But Hot Tourist Guy—really, what was his name?—didn’t give off any other warning vibes. He’d been friendly to Dr. Miller yesterday morning, and watching him with his dog was just about the sweetest thing Josh had seen in ages.
Besides, everyone had bad days.
So Josh finished putting together the order and brought everything to the register with a warm smile. “How about that bacon for your dog?” he offered, racking his brain for the dog’s name. “Kylie?”
“Kaylee,” the guy corrected, meeting Josh’s eyes—and smiling, which Josh counted as a win. “I fed— Shit.”
“What? What’s wrong?”
Sighing, the guy gestured at the dog. “Forgot to clip her nails. Again.”
Josh couldn’t help but laugh as he leaned against the counter and followed Hot Tourist Guy’s eyes. “She’s still gorgeous, even without a manicure.” Like you, he added silently, letting his gaze take the long way back up to the guy’s face. It was more blatant than Josh’s usual near-invisible brand of flirting, but he needed cheering up, and it was fifty-fifty that he’d smile at being found attractive—or he’d take offense and storm out.
But the guy’s feet stayed rooted to the spot, and his eyes widened just a touch before he turned away. “Thanks. Maybe yesterday.”
Josh paused, hand over the cash register buttons. “Huh?”
The guy met Josh’s eyes. Blinked a couple of times. “Maybe yesterday morning.”
“Tomorrow morning?” Josh blurted, realizing it might be rude only after the words were out. The guy looked even more like a kicked puppy, and now Josh sounded like he was mocking him or something.
Frowning, the guy reached down to scratch at Kaylee’s pointy ears for a couple of tense seconds. Then he hunched his shoulders even more and scowled down at his feet, mumbling, “Tomorrow morning. Yeah.”
Damn it. Hating himself for having said anything, Josh rang up the transaction. “We’ll be open at six, like usual,” he said as cheerfully as he could manage.
That got a faint smile in response, though it disappeared just seconds later. With a quiet sigh, the guy slowly said, “I don’t even know when I’ll be back.” Again, he offered cash instead of a credit card, so Josh had no chance of finding out the guy’s name. This didn’t seem like the right time to ask.
Josh opened his mouth to ask where he was going, then caught himself. It was none of his business. “I’ll be here,” he said, though he probably should’ve said we, not I. Damn. Why was he making this all personal and awkward?
Probably because the guy looked like he was in desperate need of a hug.
But the best Josh could do was food, so he handed over the change and breakfast with an encouraging, “I hope your day gets better.”
The guy’s smile was practically a wince. “Not a chance, but thanks.”
Two hours later, Michael slowed his truck outside a white fence splashed with blue and red from the light bar on the sheriff department’s truck guarding the driveway. Was it legal to have deputies guarding a campaign event for a political party? Maybe Michael’s father had skirted the law by hiring off-duty law enforcement to provide security.
No, more likely he’d gotten the Knox family to do the hiring. He wasn’t stupid enough to leave a paper trail back to the governor’s office.
Already, Michael had the beginnings of a migraine just from thinking about the machinations—but that was how everything went with his family. Layered motives, hidden agendas, backstabbing deals, and buried secrets. The Baldwin family legacy.
Michael showed his DC driver’s license to the security guard, who studied it as if he couldn’t read English. He scraped the license down his clipboard, then stopped near the bottom and tapped the license against the page. With a quick, skeptical glance, he moved away, mumbling into his radio. Michael sighed, and Kaylee stuck her muzzle between the front seats, nosing at his elbow.
“Yeah, I know,” he muttered, grateful that she, at least, picked up on his frustration. Apparently his father’s staff hadn’t notified security that Michael would be attending.
It was another minute or two before the oblivious guard warily returned Michael’s license and waved him through. Michael resisted the urge to spin the tires and kick up gravel, and instead eased through the gate and up the long, winding driveway.
He vaguely recognized the Knox farm from events ten years ago, “intimate” gatherings of a hundred of then-Senator Baldwin’s best contributors and their families. The farm had a small orchard to one side of the driveway and pastures to the other, though the only livestock were horses and a few well-groomed cows suitable for winning ribbons at the county fair and providing photo ops for politically connected kids. The huge white farmhouse sat atop a low hill, surrounded by grass and neatly trimmed hedges. It was idyllic, peaceful, and perfect for exploitation.
And today was all about exploitation, with bunting and balloons in red, white, and blue. The New Hampshire state flag—a detailed gold seal on a blue background—was also prominently displayed, just in case any of the out-of-state guests forgot where they were. Not that any of them could probably recognize the flag of any state, much less a tiny one like New Hampshire. Judging by the rental cars parked on the square of dirt, about half of the guests were from somewhere else, which meant a big press presence.
Shit. Michael wasn’t surprised, but still . . . “Shit,” he told Kaylee as he steered slowly toward a kid waving two tiny flags to catch his attention. He might’ve made a joke about semaphore signals, but the sight of a dozen Support Baldwin! and Baldwin for New Hampshire! buttons rattling on the boy’s T-shirt made him freeze up.
The boy bounced up to the driver’s side. Michael rolled the window down in time to hear the kid cheerfully direct, “Left side, all the way to the end of the row!”
There were four rows of parked cars so far, and it was just past ten in the morning. Just how many people were going to be at this “friendly little barbecue” anyway? Michael considered ignoring the kid and parking all the way at the back of the cleared ground, before deciding his balance couldn’t handle it. On a good day, he and Kaylee could walk for miles. Today was not a good day.
He flipped open the center console and pulled out the blue tag he rarely bothered to hang from his rearview mirror. “I’ve got this”—he brandished the tag, racking his brain for the right word—“thing.”
That got him a blank look, followed by a shouted, “One sec!” before the kid ran off.
“Like a vampire running from a . . .” Michael’s thoughts stuttered and glitched again. Church. Stained glass. He shook his head and twisted his right arm so he could scratch at Kaylee’s muzzle. She didn’t care if he couldn’t finish a sentence. But twice in a row . . . That wasn’t good. And hadn’t he misspoken this morning, when he got breakfast from Josh the Cute Bagel Guy?
He made sure the truck was in park, relaxed into his seat, and took a deep breath, then another. By the third, Kaylee had slithered halfway onto the console so she could rest her muzzle on his forearm. She pressed down hard, and he focused all of his attention on the feel of her soft fur and bristly whiskers, the warmth of her breath puffing over the back of his hand, her gentle gaze as she watched him, attentive but not judging. Not demanding.
He made it to nineteen breaths before his heart stopped racing, then another twelve before the kid came running back, kicking up clouds of dirt. He skidded around the front of the truck and stopped by the door, saying, “You can park by the garage, over there.” He used a flag to point the way.
“Thanks.” Michael hung the handicap tag from the rearview mirror, just in case someone decided to challenge him, and put the truck in drive. Gravel crunched until, with a double thump, the truck rolled onto the smooth asphalt in front of two wide garage doors. He spun the wheel and backed onto the lawn, where nobody could block him in without trying. Clear escape routes helped him to relax, whether he was sleeping or forward deployed—or at a political fund-raiser, which was almost as
bad.
Still, it took him a good five minutes to go from turning off the engine to opening the truck door. Some of that time he spent readying his messenger bag of dog gear—cleaning supplies in case of an accident, treats, a mat so Kaylee could lie down comfortably, and so on—but the rest was just him staring out the windshield, wishing he’d said no to the chief of staff.
He’d always had trouble saying no to his parents. Hell, he’d been trained not to, because the consequences were usually worse than conceding. But not being able to say no to his dad’s flunky? That was just depressing.
Kaylee’s worried nudge finally got him moving. He slung the messenger bag across his chest, got out of the truck, and opened the back door for her to jump out. Bracing a hand on her back, above her front legs, he bent to take the leash she was holding in her mouth. The world swam, but that was more anxiety than a relapse of his balance issues.
He stood up just in time to see a wonderfully familiar woman jogging toward him, denim jacket flapping open with each step. In a disorienting reverse-mirror of how his own hair was growing out from a buzz cut, her hair was even shorter than in her online pictures.
Years ago, she would’ve thrown herself bodily at him for a hug. Now, she skidded to a halt two feet away when Kaylee surged in front of Michael, preserving his personal space.
“Heel,” he told Kaylee, who backed up to his left side. With a genuine smile, he held out his arms, saying, “Hey, sis.”
Amanda was four years younger than Michael (or three for half the year, as she’d reminded him all through their childhood) and his closest ally in the war against politics. While he’d openly rebelled at eighteen, dropping out of college so he could enlist in the Air Force, she’d gone away to Mount Holyoke, where she’d majored in gender studies and minored in . . . something. Michael couldn’t remember, but that wasn’t important. She was here, which meant he and Kaylee weren’t alone.
“I didn’t think you were back,” she mumbled against his shoulder. “Or did you come up from DC?”
“They didn’t tell you?” Michael asked as she let go. “I’m staying at the island hou— Ow!” He made a show of rubbing his arm where she’d punched him. “What was that for?”
“For not telling me, asshole!” She pouted down at Kaylee, her voice going a half-octave higher as she asked, “Is he always like this?”
Michael rolled his eyes and said, “Kaylee, say hello.” She broke position and nosed at Amanda’s hip until she got the ear scratches she so loved. “I finished physical therapy, and Kaylee’s almost done with training. I figure a summer on the island will be good for both of us.”
“Uh-huh,” Amanda said, crouching to better love on the dog. The last time they saw each other, Kaylee had been a gangly puppy, barely into her first month of obedience training. “And after the summer?”
Michael took a deep breath, dropping his hand so he could scratch Kaylee’s back, just above her vest. “I’ll probably stay. I’d rather not go up to . . . wherever they’re living when they’re not at the governor’s mansion.”
“I’ve got room in my town house. Two bedrooms.”
“In Concord?” he asked suspiciously.
Amanda looked up with a weak smile. “Yeah.”
“Where Bridges House is located.”
“And the family shelter where I work,” she protested as she stood up. “I can put you on my lease—”
“And when they’re not at Bridges House, they’re living . . .” he prompted.
“They’ve still got the farm.”
“Which is all of an hour away from Concord.” He shook his head.
Amanda sighed. “It’s New Hampshire, Mike. Everything is like an hour away.”
“Uh-huh. And that’s why I’m glad to stay on the island, with a crappy two-lane bridge between me and the rest of the world,” he said bluntly.
“Ouch.” She clutched at her chest and staggered back. “Fine, be that way.”
“Jealous?” Michael grinned. Amanda had always gotten along with their parents better than him, but that didn’t mean her relationship with them was anything like ideal. “Want to quit your job and come stay with me?”
That got him another punch in the arm.
The habits of childhood weren’t easily broken. “We are way the hell early,” Michael muttered to Kaylee and Amanda. All around them, people were rushing about, taping down kitschy red-and-white checkered tablecloths, setting up chairs and tables, testing the speakers around the low stage off to one side. Reporters were wandering everywhere, marked more by their sharp eyes and coffee cups than their cameras or assistants.
“Yep,” Amanda agreed grimly, bumping her shoulder against Michael’s. “Want to go see Mom and Dad?”
Michael snorted. “No.”
She raised an eyebrow at him. “Want to hang out here and wait for the reporters to put two and two together? The war hero veteran son—”
“Fuck that.”
She shot him a dry smile. “You do know that’s why you were invited, right?”
Michael rubbed at his forehead, trying to will away his impending migraine. “Why the hell did I say yes?”
“Because you’re an idiot,” Amanda said, tugging him toward the farmhouse where two security guards in matching black off-the-rack suits were lurking ominously on the porch. One stepped into sight, frowning at Kaylee. Typical breed prejudice, ignoring the way the big, scary dog walked calmly at his side. Tension crawled up Michael’s spine and across his shoulders.
As he reached the stairs, he raised his voice and said, “Did you know the first guide dogs ever were German shepherds, in World War I?” It was a convenient truth, one he’d practiced saying until it came out smoothly no matter how anxious or glitchy he felt.
“Guide dogs?” Amanda asked, obviously baffled. “You’re not blind.”
The sight of the security guard backing away made Michael grin. “You figured that out all by yourself, sis?”
She shook her head and crossed the porch. One of the security guards opened the door for her, but she stepped aside to let Michael in first. He had to stop himself from instinctively sending Kaylee in to check the house’s security. The guards would keep out physical threats, and . . . well, there was no way to manage the familial threat, short of moving to California.
A booming laugh rang out down the hall, surrounded by lighter, more decorous laughter. Michael’s steps faltered, and Kaylee stopped, ready to brace him if he lost his balance. “Keep going,” he murmured, trying—and failing—to ignore the ball of ice forming in his gut.
It had been eight months since he last saw his parents, when they came to DC before the winter holiday recess sent all of their political contacts home for the holidays. Michael had been walking with a cane, spending his days in physical therapy and counseling. He’d gone out to two dinners with them and seen them in passing when they made a “thank the veterans” visit to Walter Reed.
They’d treated him like glass, but underneath it, Michael’s father had projected a deep sense of You brought this on yourself. Dad had been instrumental in Michael’s admission to Dartmouth College as the next step in their thirty-year plan to turn Michael into the next political powerhouse of the Baldwins. Nowhere in that plan had there been room for Michael to drop out and enlist in the Air Force. In supply, rather than something politically useful, like flying a fighter jet or pararescue.
Their relationship was contentious, strained, full of barely hidden resentment on both sides—and that was without Dad finding out that Michael was gay.
“Think of it like a trip to the dentist,” Amanda muttered, taking Michael’s arm as they approached the open doorway, beyond which their dad was waiting, presumably with their hosts, their mom, and assorted hangers-on. “Get it over with, then get the hell out as soon as you can.”
“Yeah.” Michael took a deep breath, fist clenching around Kaylee’s leash. “Okay.”
They took the last few steps, and Michael froze in the doorway.
His dad was holding court from an armchair by an unlit fireplace, Mom sitting nearby. The people on the couches were vaguely familiar—the Knoxes, Michael assumed. Everyone had steaming cups and saucers in hand. The early hour meant that the serving tray on the sideboard held coffee, though Dad’s was doubtless spiked to give it a little kick.
“. . . been the heart of American politics—” Dad spotted Michael and Amanda and cut off in midsentence. A heartbeat later, he put aside his coffee and rose with a falsely warm grin, holding out a hand to them. “There he is!” he announced, and Michael braced himself.
“Dad—”
There was no hope of stopping him, though, once he got started. The governor rolled right on as heads turned. “My son, the war hero!”
“Hey, Dad,” Josh said, sinking into the empty chair. The cramped office was dominated by a secondhand desk—a monstrosity of scarred wood and tarnished brass—with barely enough room for two chairs and a file cabinet. Upgrading the office was on Josh’s list of business improvements, though near the bottom.
“You look exhausted,” his dad observed unhelpfully, closing the laptop lid partway.
Josh’s derisive huff turned into a yawn halfway through. “Your morning schedule sucks,” slipped out before he could stop himself.
“Yeah, it does.” Dad’s grin went sly. “Nice of you to volunteer, though. Care to tell me why?”
Josh groaned and looked out the door, through the kitchen, and into the main part of the shop. The lunch rush was just starting, but the three people working the counter—two on sandwich prep, one on register—were capable of handling things without him for five minutes. The ache in his feet had reached critical levels.
“Think I should make a fresh pot of coffee?” he asked, fumbling to change the subject. Not that it would work.
It didn’t. Dad just asked, “So, you’re dating a schoolteacher?”
“What?”
Dad shrugged. “You open the shop, you get out around two, after the lunch rush and cleanup. The elementary school lets out at three, which means—”
Change of Address Page 4
