“One of these days, I’d like to know what happened to you,” he whispers. “But I won’t ask you tonight.”
We exchange a smile. It isn't the wide, charming one he uses on his political adversaries, nor is it the sexy smirk he used on me before. It's something else, the one from earlier—something more private—and it sends a wave of warmth through me.
“Would you like to have dinner with me one night this week?” he asks, a drop of hesitation in his voice.
My throat burns as I prevent myself from answering right away. Of course I want to, who wouldn’t? But what good will it do? There’s very little chance he’d do or say something to make me not want to see him again, and the fact of the matter is, he’s a candidate in an election. He isn’t in a place for a relationship, and what I need, what Huxley needs, is for me to be serious and calculated in everything I do.
“Alison?”
“I’d love to,” I say, taking a deep breath, “but I’m going to have to decline.”
He’s taken aback, his steps faltering beside mine. “So . . . no?”
“Yes, no,” I laugh. “Is that the first time you’ve heard that or something?”
“Well, yes. More or less.”
I laugh louder as the lights ahead of us get brighter.
“This isn’t funny,” he says with a grin spread across his cheeks. “I really would like to see you again.”
I beam and hope that the darkness hides it. “I would like to see you again in a perfect world. But we both know that’s not what this is.”
“No, it’s not. Because you just told me no.”
“Oh my God,” I sigh, amused. “The timing is just bad, Barrett. You’re in the midst of a campaign and I . . .”
“You what?”
“I’m a single mom trying to do what’s best for her kid. And that’s not going to dinner with you.”
He stops in his tracks, his head cocked to the side. “Forgive me for asking, but what does you being a single mom have to do with you not going to dinner with me?”
“Look, I didn’t mean it like that,” I breathe. “It’s just that my marriage was sort of high-profile and it ended spectacularly bad. I have this fear of the media, of reporters, specifically,” I gulp. Then, before I can think about it, I add, “It’s not just my life that goes to dinner with you. Huxley’s life kind of goes too.”
“So you would rather not go to dinner with me than be tossed into magazines. That’s what you’re saying?”
I nod.
He grins devilishly.
“That just makes me want to go to dinner with you more, Alison.”
With every centimeter his smile spreads, it tugs my lips right along with it.
“It’s extremely hard to find someone that wants to have dinner with me—the stripped down version. Women want the photographs, everyone to know they’re with me. And you . . . don’t.”
I try to pull my gaze from his, but it’s near impossible. He searches me—not my facial expressions or the angle of my posture, but me. Through my eyes and deep into my soul.
Shivering at the feeling of exposure, I finally look away. “You’re right. I don’t,” I whisper.
He considers this, rocking back on his heels like I saw his brother do earlier. “What if I promised you we could do it at a place no one would see us? Just you and I. No agenda. No media. No expectations. Just a dinner between two friends.”
“We’re friends now?”
“I just saved you from your boss! You owe me one. And if that display of heroism doesn’t get me . . . friended . . . what will?”
“You, Mr. Landry, are lucky you chose the word friended.”
“What did you think I was going to choose?” he asks wickedly.
“You’re impossible.”
My heart beats like crazy in my chest. I need to put space between us before the remnants of the wall I built around my heart break and I end up agreeing to dinner with this man. Pivoting on my heel, I head back up the path.
"Are you always a pain in the ass?"
"Mr. Landry, I think you just lost yourself a vote,” I say, feigning disbelief.
He stops in his tracks, pulling me to a stop alongside him. He turns me without me ever realizing it’s happening until we're face to face. "You could do the right thing and give me another chance to win it back.”
His voice is low, his eyes boring into mine. I feel my body temperature spike, my pulse throbbing. An ache builds in my core, the flames growing hotter by the second.
“I want a chance to win you over,” he breathes, peering at me. The way his eyes search mine make it seem like time stands still. “Will you let me try?”
He forces a swallow and the look of hesitation, the internal fight he’s having, isn’t lost on me. It’s there, right beneath the surface, and when I add my concerns to the mix, it’s enough to make me balk. Just a bit.
"I'll think about it," I whisper, holding on to the little strand of courage I have left.
“Say yes.”
Instead of responding, I ask, "Where'd you get that scar over your right eye?" I reach out and press gently on the raised skin. I expect him to pull back, but he doesn't.
My hand shakes as I touch his warmed skin. His forehead is silky and smooth. I'd like to run my hands over every inch of it, feel it ripple beneath my fingertips.
The corner of his lips twitch. "Lincoln hit me in the head with a baseball."
"Bad reflexes on your part?"
"Wicked curveball on his," he says, his face breaking out into a full smile.
“I thought he played center field?”
“He does. But he pitched some growing up.”
We stand inches apart, my hand gently brushing down the side of his face. Although I feel like he'd stand here all night and talk to me, it’s not possible.
"I really need to get back to work," I say, trying to unlock my eyes from his.
“Dinner? This week?”
I can barely resist the look in his eye, the one that implores me to say yes. The one that makes me believe he really does want to have dinner and spend a few hours with me.
I need to get away, put some space between us while I can.
“We ran into each other tonight,” I shrug. “If we’re supposed to see each other again, then I guess we will.” I start to turn away before I completely buckle under his gaze.
“How am I supposed to get ahold of you? I don’t have your number,” he calls after me.
Heading up the steps to the Savannah Room, I glance at him over my shoulder. “You’re the Mayor. Figure it out.”
Alison
IT’S LATE WHEN I MAKE it back to my little two-bedroom rental across town. The light in the kitchen is on as I pull into the driveway and cut the engine. I see the curtains pull back and my mother peering out at me.
I make my way up the walkway, nearly tripping over one of Huxley’s baseballs. My brain is scattered, still back on the path of the gardens with Barrett.
I’d forgotten what this feels like. The excitement of sparking someone’s interest, the feeling of being desired by a man. Maybe Hayden made me feel this way early on, but if so, it was quickly replaced with something more . . . mundane. Even the handful of dates I’ve gone on since never set this kind of energy into play. The way he looks at me, the fire from his touch lingers on my skin even now.
The door swings open as I reach the threshold.
“How was work?” my mother asks, closing the door behind me.
“Good. Long,” I reply, tossing my purse on the couch and heading into the kitchen. “How did things go here? How’s Hux?”
“He did all his homework and fell asleep to cartoons. There’s a permission slip for you to sign on the kitchen table.”
The purple piece of paper is lying next to the salt and pepper shakers when we reach the kitchen. “Did he eat dinner?”
“I made spaghetti, so of course. It’s his favorite. There’s some in the fridge if you’re hungry.” She take
s a step back and eyes me carefully in the way only a mother can. “What’s going on with you, Ali?”
Turning my back to her, I run some water from the tap and take a long draw of the cool liquid, hoping it calms my reddened cheeks and stops me from blushing further.
“Nothing,” I say, leaning against the fridge.
She taps her lips with her fingertip, something she’s done my whole life. “You look flushed. Are you feeling well?”
I can’t help but laugh. I’d love to tell her that I’m feeling particularly amazing, that I haven’t felt this good, this woman-like, in years. But I don’t because she’d get all hyped up, wanting details, and I’ve learned my lesson in that department. Besides, this thing, whatever it may be, will end with dinner in the best case scenario. And, if so, that’ll be that. Nothing more.
“I’m fine, Mom. Stop.”
“Stop what? Being a mom?” she sighs. “You know I worry about you. You run yourself ragged. Between work at the restaurant, catering, school, taking care of Huxley . . .” She shakes her head and grabs her purse off the chair.
“I have a lot going on. I know. But it’s all a means to an end.”
“I know, sweetheart. But I fear you’re going to burn out.”
“Not happening,” I say, giving her a reassuring smile for the millionth time about this. “I’m not dipping into my savings to pay for school. That money is a rainy day fund, something I can build on for Huxley. Catering has to pay for school and school has to pay for my life someday so I can quit waitressing.”
“I’d rather you use the savings for school and then—”
“I know. I know you would, and I appreciate your concern. But I have a plan. I’m setting myself up like I should’ve when I was younger. I need to do these things on my own so no one can take them away from me.”
Her face sours at the reference to my ex-husband, her lips pressed tightly together. If anyone hates Hayden more than me, it’s my parents. It was hard on them to see me humiliated and broken-hearted, but they helped me pick up the pieces of my broken life.
Not that there were many pieces to reconstruct. We had clothes and personal affects when we left New Mexico and a little money. And most of that was eaten up in attorney’s fees after defending myself in Hayden’s debauchery, finding a new home and new job. I had no nest egg, no safe place, no career or degree to fall back on. Hayden took everything from me. No one will take it from me again.
“Let’s not go there, Mom. What’s done is done.”
“What’s done is done,” she repeats, tossing her purse on her shoulder. “If you’re good, I’m going to head out now. It’s late.”
“Go. Tell Daddy I said hi.”
She kisses my cheek and leaves me standing in the middle of the kitchen.
The house is quiet. I dread this part of the day, the moment I get in from work or school and Huxley is asleep and my mother is waiting on me to get home like I’m a teenager. It’s the time of day when I’m forced to look in the proverbial mirror and see myself and my situation. I’m not happy with what I see but it’s getting better.
My stomach growls, reminding me that it’s empty. Even so, I don’t feel hungry. I’m completely warm and fuzzy from head-to-toe, like I’ve taken a few swigs of cinnamon whiskey. But I haven’t. I’m buzzed on a sexy politician.
Grabbing a pen and signing Huxley’s permission slip, I pad down the hallway to his little bedroom. It’s across the hall from mine and decked out in a baseball theme.
He’s in his bed. The light from the moon shines in the windows, making his blonde hair look like it has a halo. I bend forward and listen to the slow breathing, the precious sound that never ceases to amaze me. I used to stand in his bedroom over his crib at night and just watch him sleep. After we left Hayden, I would sneak into his room late at night and try to convince myself things would be okay. That what he’d gone through at the hands of his own father wasn’t going to ruin him forever.
“Mommy?” Huxley’s tear-filled eyes met mine, both hope and misery swimming together. “Where’s Daddy?” His little voice cracked, the words leaving his mouth on a sob half-repressed, only a moment away from being a wail. “He’s coming back, right?”
I pulled him to me, wrapping my arms protectively around his shoulders. I intentionally buried his face in my stomach so he couldn’t see the river of tears cascading down my cheeks and prayed he couldn’t feel my heart breaking.
“It’ll be okay, Hux,” I whispered.
He didn’t believe me. I didn’t believe me, not really. It’s hard to believe things will be okay when you watch everything you’ve worked for, all the things you believed in for so long, go up in flames because the man you pinned all your hopes on ripped them away and doused them with gasoline.
Huxley pulled away, his face stained with wetness. “Why doesn’t Daddy love me?”
Whatever happens in my life, I won’t let that happen to him again.
Huxley’s long lashes flutter and he peers up at me with a sleepy grin. “Hey, Mom. You’re home.”
“Hi, buddy,” I say, brushing a few stray locks of hair off his forehead, pushing away the memories that have my chest aching. “How was your night?”
“Good,” he yawns, struggling to keep his eyes open. “How was work?”
“It was fine. Go back to sleep. I’ll see you in the morning, okay?” Kissing him gently, I tuck his blankets around him and blow him a kiss before leaving. As soon as the door is pulled shut, my phone begins to ring. I scurry to retrieve it before Hux hears.
Swiping it from my purse, I see Lola’s name and my spirits lift, a smile gracing my face.
"Hello?"
"I want the scoop."
I laugh and make my way into the kitchen, the room farthest from Huxley, and settle into a chair at the wooden table. "The scoop? Whatever do you mean, Lola?"
"Cut the crap, Ali. I want to know what you did with the mayor tonight. I want to know every position, every flick of the tongue."
"You will be sad to know that no tongues were flicking."
"That's not just sad. That's depressing."
"Even I have to agree with you there,” I sigh.
I fiddle with the salt shaker on the table, thinking back to the last few hours. It's a little disconcerting that he was able to make me feel so relaxed around him. I knew he had charm, but not like that. How he makes you forget you’re with him, until you look up at his face or he touches your arm.
"The entire staff was buzzing about how Jim got put in his place by Landry," Lola recalls. "Isaac overheard most of it, but I want firsthand information. Every word, every look—give it to me."
There’s no way I’m going to be able to avoid discussing this with her, although I want to. I want to keep it my little memory of Barrett, something that feels like my own. Something that makes me feel special in a completely stupid way.
Still, it’s Lola and she’ll pester me until I relent, so I have to throw her some kind of bone to shut her up.
"Isaac must’ve heard Jim telling me not to socialize with the guests after seeing me serving Barrett champagne. But Barrett told him that he had initiated the conversation and it was his party to do what he wanted."
"Barrett? First name basis?”
"He asked me to call him by his first name. Not a big deal."
"Let’s just say I served the sexy bastard champagne tonight too and I didn’t get the first name treatment. What else happened? And don’t leave out the good stuff."
"There is no good stuff, Lo. Not like you’re thinking,” I laugh. “We just took a walk. We talked about random things and that was it."
"Were any of those random things requests for sexual favors?"
"Nope."
She sighs dramatically and I laugh.
"I'd ask why you didn't offer to deliver sexual favors, but I know the answer," she says.
"And what's that?"
"You're lame,” she says matter-of-factly.
"I am not!"
/>
"Yes, you are. L-A-M-E, lame. You continue to let some dick and his dick antics ruin your life. That, my dear friend, is lame."
"No, it’s not," I fight back. “I can’t do what you do and just go have fun. It’s not that easy for me, even if I wanted it to be.”
I can’t see her do it, but I know Lola rolls her eyes. She just doesn’t get it. To her, life is one big party until she hits it big. To me, life is lying in a bedroom down the hall all snuggled up in his twin bed with baseball sheets. Whatever decisions I make directly affect him, and Huxley is more important to me than anything.
“Why wouldn’t you want it to be?” Lola asks. “You getting off tonight has nothing to do with Huxley. Hell, it might make you relax a little bit. Did you ever think about that?”
“Yes, I’ve thought about that,” I gruff into the phone. “But think about it with your head for a second, will you? You’re the one that goes on and on about Landry. You know how easy it could be to get wound up in him.”
“Did you mean the innuendo you just tossed out there? Because if so, yes. Yes. I do.”
“Damn it, Lo!” I laugh. “Listen to me. Barrett isn’t like Isaac or whatever guy you were with tonight. He’s . . .”
“Perfect?”
“Yes,” I breathe. “So far he seems to be. But that’s the thing,” I say, fueled by the point I’m ready to make. “He’s not. He’s just like the other men in his position. He’s powerful, used to getting his way. Women are toys to men like him. And—” I say, cutting her off, “—I’m not saying I’m opposed to being with him. But if that happens, it has to be under a certain set of guidelines. I have to keep some control over it because he’ll win this election and jet off to Atlanta and I’ll never hear from him again.”
She snorts. “That’s not true.”
“It is true. I’ve seen it. Hell, I’ve lived it. What happened in my marriage? With the man that promised to cherish me forever?” I pause for effect. “Oh, yeah, that’s right—he got some power and forgot about me. His wife. He swapped Huxley for a prostitute and our life for some back room deals that got him indicted and me investigated with an assault charge.”
“That didn’t stick,” she points out. “No one believed you assaulted that reporter.”
Sway (Landry Family #1) Page 4
