by Regina Kyle
“Simple. She’s interested. I’m not.”
Gabe choked back a laugh. “Blonde. Blue eyes. Big boobs. I would’ve thought she was just your type.”
A shadow of something Gabe couldn’t quite identify crossed Cade’s face. “Maybe my type’s changed.”
“Yeah. And maybe Jimmy Hoffa’s alive and well and living in a tent in my parents’ backyard.”
“Here you go, boys.” The bartender plunked two foamy mugs down in front of them and batted her eyes at Cade. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
“I’ll bet,” Cade muttered, taking a sip of his beer as she sauntered away. He eyed Gabe over his mug. “Now you. Fess up.”
“There’s nothing to fess. Devin and I are hanging out. That’s it.”
“So you’re friends with benefits? Is that what you’re saying?” Cade took another slug of beer and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Because that’s always been more my scene than yours.”
“Not my choice.”
“Man, oh, man. This chick has you tied up in knots.”
“You can say that again.”
“So what are you going to do about it?”
“Do?” Gabe gulped his Black & Tan, needing something to take his mind of the ridiculous conversation they were having. “Nothing.”
“When did you become such a pussy?”
“I am not a pussy.”
“What else do you call someone who’s afraid to man up and tell the woman he loves how he feels about her?” Cade asked.
Gabe almost spat beer at him. “Who said anything about love?”
“You did.” Cade gestured toward the mirror on the other side of the bar. “See for yourself. The hangdog expression. The dark circles under your eyes. Your even more sour than usual disposition.”
“Shit.”
Was he that obvious? Apparently.
Cade drummed his fingers on the bar rail. “I repeat, what are you going to do about it, Casanova?”
“What can I do?” Gabe asked. “If I—as you so eloquently put it—man up, she’ll freak.”
“You don’t know that.”
“She’s not exactly in the market for a long-term relationship. She’s been burned one too many times before.”
“Give her a chance. Until you do, you’re living in limbo, waiting for the other shoe to drop.” Cade swiveled on his stool to face Gabe. “Which is worse, knowing or not knowing?”
Gabe grimaced and looked away, pretending to watch whatever game was playing on the flat-screen at the end of the bar. As much as he didn’t want to admit it, the guy had a point. “I thought you didn’t like Devin.”
“I don’t. For me. But for you...” Cade paused. When he started speaking again, all hints of joking were gone. “Weirdly enough, I can see you guys together. She’s your other half. The yin to your yang. The Beyoncé to your Jay-Z.”
Gabe turned back to his friend. “Pretty strong words from a confirmed bachelor.”
“Who said I was a confirmed bachelor?” Cade pushed his empty mug across the bar and signaled for a refill. “I just haven’t met the right one yet. You have. Anyway, she’s a damn sight better than that ice princess you almost married.”
Jesus Christ. How was it everyone else had seen through Kara before he did? Thank God she’d turned him down. Otherwise he might never have known what it was really like to have your ass handed to you on a platter by love.
“So what do you say?” Cade prodded him. “Are you going to step up to the plate and go for it?”
“Yeah. I am.” Gabe downed the rest of his Black & Tan and set his empty mug down next to Cade’s. “But I’m warning you. You better be ready to buy me another twenty rounds if it all goes to shit.”
“I’m in. As long as there’s no crying.” Cade pushed back his stool and stood. “Enough male bonding. Come on. It’s time for me to school you in darts, too.”
* * *
GABE STEPPED UP to a table under a sign that read Nonni Zaneta’s Fried Dough.
“Two zeppole,” he said, using the traditional word his mother had taught him for the deep-fried treat. “Extra sauce.”
“Just powdered sugar on mine,” Devin corrected.
“Powdered sugar?” Gabe teased. “What kind of Italian are you?”
“The Hispanic kind.”
“Look around.” He gestured at the street, packed with people of all shapes and sizes, many dressed in the red, white and green of the Italian flag and gorging themselves on sausage and peppers, pizza and cannoli. “It’s the Feast of San Gennaro. Today, everyone’s Italian.”
She looked wistful. “I wish Victor could have come. He loves fried dough. But all these sights and sounds and smells would have overwhelmed him.”
“Maybe next year. And we can bring him some zeppole the next time we visit.”
“He’d like that.” She tapped a loose fist to her chest, making Gabe feel like a superhero for a simple suggestion.
Trying to keep his emotions in check, he reached in his pants pocket for a twenty to pay the vendor. His fingers brushed against the key he’d had made that morning and put on a ring with the Matisse family crest and the slogan “Keep Calm and Paint.”
He wasn’t stupid enough to get down on one knee and propose to Devin at the festival. Way too soon for that. But he wanted her to know that he was all in, one hundred percent, for the duration. And giving her her own key to his apartment would send that message loud and clear.
“Nelson.” Thaddeus Holcomb’s voice cut through the crowd like a hot knife through mozzarella. “There you are.”
Gabe handed Devin her sugared dough and put a hand on her back.
“Mr. Holcomb.” With one hand on Devin and the other laden with zeppole, Gabe could only nod at his boss. “I thought we weren’t meeting until one.”
“Got here a little early. Looks like we had the same idea.” He waved toward Nonni Zaneta’s. “Sustenance before schmoozing.”
Holcomb turned his attention to Devin. “And who’s this lovely lady?”
Gabe slid his hand around her waist. “I’d like you to meet my girlfriend, Devin.”
She stiffened at girlfriend. In truth, he didn’t like the word any more than she did. It made them sound like goddamned teenagers. But it would have to do, until he could convince her to take on another title. Like fiancée. Or wife.
“It’s a pleasure.” Holcomb’s eyes flitted up and down Devin’s frame, no doubt taking in the way her skirt hugged her thighs and her V-neck top dipped just low enough to show a hint of smooth, round cleavage, emblazoned with the bright reds, oranges and yellows on the crest of her phoenix tattoo. “I can see why you’ve been hiding her.”
Devin tensed again. Gabe smoothed the cotton of her blouse in what he hoped was a calming gesture. He grinned when she relaxed against him.
“So today’s the big day, eh? Think you’re ready to greet the populace?”
Holcomb unbuttoned his suit jacket and Gabe bit back a smile. The guy never went anywhere without a coat and tie. Gabe had briefly considered donning one of his custom Armanis, but Devin had convinced him he’d be professional but more relatable in khakis and a polo shirt.
“Yes, sir, I...”
“Oh, he’s ready, all right,” Devin interrupted. “I hope you’ve drafted your press release endorsing him.”
Holcomb frowned. “She knows about our arrangement?”
“Of course.” Gabe barely restrained himself from breaking into a victory dance right there in front of his boss and everyone else at the damned festival. Devin might not want to admit she loved him, but the fact that she’d leaped to his defense spoke volumes. “We don’t have any secrets.”
“Touching.” Holcomb nodded, an amused expression on his face. “And idealistic.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Devin asked, licking powdered sugar from her lip. Gabe thought he saw Holcomb clench his hands for a split second before releasing them.
“You’ll find out soon enough
,” Holcomb said. “The campaign trail can test even the strongest relationship. Speaking of which...”
He held his hand out to a middle-aged woman striding briskly toward him in a crisp, white pantsuit, her hair pulled back into a neat bun. “Here’s my beautiful wife.”
“There you are.” She took her husband’s hand, bestowing him with a bright smile before fixing her eyes on Gabe.
“You must be Gabe. I’ve heard so much about you,” she said, her voice polite but measured, like every word was calculated. The perfect political wife, a carbon copy of Kara in twenty years. “All good, of course.”
He looked at Devin in her sexy-as-hell, so-not-corporate-America clothes, her ink proudly displayed, chowing down on fried dough, then back to Holcomb’s wife, standing rigidly, one hand extended for him to shake. For what seemed like the millionth time he said a silent prayer of thanks he’d dodged that bullet. Sure, he wanted to be district attorney and kick Jack’s ass to the curb in the process. But not enough to change who he was. Or who he loved.
“Nice to meet you, too.” Gabe shook her hand. Before he could introduce Devin, Holcomb gave his wife a gentle push.
“What do you say we let the ladies explore on their own while we press the flesh. No need to bore them with politics.”
Now it was Gabe’s turn to tense up. How was he supposed to do this without her?
“You’ll be fine.” Devin stood on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. “Just like at the pub crawl. And the ballet.”
“I had you with me then,” he muttered, low enough that Holcomb wouldn’t be able to hear him.
“And I’m with you today. Metaphysically speaking, that is.” She planted a quick kiss on his cheek and dropped to her heels.
“What about you?” he asked.
“I’ll be fine, too.” She nudged him toward his boss. “Go. Mingle. Just remember, good communication is more about listening than talking. People want to know you care about what they have to say. And if that doesn’t work, picture them in their underwear.”
“She’s right. Except for the underwear part. That never works.” Holcomb checked his watch. “We’ll meet back here at four. That should give us plenty of time to greet the masses.”
Devin gave him a cheery wave as his boss’s wife led her down the street.
Holcomb threw an arm around Gabe’s shoulder and steered him in the opposite direction. “Don’t worry, my boy. You’re in good hands. And so is your young lady.”
Right, Gabe thought. Just what I’m afraid of.
17
THE MINUTE SHE was sure the men were out of sight, Devin let her smile falter and her shoulders drop.
Damn. Keeping up appearances was tough. Now she understood why movie stars lost it on the paparazzi.
“Exhausting, isn’t it?” The older woman put a sympathetic hand on Devin’s forearm.
“You can say that again.”
“How about we find somewhere we can sit and talk?”
Great. Just what Devin wanted. A cozy chat with her boyfriend’s boss’s wife. She ignored the way her insides churned at the word boyfriend and pasted her phony smile back on, praying it looked authentic. “Sounds good.”
They fought their way through the crowd for a few blocks until they spotted a restaurant across the street with available sidewalk seating. A short wait later, a hostess showed them to a table under a red-and-white-striped awning and handed them two menus.
“What do you say to cappuccino and tiramisu?” Mrs. Holcomb closed her menu and laid it on the table. “My treat.”
Devin wet her suddenly dry lips. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know. I want to.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Holcomb.” Devin put her menu on top of the older woman’s.
“Please. Call me Louise. No need for formalities between fellow political wives.”
Devin jerked back so hard she almost knocked over the table. She reached out a hand to steady it. “Oh, Gabe and I aren’t married.”
“Not yet.” Louise’s smile reached her twinkling, honey-brown eyes. “But I saw the way he looked at you. That boy didn’t want to leave your side. It’s only a matter of time before he pops the question.”
No, no, no, no, no. She had to be wrong. They’d been clear from the start that whatever they were doing, it was all fun and games, nothing serious and definitely nothing leading to the altar. Hadn’t they?
“And from the way you looked at him, I’m fairly certain what your answer will be.”
A waiter came, took their order and spirited their menus away. Devin smoothed down her skirt, which had the added benefit of allowing her to wipe her sweaty palms. “We’ve only been dating a few weeks.”
“Sometimes that’s all it takes. I knew Teddy was the man for me after our first date.”
“Must have been some date,” Devin mumbled.
Louise chuckled. “He took me bowling. I beat his pants off. Twenty-seven years of marriage, and he still won’t admit he let me win.”
Twenty-seven years? Devin didn’t think she knew anyone married that long, except maybe Gabe’s parents. In her world, the average life expectancy of a marriage was measured in single digits.
“So.” Louise sat back in her chair and folded her hands in her lap. “Is there anything you’d like to ask me?”
“About what?”
“About life in the political spotlight.”
“Spotlight?”
“You have no idea what you’re in for, do you?” Louise paused for the waiter, who had returned with their drinks and desserts. He set them down and she dismissed him with a nod and a quick but warm “thank you” before continuing. “During the campaign, you’ll be living under a microscope. Every word you say, every move you make, will be dissected and analyzed in the court of public opinion.”
Devin nibbled at her tiramisu, not sure how to respond.
“Then, if Gabe is elected, he’ll be the face of the criminal-justice system for the entire city. And so will you, by extension.”
“What are you trying to tell me?” Devin let her fork fall to her plate with a clang. “That I can’t hack it?”
Louise smiled indulgently and sipped her cappuccino. “To the contrary. You strike me as a young woman who can handle just about anything. But you should know exactly what you’ll be up against.”
“And what is that?”
“The press will pick you apart. Your clothes, your hair, your lifestyle. And it’s your job to smile, nod and look pretty. You can’t respond, can’t defend yourself. It can be frustrating, maddening even. But worth it, if you love him.” Louise cut off a tiny corner of her tiramisu and lifted it to her mouth. “And I can tell you do.”
There she goes again. How could this woman know with such certainty what Devin herself was so unsure of?
Devin started to deny it for a second time, but Louise cut her off with a wave of her fork.
“Never mind me. I’ve scared you, and that wasn’t my intention. Let’s enjoy our dessert. Tell me about your artwork.” She gestured at the nymph on Devin’s shoulder. “I’ve always wanted to get a tattoo. Something discreet, maybe on my ankle or my hip. Does it hurt much?”
They passed the rest of the meal talking about more comfortable topics, like music and art and the annoying habit men had of not putting the cap back on the toothpaste. When they were done eating, they walked the fair, stopping occasionally to look at the displays. Devin was surprised to find that Louise was recognized a few times in her own right.
“For my charity work,” she explained after talking with one particularly enthusiastic fan. “One of the few benefits of notoriety. You can use your fame to bring attention to causes you believe in. It’ll also get you prime seating at Estela.”
For a moment Devin pictured herself handing one of those ridiculous, oversize checks to Ariela for Turn the Page. Then she brought herself up short. What the hell was she thinking? There wasn’t any future for her and Gabe. And there wasn’t going to be any mon
ey for Turn the Page, either.
Louise stopped in front of a souvenir stand packed with everything from Italian cookbooks and postcards to religious figurines. She pulled her cell phone out of her purse and checked the time. “It’s almost four. I think we’ve given the boys enough time.”
She headed off down Mulberry Street with Devin at her heels. Man, the woman could move, even in four-inch pumps. And after hours at the festival, eating, drinking and rubbing elbows with the crowd, her white suit remained as pristine as it was when Devin had first seen her.
Devin looked down at her own outfit. Her favorite Docs—pink, with vintage daisies—looked like someone had stepped all over them wearing steel-toed work boots. Her blouse had slipped dangerously low on one boob and her skirt had a coffee stain the size of Long Island Sound.
In short, she was a hot mess. Definitely not power-wife material.
“Where are we going?” she asked, trying to adjust her shirt and keep up with Louise at the same time. “The festival goes on for blocks. They could be anywhere.”
“If I know my husband—and I do—I know exactly where they are.”
Devin followed her to the corner of Grand and Mott, where festival organizers had set up a makeshift stage. Clusters of people stood listening to three tenors singing “O Sole Mio.”
“There they are.” Louise pointed to a group at one corner of the stage, and Devin could pick out Gabe’s close-cropped, dark head above the rest.
“Just as I suspected,” Louise said, picking up the pace. “Teddy’s a sucker for Italian music. You’d never know his family dates back to the Mayflower. And look, Senator and Mrs. Humphries are with them. Wonderful. I haven’t seen them in ages.”
A distinguished-looking older couple stood with Gabe’s boss. As she got closer, Devin saw they weren’t alone. A younger version of Louise was chatting with Gabe a short distance away, one hand clinched possessively on his forearm, her perfectly styled blond bob swinging as she laughed at something he said.
Kara.
Devin lagged behind Louise, who continued at full speed toward the group. After a few paces, she stopped to observe the drama. It was like watching a silent movie. The older gentleman—Senator Humphries—motioning for Gabe and his daughter to join them. Laughing, pumping Gabe’s arm, congratulating him for something or another. Gabe’s boss joining in, patting Gabe on the back, shaking his hand. The women, smiling, nodding, standing by silently and looking pretty, just like Louise described.
