I’m not. I still need a moment. “Who is it?”
“Jared Rankin. With the Conover campaign.”
I almost laugh that Trey needs to explain it. I still haven’t told him about our … relationship? I go to my office to take the call.
“Do you like them?” Jared’s voice is husky.
“What?”
“Shit. Did I just ruin the surprise? I sent you flowers.”
I take the phone back to the outer office and lift the vase from Trey’s desk. Inside the bouquet, on a little plastic spear, is an envelope. I read the note.
Try to enjoy these for one fucking minute, Grace. —JR
I laugh out loud. “It’s not like any bouquet I’ve ever seen.”
He snorts. “It better not be. Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to get Oregon grape in D.C.?”
“You sent me my state flower?”
“You should move to Georgia. It’s easier to send a crate of peaches than cuttings of Oregon grape.” He sounds exasperated, but I love this weird, sweet gesture.
“Do you do this for all the candidates you vet? Are you sending orange blossoms to Florida right now?”
“Stop it, Grace. I’m sending them to you. Just you. No one else.”
No one else. That thought warms me and freaks me out a little. We’ve never defined the terms of our relationship, if it’s even a relationship at all. Maybe it’s just fucking, with a little tenderness thrown in when we need it.
When we let ourselves just be Grace and Jared, not the consultant and the candidate.
I decide to admit the fear that’s been pecking at me all morning.
“I need to know if Rivera is real. If Conover’s going to choose him.” I don’t tell Jared the rest—I need to know which horse to choose for this race. I need to be on a winning ticket.
I need to do this.
“I can’t tell you if I’m vetting Rivera.”
“Fine, then. Can you tell me why he killed his own presidential bid? Because ‘I want to spend more time with my family’ is a stinking pile of bullshit. He might as well have said Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny are real.”
“Confidentially?”
“Jared. You know me.”
“And now I know a bit more about him.” Jared is quiet on the line for a beat and I almost interrupt him with another reassurance. I need to know what I’m up against. “He had a car crash.”
“Alcohol? Drugs?”
“No.”
“Did he hit a pedestrian? Was it reckless driving?” I’m trying to tick off all the ways he could be at fault. All the things that could potentially kill him on the campaign trail.
“No. He wasn’t even hurt. His airbags worked. He refused the ambulance.”
“Then what?”
“The passenger in his car didn’t.”
My lips form a silent O.
“There’s a paper trail. It’s faint, but if he goes national, someone’s going to find it. She was taken to the hospital, treated for minor stuff, and released.”
“And I take it she wasn’t his wife or daughter?”
“Good guess, Grace. She was a pretty volunteer on his campaign. And she never worked there again. By the next week, he was very interested in spending more time with his family, and not very interested in the run for president.”
“What does Rivera have to say for himself?”
Jared snorts, and I can imagine his hard expression, his bullshit detector working overtime. “He was giving her a ride home after a long session in the office calling constituents.”
“How very generous of him.”
“Look, Grace, this isn’t a torpedo. It might come out and be hardly a blip. It’s common. Politicians fuck around. Hell, if we were in France, it would be expected.”
“But it’s not expected here.” I frown, considering my own situation. “And as long as it’s not too egregious, men get a pass for their indiscretions.”
“Rivera will get a pass on this one. It’s a narrative that wouldn’t make it past the weekend. He’s stacked up months of cozy pictures with his family since—voters are more likely to ignore it if it looks like ancient history rather than being caught in the act.”
“So it’s a non-issue?”
“It’s not a dealbreaker,” Jared confirms, without confirming whether Conover would still consider Rivera a viable running mate.
On one hand, Lauren’s telling me I can’t even date during the campaign if I want to get on Darrow’s ticket. On the other, Rivera can mess around with a campaign volunteer and still get picked by Conover.
Fuck that. “I smell a double standard.”
“If this were fair, it wouldn’t be politics, Grace.” Jared chuckles. “And it would be a hell of a lot less fun.”
Chapter Thirty-One
The second bomb drops with dinner, in a hail of beeps and buzzes, which makes Mama Bea frown at Trey for pulling out his phone to check it at the table.
“Sorry, I’ll turn mine off,” I promise, fumbling in my jacket pocket to switch off the incessant text tone.
“No, Grace, you’re gonna want to see this.” Trey points his phone to me and I read the headline: Boyle pulls out; backs Conover.
“Holy—”
“Grace,” Mama Bea warns.
“Sorry, Mama Bea. It’s just—wow.”
“It’s a huge deal,” Trey adds. “This is a game-changer—for Conover, for you, and for the whole election!” He jumps up from the table and switches on the television in the living room.
I glance at Mama Bea, who absolutely hates television during dinner. She picks up her plate and Trey’s and walks to the couch. “Come on, Grace. Looks like this is a special occasion.”
We watch the news roll in with rapt attention, Trey taking bites of his food and jotting notes feverishly. I just sit there like a lump, stunned, the possibilities racing through my head.
This changes everything.
Now it’s a two-horse race, and I have the potential to be on either ticket—or neither. I can’t get ahead of myself.
Boyle backing Conover could shift the balance of power in Conover’s favor, as Boyle releases his delegates. It could put him ahead of Darrow.
It could make Boyle a viable running mate for Conover.
That thought chills my blood and I turn my attention to my phone as the news anchor cycles back again to repeat what I already know. Six messages, four calls. In the space of ten minutes.
Jared: Grace! Pick up your phone for OFM!!
I grin at Jared’s shouty little text. Of course he’s going to light up my phone. So I torture him a bit.
Me: What’s OFM?
Jared: One fucking minute! Answer my call, woman!!!!
The vibration of my silenced phone immediately follows Jared’s text.
“I’m here. But no shouting.” With all those exclamation points in text, I need Jared to chill a little so he doesn’t blow out my eardrum.
“Where the hell are you?”
“I’m at Trey’s and Mama Bea’s. Where are you?”
“Outside your fucking apartment waiting for you.”
“You could have called.”
“You could have been here. Like you’ve been every other night this week.”
“You’ve had me chained to my laptop, stuffing my head with policy.”
“I’ll tell you what I’d like to stuff—”
“Stop. Go for a walk and get yourself dinner. I haven’t finished mine, but I’ll be home in a bit.” I hang up without waiting for a reply, and look up guiltily at Trey and Mama Bea, sorry I have to eat and run.
Trey arches a knowing brow. “Is this Mr. Oregon Grape Bouquet?”
“How’d you know what kind of flowers he sent me?”
“Classy guy. Takes an interest. Makes it personal,” Trey says. “And also he asked for time on your calendar through noon tomorrow, but asked me not to tell you yet.”
“And you just gave it to him?”
“He
y, I can’t mess with a hopeless romantic. I’m a hopeless romantic.” Trey flutters his lashes and both Mama Bea and I laugh. “Anyway, you were smiling when you got those flowers, so I guessed he was OK.”
“You guessed right.”
***
I’m not prepared for the ferocity with which Jared attacks me when I get out of the cab at my apartment. He’s got his hands on my ass, his mouth on my neck, and he’s breathing the dirtiest words into my ear.
“If you don’t unlock this door in two seconds, I’m going to fuck you right here on the sidewalk,” Jared growls.
I push him back. “Get off me, and I’ll get my key in the lock.”
Jared spins me away from him, but his fingers trace up the front of my skirt, pressing into the apex of my thighs. “I have to have you now, Grace. Every way I’ve imagined I could have you this week. Every way you want me, even if you can’t say the words.”
I grind against his erection and twist the key, pulling open my apartment door and almost tripping to the elevator with the press of Jared behind me.
My little ritual—keys, Ethan, light—is disrupted by Jared’s rough hands, pulling me against him, his breath in my hair, his hard chest against mine.
“Wait—” I step away from him, toward Ethan’s picture, and touch the glass.
Breakable, just as he was.
Thoughts of Ethan get my mind out of the gutter, to the one thing Aliza forced me to admit I want most: I want to be on the ticket. “Are we going to talk about Boyle?”
Jared runs a hand through his hair and massages his neck. “Why not? I’ve been talking about him for ten hours.”
The frenetic, sexual charge is gone from the room and I lead him to the couch. I open some wine and he opens his laptop. “You knew?”
“We were still in negotiations. He didn’t pull out for nothing.”
“So what did he—” Oh. I get it. You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. His withdrawal from the race comes with certain agreements. Certain promises.
“I’m flying to New York tomorrow to meet with him.”
“To vet him. As a running mate.”
“Yes.”
I look down at my hands, twisting around the stem of my wineglass. It feels like a betrayal, even though it shouldn’t. Jared has a job to do. Conover can pick any running mate he wants.
And that person might not be me.
“He’s a safe choice,” Jared adds. “He has a good name. A lot of electoral votes. A strong track record on domestic and foreign policy.”
“He’d be a good running mate.” At least I can admit Boyle would be the better choice.
“So would you, Grace.” Jared sets his wineglass down and his fingers trace my cheek. It’s tender, longing, but full of the regret that Jared isn’t the only one pulling the strings. Ultimately, it’s Conover’s decision.
And I have nothing in my arsenal to make him want me more.
“So is it a done deal? I mean, is Boyle a foregone conclusion to join Conover if he gets nominated?”
“Nothing’s ever a done deal. The endorsement was part of the package. It gets him in Conover’s court and he’s got to spend the next three weeks working to migrate his delegates over to Conover’s column. We don’t know how many will go, but I’d say it’s a fair guess this will tie them up with Darrow.”
“You’re saying we’d go to convention without a presumed nominee?” The shock in my voice is apparent. It would be unprecedented, at least compared to recent history in which the party nominee is obvious weeks or months before a convention.
The nominating process at the convention is just a formality. It’s a rah-rah session designed to get party faithful engaged, to show the candidate in all his presidential potential.
And to introduce the future vice president. That’s the real wild card. Most candidates announce their choice days before the convention.
I bite my lip against the flood of disappointment, but Jared reads it on my face.
“I’m sorry, Grace. Maybe this isn’t your year.” Jared looks truly dismayed.
I cut my eyes to the side, unsure how much to confess. I have Lauren’s command that I cut things off with Jared hanging over my head. I have Darrow dangling the possibility of being a running mate. “It still could be.”
Jared’s expression darkens. “Listen to me, Grace: Darrow isn’t a better option.”
I whip him a look, caught in a lie I’ve never told. Does he know about Darrow? “He might be. Jared, I want to do this. I want to run. There’s so much I could do for this country, and today really brought it home. It made me see.”
“You can’t do it with Darrow,” Jared insists. “He’ll cut the guts out of anything you want to do. He’s got the flash of Hollywood but the depth of a wading pool. So unless you want to pack up your ideals and put them in storage for four years, you’d better not even go there.”
I stand from the couch, angered that Jared’s telling me what to do. He has no right. He’s not my political consultant. He’s for Conover.
Then why is he here with me right now?
“I’ll go where I need to be, Jared, on the best ticket that will get me there.”
“Don’t be stupid, Grace.”
Stupid. The word makes bile rise in my throat. Stupid. It’s the same word I heard growing up too many times, the word that got me the hell out of my fucked-up family and into a scholarship, into law school, and into a life I wanted.
My voice drops dangerously low. “Go to hell.”
I stalk to my front door and pull it open, my expression demanding that Jared leave.
He doesn’t. He takes a sip from his wineglass and closes his laptop.
“Get out of here, Jared, before I pick you up and throw you out.”
He crosses his arms, his eyes crinkling with mirth. Is he fucking laughing at me? “I’d like to see you try.”
I slam my apartment door closed and stomp over to him on the couch, grabbing his hand and tugging, trying to pull him to standing.
He easily outweighs me by fifty or sixty pounds. He doesn’t budge. I’m holding his wrist and I can’t move this beast.
“Fuck you, Jared, for calling me stupid.” I will not cry. I will not.
“I never did.” His tone is light, mild. “I just told you it would be a stupid decision to join Darrow. I know you’re smarter than that. I know you have more character than to go there.”
His gentle words let some of the air out of my anger. “He wants me,” I admit.
“So do I, Grace, but I’ve never asked you to do anything that would violate who you are.”
I arch my brow, hearing his double entendre. “From what you’ve said on the phone, there’s a whole lot of violating you’ve been asking for.”
“And I intend to get it.” He twists his wrist where I hold it, and suddenly my hands are caught between his.
I draw in a sharp breath as Jared’s eyes sweep my body. “I’m still mad at you, you know.”
“For what?” Jared stands, still pinning my hands together, control shifting rapidly to him. “For telling you the truth about Boyle and Darrow? For giving you some friendly advice?”
He bends and draws my earlobe between his teeth, a bite sharp enough to sting.
“That doesn’t feel friendly.”
“It better not. Because tonight what I’m going to do to you is anything but friendly.” His dangerous promise thrills me, sending a shiver down my spine. “I’m going to make up for lost time.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Jared drops my hands, his body a foot from mine. Desire radiates off him in waves, and yet he’s more controlled than ever, with none of the frenzied groping from earlier in the elevator.
“Stand there, Grace. Stay still.”
I bite my lip and obey and Jared walks around me, killing the living room light. He comes behind me and pushes my jacket off my shoulders.
“I have an assignment for you.” His hands lift the hair off the back of my n
eck.
“OK.” My legs are already jelly as I stand in place, wondering what he’ll ask of me.
“I think there are some things you haven’t told me yet.” I open my mouth to protest but he covers my mouth with his hand. “Things you want.”
Want. The word is rich with meaning, heavy with promise.
He breathes on my neck, then inhales against my skin. He releases my mouth and continues a slow torture, brushing his lips across my shoulder, touches so feather-light I strain to feel his stubble scrape my skin.
“I want you to think of all the things you want, Grace. And I want to know them. One. By. One.”
I close my eyes, a flood of dirty thoughts rushing in, my skin flushing with embarrassment. There are too many things I can’t say, too many taboos I can’t break, even just in the telling.
Jared undresses me, piece by piece, until I am standing naked in my living room, illuminated by the street lamps outside. He steps back, his eyes appraising.
“Close your eyes.”
I obey.
“Now, without opening your eyes, take my clothes off.”
I reach my hand out blindly and connect with his chest. I loosen his tie and slip it through his collar. I visualize the buttons on his shirt as I open them, one by one. I pull his shirt from his waistband and strip it off his shoulders, then pull his T-shirt up and over his torso.
“Good girl, Grace. Keep going. But I’ll warn you, when you take off my pants, don’t touch my cock.”
“Why not?” My hand slides down his hips and I’m tempted to cup his length right now, imagining its hardness jutting from his body.
“Because this is about control and I’m making the rules. You can’t touch me or yourself until I say so.”
“Or what?” My naughty, devious mind invents a million pleasurable punishments and I brush my hand toward his crotch, where I connect with his erection.
The Phoenix Candidate Page 14
