by R. C. Martin
It takes an hour for the mix to crisp up, and I shuffle the pieces around every twenty minutes, until I’m satisfied with the golden brown color of the snack. I clean up the kitchen and change out of my work clothes between stir times, then mess around on my phone for a while. I’m pulling the finished product out to cool when the front door rattles, Mateo inserting his key into the lock. I freeze for a second, realizing that I’ve been home for over an hour and I haven’t received a single call or text from him explaining his whereabouts.
“Hey, baby,” he says as he enters, his tone completely casual.
I frown at the snack mix in front of me as I ask, “Where have you been?”
“Oh, after I went and got the paint, I decided to stop by the school and start priming the wall that I’ll be working on,” he replies. I hear it as he deposits a few things on the dining room table, his usual spot. “Then one thing led to another, and I fell into the pocket. I couldn’t stop. I got a lot of work done. They’ll be surprised when they show up tomorrow morning. It’ll still take me the rest of the week to finish, but I might be able to get it done a day early.”
Appalled that he’s telling me all of this as if he hadn’t broken his word to me, I still don’t turn to look at him when I ask, “Did you have your phone with you?”
“Yeah. Shit—I turned it off. Were you trying to reach me?”
I feel him at my back now. When he presses a quick kiss against the side of my neck, it takes a great deal of effort for me to not jerk away from him.
“Yes,” I answer, feigning a sense of calm. It doesn’t take long before my head is filled with the memory of my journey home; a memory I would never have made had Mateo been around to pick me up. Biting the inside of my cheek, I try and ignore the way my stomach tingles at the thought of Michael. When I manage to suppress the feeling a little, I find my voice and say, “It’s fine. Glad you got some work done.”
“Me, too.”
He kisses my neck again and then reaches around me, his fingers hovering over my snack mix. Instantly, I dart my hand out and smack his.
“This isn’t for you,” I insist.
The words are out of my mouth faster than I can comprehend what I’m saying or why I’m saying it.
He only mutters a lame whatever before smacking my ass and walking away from me. “I’m getting in the shower.”
When he’s almost reached the bathroom, I finally look at him. Watching as he disappears behind the closed door, I take a deep breath and then shift my attention back to the cooling snack in front of me. It wasn’t until Mateo tried to take some that it hit me. I didn’t make the mix for me. I certainly didn’t make it for Mateo. And with my head still swirling with thoughts of Michael, that only leaves one other person.
Biting down on my lip, I look to the dining room table, wondering if Mateo has left out his phone. When I see it laying amongst some of his art supplies, I hurry toward it and power it on. Anxiously looking over my shoulder, I wait impatiently for the lock screen to appear. As soon as it pops up, I type in his code and find our thread of text messages. I delete the four I sent him earlier, and wipe his phone of any record of my voicemails, too. That done, I then power off his device and put it back where I got it.
I tell myself that it’s for the best. I convince my conscience that I’ve just prevented another argument. If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that I’d rather not get into it with Mateo again. I compile a list of reasons why what I did wasn’t deceitful but smart, all the while avoiding the real reason I erased the evidence of his forgetfulness.
I don’t want to tell him how I got home.
That memory is mine, and I don’t want to share.
WHILE MATEO REMAINED blissfully ignorant of the anger I felt toward him last night, that didn’t stop me from preventing him from using my car today. I told him that I needed it. That I had some errands to run. It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.
Except, I don’t know if unsuccessfully stalking the governor actually counts as an errand.
My stomach is in knots as I pace back and forth in front of the statue that sits before the Colorado State Capitol Building. I’m sure that any minute now, some huge security guard in a state patrol uniform is going to come out here and arrest me for looking suspicious. My imagination fills with scenarios where they confiscate my purse and test my Foster Girls’ Mix for traces of poison or something. I’ve been here for nearly a half an hour, and I’m sure I’m starting to look shady as hell.
The truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing here. Yes, I want to see Michael. I want to thank him for his kindness yesterday by showing him a little of my own. I thought about it all night. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. While I know that I probably shouldn’t be here, and I probably shouldn’t want to see him as much as I do, I have to know. I can’t wait. I need to see if everything that happened between us last night was a fabrication of my imagination or if it was real.
Only, it wasn’t until I got here that it dawned on me that I can’t just walk into the Capitol and ask for an audience with the governor. So while I do want to see Michael, I’m pretty sure it’s not going to happen. Why I’m still pacing outside of the building like I’ll somehow be able to think of a way to get inside is not something I can explain. My false hope is making me stupid. Yet, I can’t make myself leave. Not yet.
Instead, I readjust my purse on my arm, I look up at the old, stately building in front of me, and I continue to pace—like the stupid little girl that I am.
Michael
I’M RETURNING FROM a lunch meeting with the Adjutant General and Assistant Adjutant General of the Department of Military Affairs and Public Safety when my phone alerts me to a message. I pull it out of my pocket and find a text from my sister, Abigail. When I open it, I see that it’s a group text, reminding the whole family that Elliana’s birthday party is this Saturday at two o’clock. Sure that everyone will start chiming in, I turn on the do not disturb feature and slip my phone back into my pocket.
I won’t forget my niece’s birthday party. Even if I do, Veronica will make sure that I remember.
Clay clears his throat, effectively pulling me from my thoughts as he mutters, “Sir?”
I look over at him to find he’s got his attention focused elsewhere. Following his line of sight, I stop in my tracks when I spot her. She’s not wearing the usual black attire in which I’ve grown accustomed to seeing her. As she paces around the statue, I take her in from head to toe.
Her hair is loose, framing her face and brushing the tops of her shoulders—which are covered in a white t-shirt. When she turns her body in my direction, I can see that there’s bold, black font on the front. Squinting, I make out the words: You Gotta Risk It To Get The Biscuit, and a smirk pulls at the corner of my mouth just as she turns and gives me a view of her back. She’s got her shirt tied into a knot at the side of her hip, and the pastel printed skirt she wears hugs the little curve of her ass and slim legs, stopping mid-thigh. My eyes trail down to her feet, tucked into a pair of flat, canvas looking shoes—doing nothing for her height. When she makes another turn and faces me once more, she looks up at the Capitol Building and purses her lips to one side of her face.
She’s probably biting the inside of her cheek, too.
She’s adorable when she’s nervous.
I frown at the thought and mentally take a step back, forcing myself to remember where I am; to remember who I am. Trudging my way back to reality, I wonder what she’s doing here.
“Sir?” Clay repeats.
This time, when I shift my attention in his direction, I find him staring right at me.
“What do you want to do here?”
His question begs for another. The fact that he’s asked, the fact that he thought it prudent to point her out to me, when I’m sure I would have waltzed inside of the building without noticing her, it makes me question if what happened between Blaine and I last night was more significant than I was willing to admit when I bid her
goodnight. That question breeds more questions—questions that have me rooted in this spot, trying to justify a few minutes alone with the little brunette who has seen fit to step foot on my territory this time.
I look down at my wristwatch, taking note that I have a meeting with the Lieutenant Governor in less than a half an hour. While that doesn’t leave me with much time, it’s enough to ask a few more questions. My mind made up, I tip my chin in her direction before doling out my instructions.
“I’m going to my office. Get her through security.”
“Yes, sir.”
Blaine
LOOKING DOWN AT myself for the fourth time, I curse my outfit choice.
I should have just worn my work clothes.
While they aren’t exactly business attire, they’re a hell of a lot closer than what I’ve got on. I barely manage not to pout as Michael’s security guard leads me past another group of men huddled in conversation, all of whom are in suits. Even the women who eye me suspiciously have plenty of reason, every single one of them dressed in their professional attire.
And if the people who do belong here weren’t enough to remind me that I don’t, the absolutely gorgeous interior design of the grand facility makes it crystal clear.
I think about turning around and running out of here as quickly as possible, but then my escort stops abruptly. Halting a couple steps behind him, I look around the room. It’s quite spacious, a fully-occupied desk with a vacant chair situated by the window. Then, what looks like a living room plucked out of some wealthy estate designed in the turn of the century—the turn of the twentieth century—takes up the rest of the space. Hearing a woman’s voice, I peek around Michael’s guard and realize that we must be in the governor’s reception area. I come to this conclusion when I see Michael standing in an open doorway that I assume is his office.
I stop thinking entirely when he looks up from the stack of papers the woman is explaining to him. His eyes meet mine, and I know immediately that my imagination hasn’t been playing tricks on me. When he smiles, the knots of anxiety in my stomach give way to something else—something much more pleasant and tingly—something that makes me smile at him in return.
“Heidi, I’m going to need a moment,” he informs her, interrupting whatever it is she was saying.
“Governor?” she asks, looking up at him in surprise.
“I have a guest I must see to.” He tilts his chin in my direction, and she turns to look at me.
Her gaze is unassuming, but still obviously one of appraisal, and it takes a great deal of effort not to cower behind the man in front of me. She’s older than I am, but I wouldn’t guess that she has more than a few years on me. She’s very attractive, in a strikingly understated way. She wears makeup, but only just enough for you to hardly notice. Her pencil skirt and ruffled blouse make her look classy, and the stiletto heels on her feet give her that contemporary flare that suits her. For a second, and for reasons that don’t seem rational, I’m jealous of her and her station.
Returning her focus toward Michael, Heidi reminds him, “You have a meeting—”
“Yes,” he says, interrupting her. “In twelve minutes. If I’m still occupied with Miss Foster when the Lieutenant Governor arrives, offer my apologies, tell him I won’t be but a moment, and then ring my phone. However, I don’t anticipate that will be necessary.”
My stomach drops as he doles out his instructions, my anxiety returning in an instant. Seeing him in his element, listening to him speak with such authority, it makes me feel arrogant and naïve for coming here today. Not only am I interrupting what is probably a meticulously planned out schedule, but his certainty that he won’t need more than a few minutes with me before he’s finished leaves me questioning him all over again. While I would never, ever deem myself important enough for more than five minutes spared during his work day, I can’t silence the doubt that creeps into my thoughts.
Have I managed to confuse his kindness for something else? Is he indulging me? Am I about to be disappointed? Is disappointment what I want? It definitely feels like a much safer and appropriate outcome.
Fuck—what am I doing here?
“Miss Foster?”
It isn’t until he says my name that I realize he’s now standing alone in his open doorway. Heidi is on her way back to her desk, and Michael’s guard has stepped aside to allow me to pass. Feigning a semblance of confidence, I close the distance between us and step into his office. He murmurs something I don’t hear behind me, and then the door clicks closed. Feeling nervous, my eyes bounce around the room, taking in various details.
The walls are made of intricately carved wood, giving the room dimension while at the same time speaking of the history of the building. The floors are also made of wood—as is the large desk in the middle of the room, making the space very masculine. The two windows behind his desk offer enough light to brighten the place up, and the heavy drapes remind me of another time and another era. The Colorado state seal hangs on the wall between the windows, and there’s a chandelier—a chandelier—hanging above the desk.
“I’m sorry I don’t have more time to give you.” His smooth, deep voice is closer than it was a moment ago, and I whip my head around just in time to see him as he walks by me. He props himself up against the front of his desk, setting aside the folder full of papers he was discussing when I was escorted into his presence.
“You’re busy. I understand. I didn’t mean to—I mean, I’m sorry for just dropping by. It was rude and—”
“Blaine…” He smiles at me, his blue eyes glowing with both warmth and amusement. “We don’t have much time. Don’t waste it with unwarranted apologies. Please—sit,” he invites, holding his hand out toward one of the two wing-backed chairs situated in front of his desk.
I tighten my fist around the straps of my bag and shake my head at him, anxiously explaining, “It’s okay. I really just wanted to drop by and say thank you. I, um—well…”
Coughing out an embarrassed laugh, I reach inside of my purse for the heavy, blue mason jar full of Foster Girls’ Mix. I furrow my brow, appalled that I’m actually doing this, and then take a step toward him as I thrust the jar out for him to take. I don’t look him in the eye, suddenly feeling stupid. It’s hard to stand in this room—full of so much history, and significance, and a sense of power that I’ll never fully understand—while offering him cereal snack mix without feeling like an idiot.
“For me?” he asks, taking the jar from my grasp.
I chance a look at him. While he cradles the gift in his hands, his eyes are still focused on me.
“It’s a family recipe,” I start to say, his steady gaze encouraging me to speak. “My mom and I must have made hundreds of batches before we decided that this was the one we’d call ours. I make it a habit to always have the ingredients on hand, just in case. I know it might seem like a silly gift offering, but it’s one of the fondest memories I have of my mother. Anyway, I just wanted to thank you. For last night.”
His eyes still not looking away from mine, he doesn’t speak for what feels like a full minute. Much like at the rail stop, I feel uncomfortable in our silence. Not because it’s unsettling, but because it’s heavy with all that we aren’t saying. I’ve never experienced something so terrifying in all my life.
“Chex Mix. You came all the way down here to give me Chex Mix?”
My cheeks heat in a blush as I whisper, “Foster Girls’ Mix.”
His lips twitch with a small smile as he sets the jar on the desk before standing to his full height. Taking a step toward me, he amends, “You came all the way down here to give me Foster Girls’ Mix.”
“Yeah,” I breathe. He’s standing so close to me now, I have to tilt my head back to keep eye contact with him.
“Is that all?”
My heart is thumping so hard that I can hear the rush of blood in my ears as it races through my veins. I have no idea how to admit to him what I’m feeling, or what I was feeling last
night. I don’t know how to tell him that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about him since we said goodbye. So, like a coward, I clamp my lips closed tight, pulling the nub in my cheek between my teeth.
“That’s not all,” he says.
As he answers his own question, he reaches up with one hand and gently takes hold of my face, easing the pad of his thumb from the corner of my mouth to the side of my cheek. My lips part in a gasp, and his gaze drops. Not a second later, his thumb traces along my bottom lip, and I can’t breathe.
“Have dinner with me.”
My eyes widen in astonishment at the same time that my stomach clenches in excitement, and my feet guide me a step closer to the stunning man in front of me.
“Michael,” I hardly manage.
He shakes his head, taking another step toward me. He frowns, looking almost angry, but then lifts his other hand, slipping his fingers into my hair as he holds the back of my neck.
“You didn’t just come here to give me Foster Girls’ Mix.”
I shake my head, and the crease in his brow intensifies.
“Have dinner with me.”
Feeling like one of us needs to state the obvious, I remind him, “You’re married.”
“You have a boyfriend,” he counters.
My gut wrenches, and I feel guilty for thinking of his wife before thinking of Mateo. Yet, at the same time, I can’t make myself pull out of his hold. He feels good—his hands feel good. Plus, the way that he smells—like cologne and something else, something else I can’t put my finger on—it makes me wonder what he tastes like. I know that what I’m feeling is wrong, but I can’t help it.
