen that when she walked in. The person covering the desk seemed overwhelmed.

  “I’m not easily felled by a heap of envelopes.”

  Phillips grinned. “Good to know.”

  “Some letters required immediate action,” she continued. “Knowing what needed a personalized response and what didn’t was essential. Sending a constituent a form letter was a recipe for getting your ass booted out the door.”

  Sam almost covered her mouth. She’d cursed. In an interview. Jesus, was she channeling Brady or something? But it made Phillips laugh.

  “Sounds like the way things are here. You don’t want to piss off the wrong client.”

  “Or the wrong attorney, I’d guess.”

  “Correct.”

  “Eventually I was given more important tasks,” she added. “Research, sometimes working on policy drafts. Almost everything had a same-day deadline, so I assure you, I know how to work in a fast-paced environment.”

  Fast-paced was an understatement. Everything depended on momentum there, on being awake more than you slept, on being everywhere at once. Bars were as much the arena for debate as the House floor. Truces were often called in private rooms for elected officials, deals struck over drinks when the sun was coming up. Sam still remembered the jittery mishmash of being hungover and overcaffeinated.

  She felt a bit that way now.

  “Why politics?” Phillips asked.

  She hated that question, because she wasn’t up to date on current legislation. Reading about it now was the equivalent of her nose pressed against the glass. But he needed an answer.

  “I was always fascinated with federal and state issues. The idea of grassroots lobbying, building coalitions. I watched West Wing religiously when I was in high school. When other kids were playing house, I was pretending to be President.”

  That earned her another laugh from Phillips, who scribbled notes on a pad. It made her think though. Maybe that was why she struggled as a parent—she’d dreamed of teaching her children French, reading them books about American politics, but Allegra didn’t have an interest in either one, and Hope was either going to be a silent movie star or a math genius.

  “What would you consider your biggest success?” Phillips asked.

  “We started getting calls from a politically important businessman who wanted to become a major donor.”

  This was the real reason Dawes had dubbed her the Boston Bombshell. It wasn’t because of the way she’d torn through his office and turned it into a perfectly run machine. Sam could tell that the caller was shady right off the bat. One large donation and he tried to take advantage of his position—demanding meetings, being inappropriate with the staff. Money didn’t always equal power, not when you talked down to the wrong redhead.

  “Something about him seemed off, so I did my homework. Turned out this guy had been brought up on charges of money laundering and bribery. He’d been acquitted, but accepting contributions from him could’ve turned into an ugly corruption scandal.”

  Phillips’ gaze flicked toward a space behind her. Sam glanced over her shoulder. A man was standing in the doorway with his hands in his pockets.

  “So you’re the one who got Arnie out of that mess,” he said.

  His grin was smug, teeth showing with a slightly uneven gap in the front. He was a bit on the short side but that didn’t matter. With his hands in his pockets and one leg crossed casually over the ankle of the other, he oozed confidence nonetheless.

  That confidence was well founded. Sam recognized his face from his portrait.

  He was Reginald Pierce.

  “Mr. Pierce,” Sam said quickly, standing. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

  He sauntered into the room. “Likewise.”

  “You knew the congressman?” she asked.

  “He was a buddy of mine from grade school.” Pierce pulled his hands from his pockets, balanced his elbows on the top of a chair and leaned forward. Sam refused to be rattled by his lack of handshake. She’d been around men like this in DC all the time. It was a power struggle in the making—he was the alpha, but he was testing her, seeing how strong she could be. “I miss that son of a bitch.”

  Sam hadn’t been able to go to Dawes’ funeral, too busy with the girls and taking care of her mom. “Me, too. I loved working for him.”

  “Why did you leave?”

  It seemed Mr. Pierce was leading things now, so Sam directed her answers toward him.

  “My mother needed surgery,” she explained. “Her recovery time kept extending, and my father wasn’t handling things on his own. I needed to be here, so I used up my sick days, then my vacation and FMLA. There was no Paid Family Leave then. Eventually I ran out of time.”

  “That’s too bad,” he said.

  “It was.” She’d sobbed when she’d gotten off the phone with Dawes, who’d said when she could come back, he’d find a place for her. “I’d planned to return to Washington eventually, but then the congressman lost his seat and there was no job to go back to. I got married, had kids, and staying home was the right choice for my family. But I’m extremely organized, good at multitasking, and I’m ready to get back out there.”

  “You sure?” Pierce asked.

  The question irked her. As if having children had somehow infected her and he had to be certain she wasn’t going to have a relapse. It wa
s like this in politics, too—a boys’ club. A landscape somehow not suitable for women.

  She gave Pierce a firm look in response and simply said, “I am.”

  “Well,” Phillips interjected, “you’re currently on the top of a very short list of candidates. Do you have any questions for us?”

  “Just one.” She was toeing a line she probably shouldn’t have, but she was genuinely curious. “Why am I your top candidate?”

  Pierce gave her a cocky smile. “Not everyone has a recommendation letter from Arnie Dawes. If you’re the same girl that got him to write that letter, then you’ll run my reception desk like he’d run a war room.”

  Girl?

  He may have been the one who was pulling for her, but she wasn’t letting him win this battle of wills. Sam pushed back her chair, stood and gathered her things. “I hate to break it to you, Mr. Pierce. But I’m not the same girl.”

  “You’re not?”

  “Oh no.” She took a step toward him. “I’m a much, much smarter woman.”

  Pierce broke out in laughter, head tipping backward, and Phillips followed suit. Finally, Pierce extended his hand.

  “Samantha Archer,” he said as they shook. “I look forward to seeing more of you.”

  7

  Sam looked around her dining room in disgust.

  Hours ago, she’d felt at the top of the world. She’d walked out of the firm like a boss. She fucking owned that interview. Once she got home, however, it was back to her regularly scheduled programming.

  Her pulse pounding, Sam stacked the abandoned plastic plates and cups that had been left on the dining room table and brought them to the kitchen. No one’s coats had been put away either, dumped unceremoniously in the living room. The dishwasher was full from last night, today’s dishes were in the sink. And no one had asked her how the interview went.

  She rinsed out the containers, tossing them one by one into the recycle bin. She’d spent the remainder of her afternoon running errands, the roads slick with a coating of snow and people driving like Mass-holes. She’d barely made it in time to meet the bus. At least, Brady had followed through on his promise to get takeout, arriving home with two large bags from Panera she’d ordered in advance online to make sure it was all correct, and announcing he’d take care of everything—clean-up included.

  So much for that.

  Dinner had been the standard bedlam—Allegra complaining that her sandwich didn’t taste right, Hope barely speaking and Brady glancing at work emails on his phone and oblivious to it all. She’d gone upstairs to change her clothes afterward—something she’d been unable to do before dinner because Mommy I need, Mommy I can’t, Mommy will you—banking on Brady’s insistence that he’d get everything done. She’d come back down, however, to discover everything had been left exactly where it was.

  Shrieking laughter came from the basement. Sam ground her jaw. One thing, that was all she’d asked of him. But no, he’d abandoned it to play with the girls, horsing around instead of being an actual parent.

  Sam inhaled and exhaled, trying to control her temper. She didn’t want to be mad, but this was always how it went: Brady forgetting what she’d asked him, the things she wanted or needed ignored. The house left for her to deal with while everyone else did what they enjoyed. She was disappearing again, when today she’d felt seen.

  There was a crash followed by a thump, then the sound of Brady cursing.

  That. Was. It.

  Storming to the basement door, she opened it and hollered, “Girls, bedtime. Now.”

  Allegra’s voice came first. “Aw, Mom. Can we have five—”

  “Now!”

  Silence followed. If there was one thing her children had learned, it was when not to mess with their mother. They trudged quietly up the steps. Brady remained behind, probably to deal with whatever mess he’d made. When Sam returned to the kitchen after the usual bedtime circus, the table had been cleared, the remaining plastic containers jammed haphazardly in the recycle bin, and Brady was standing by the open dishwasher.

  He turned around, his hands full of bowls and a smile on his face. “I’ll give you five hundred dollars if you tell me where these go.”

  She stomped past him to the fridge. “Don’t joke, Brady.”

  “I wasn’t joking. I don’t know where they belong.”

  Seriously? How was he so good at his job but so damn lost at home?

  “Second cabinet on the left,” she muttered. “Bottom shelf.” This was why she never asked him to help with housework. It was more trouble than it was worth.

  She stomped over to the fridge, telling herself to let it go.

  But she always let it go. “You said you’d help today.”

  “I am! I just—” His words broke off on a sigh.

  Sam looked over at him. He’d changed at some point into pajama pants, taken off his long-sleeved button-down to reveal the faded, worn-in Spider-man T-shirt he had on beneath it. The pale blue fabric clung to his ropy back muscles, but Sam was too annoyed to be turned on.

  “Why are you so pissed?” he asked.

  His tone was quiet, not demanding. As if he truly didn’t know.

  “Because you said you would do something and you didn’t.”

  “I got dinner, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, but you said you’d clean up. You said you’d do the dishes.” A list formed in her mind, a goddamn clown car of complaints. “You said you’d do the sitter posting and you didn’t. You said you’d help find the gloves and you didn’t. You’re always telling me you’ll do things and then you don’t do them.”

  “I’ll do the dishes,” he offered. “I didn’t forget. I was planning on it. I just started playing with the girls and time got away from me.”

  “We won’t have the luxury of time getting away from you if I get this job, Brady.”

  His reaction to her words was visceral—eyes cast downward, mouth pinching into a wince, like she’d punched him in the stomach. “I know we won’t,” he said softly.

  Fuck, she hated this. She didn’t want to be angry at him. But this argument was a train wreck, barreling too fast for her to stop.

  “Good, because I’m gonna need you to step up. I need you to help me take care of the house and not check out all the time.”

  “I’m not checking out.” He sighed. “It’s just that…”

  “It’s just what?”

  He shook his head but didn’t respond. It was times like this, when he refused to participate, that Sam felt her marriage falling apart.

  She didn’t want this.

  She didn’t want this.

  “Talk, Brady!”

  He snapped into focus, a racecar driver who’d seen a checkered flag. “I feel like I can never do anything right!”

  Sam recoiled in surprise. Brady didn’t yell. Ever. “That’s not true.”

  “It feels like it. No matter what I do, I do it wrong. And you act like I want to piss you off!” He stared at her. “I want you to be happy, Sammy. That’s all I want.”

  He felt he could never do anything right? He wanted her happy? It was hard to believe, since he’d been horsing around instead of helping like he promised.

  “If you want me happy, then put away the dishes and do what’s in the sink while I get off my feet for five goddamn minutes.”

  He stood still and held her gaze. “That’s what you want,” he confirmed.

  “That’s what I want.”

  She shifted her weight uncomfortably as the seconds ticked by. For a minute it felt like they were back at B.U., when not only had he seen her, but she was the only thing he could see.

  “Okay.” He went around her to the breakfast table and pulled out a chair. “Please sit?”

  Sam paused. Was this another joke? It didn’t seem to be as he stood there, expectant and waiting. He wasn’t being sarcastic. His request had been soft and low, and his face was calm, his eyes filled with a deference she didn’t understand. One that made her feel elevated and
catered to.

  It was unnerving.

  “All right.”

  She immediately felt better—she wasn’t used to that many hours in heels—and her breath caught when she felt his hands at the bottom of her hair.

  “May I?” he asked.

  She was caught off guard. He was just brushing the ends, but each soft tug stimulated all the nerve endings on her head. “Okay.”

  He continued combing the last inch of the locks, rubbing them between his fingers. She’d assumed he’d forgotten how much she enjoyed this, but then he ran his fingers through her hair, lifting it from her face and gently easing out any tangles.

  It was the most intimate they’d been in years.

  He did it again, deliberate and slow. Brady had large hands, and she missed what he could do with them. He was even better with his mouth. It had taken time and direction, but once he’d figured out her spots, his tongue had been fucking magical.

  He moved in closer, starting at her temples and combing at the roots before running his fingertips down the strands. The sensation was hypnotic. Jesus, if he’d done this instead of joking, the fight never would’ve started. With him standing so close, Sam got a hit of his scent. It was the same heady combination he’d always had—wood spice deodorant and peppermint soap mixed with an earthy bit of sweat.

  Years ago, she’d worn that smell on her like perfume.

  He gathered her hair and put it over one shoulder.

  “Better?” he asked.

  She paused, unsure about the dynamic between them. The fight seemed to have dissipated, but there was a strange vibration now—a different kind of energy. Like the charge in the air before a snowfall. “Yes, better.”

  But she hadn’t asked him to stop. She didn’t like that he had.

  He went back to the counter. Sam watched as Brady put away the rest of the dishes, then stepped toward the sink and turned on the water.

  “Thank you,” she said. “For helping.”

  “It’s not that I don’t want to,” he replied softly. “I’m just not sure how to do it right. Like your system for putting things into the dishwasher.”