What I don’t say: Until next month, Dad.
* * *
“Sounds good. Yep, we’ll talk more next week. Thanks so much, Paul.”
I hang up and do a little victory dance in the middle of my office. John’s tip about Senator Moreno is looking more promising by the day, resulting in a meeting next week to discuss a vote swap. Maybe the tide is finally turning.
“Good news?”
“Omigod!” I shriek, jumping a mile. I whirl around and see Ben lurking in my doorway like some sort of cat burglar. “You have got to stop just appearing out of nowhere. You could have given me a heart attack!” My heart hammers against my ribs as if to confirm my statement. “How is someone your size so stealthy, anyway?”
“I’m a gentle giant.”
I almost laugh but manage to hold it in. “Why are you here? I’m not in the mood for a confrontation.” I won’t let anyone rain on my parade tonight.
He ducks through the door, instantly displacing all the air in the room and taking up what feels like every inch of available space. I hate that he’s intimidating me in my own office.
“I was just leaving and saw your light on. How late do you usually stay?”
“Why? Planning on robbing me?”
He rolls his eyes. “Just answer the question, Katherine.”
Katherine. A faint buzzing sound builds in my ear, like feedback from a broken power cable. “Am I in trouble, Benjamin?”
He doesn’t answer, just stands there with one eyebrow cocked.
I sigh. “It depends on the night. Six, seven o’clock? Probably the same as you.”
“How do you get home?”
“With my feet.” I give him an Are you an idiot? look. “I walk.”
“You walk home alone, in the dark, every night?” He sounds incredulous. “Do you at least carry a weapon? Mace? A Swiss Army knife? Anything?”
I blink at him, bewildered. Is this some kind of joke?
He holds up a finger. “Wait, let me guess. You’ll defend yourself with your sharp tongue and cutting remarks.”
“Seems to have worked well enough so far.” I give him a big phony grin.
He’s not amused. “Unbelievable. We live in a city with one of the highest murder rates in the nation and you walk home every night without protection.” He shakes his head. “Did your father ever teach you any self-defense, at least?”
My spine stiffens. “How I get home is none of your business,” I snap.
“It’ll be my business when they’re looking for someone to identify you at the morgue.”
“Did I win the anti-lottery or something? It’s Friday night. Can’t we take weekends off from this vendetta?”
He slides his bag off his shoulder, letting it drop to the floor, then folds his arms across his chest. We swap defiant stares.
“Should I take this macho bouncer pose as a yes?”
“Grab your stuff. I’ll walk you home.”
Um, what? I want to laugh, but I think he’s serious. “So you can off me with no witnesses? That’s okay. I’m good.”
“You’re not good.” His green eyes flash with frustration. Stupid luminous eyes. “Seriously, just forget everything else. It’s not safe to walk home by yourself. I’m not comfortable with it.”
“Well, it’s a good thing you don’t need to be comfortable with my life choices.”
He sighs and tugs at his tie, loosening it until it slides off, then undoes his top collar button in a quick, practiced motion. It’s such a profoundly male gesture that I pause, my outrage momentarily derailed, my vision narrowing in on the small triangle of skin visible at his neck.
I jolt when he speaks. “Don’t make reckless decisions just to spite me.” He’s rolling his tie into a tightly coiled circle.
“I’m not doing anything to spite you. Geez, check your ego. And stop shedding clothing all over my office. This isn’t your bedroom.”
He ceases his rolling. “Do I make you nervous, Princess?”
“You make me something.”
His mouth twitches. “I promise I won’t try to jump you on the way home. Scout’s honor.”
Of course he’s a Boy Scout. “Look, I appreciate your concern. And I’m sure there’s no ulterior motive for it, like wanting to toss me down a sewer. But I’ve been walking home—by myself—for years now. And I’m just fine, thank you very much.”
“Where do you live?”
“None of your business.”
“How far is it?” Good Lord, he will not be deterred.
I’m sick of this game. I turn and grab a stack of papers off my desk and cross the room to my filing cabinet.
“Kate. How far?”
The way he says my name, my actual name, stops me. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him use it before. “Like ten minutes. Listen, I don’t need a big brother.”
“Do you have a brother?” His voice bleeds irritation.
“Nooo.” I draw it out like he is very slow indeed.
“That’s too bad. Maybe if you did, he could knock some sense into you.”
He’s skated too close to a sore subject, and now I’m pissed. “Well, I don’t have one, it’s just me, but thank you for your brotherly concern. You may go now.”
I lurch away from the filing cabinet and immediately trip over his deathtrap of a bag, barely catching myself on the edge of my desk before I go sprawling.
“Can you please move your murse?” I give it a swift kick.
“My murse?”
“Your man purse. God, everything about you is way too big. Your body. Your head. Your stupid bag.”
He picks up right where I left off. “My brain. My capacity to prove you wrong.”
“Your ego.”
He holds my stare and I sigh, squeezing my eyes shut. Maybe when I open them, he’ll be gone.
“Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I ask, flicking my hand in a shooing motion. Like with your wicked witch of a girlfriend. God only knows how much frostier she’d get if she knew he was in my office, coating the place in testosterone.
He squints at me for a moment, like he’s making a decision about something. Then he nods once, picking up his bag and slinging it over his shoulder.
“Well, you have a great weekend, Goldilocks. Hope you make it home alive. Or not. I don’t care if you don’t, right?”
He turns and strolls out while I glare daggers at his back. Since he can’t see me, it’s not very satisfying.
I pack up my things and head out a few minutes later, though I can’t shake the strangeness of our encounter on my walk home. I know I shouldn’t let him get to me—it’s what he wants—but I can’t seem to help it. He’s just so . . . and he’s such a pain in the . . . and he makes me want to . . . gah.
But underneath all the annoyance, there’s something else. A nagging feeling in the back of my mind that I’m missing something. When I replay our conversation, my memory freeze-frames on the look in his eyes when he offered to walk me home. It was . . . possessive, somehow. Almost proprietary.
Weird.
Even weirder that I liked it.
Chapter 6
Ben’s words pinball around in my head all weekend. Is he actually concerned about my safety, or is this just another one of his power moves? It’s hard to reconcile the man-beast who’s been so desperate to knock me down with the anxious worrywart who looked at me with concern in his eyes. How strange to think that Ben is capable of genuine human emotions.
I’m sure it was an aberration.
My suspicions are confirmed when I arrive at work on Monday and there’s already an envelope waiting for me on my desk. I should’ve known a tiger couldn’t change its misogynistic stripes. War: still on.
I rip it open and it’s a recent story from the Post: SPATE OF MUGGINGS HITS CAPITOL HILL. So we’re s
till on that, then.
And that’s only the beginning. Throughout the week, he bombards me with stories highlighting district crime statistics. Tuesday: DC LANDS ON TOP 10 MOST DANGEROUS CITIES LIST. Wednesday: a crime heat map focused on the Capitol Hill area, complete with a highlighted warning that “residents should exercise caution when out after dark.” On Thursday, it’s a list of local police stations, gyms, and martial arts studios offering self-defense classes. The guy is straight-up nuts.
And yet . . . am I crazy for thinking it’s kind of sweet?
I’m guessing this mail is supposed to “scare me straight,” but what Ben doesn’t seem to realize is that he rattles me more than any mugger ever could.
* * *
I’m so exhausted by Friday that I barely notice the package at first.
It’s been a long week, full of fire drills and petty dramas that’ve kept most of the staff chasing our tails. Carol hosted a town hall in New Hampshire last week, and of course some grandstanding heckler used it as his opportunity to bait her into a contentious back-and-forth—and because all the world’s a stage, the moment immediately went viral. While such incidents have become commonplace in my job—I’ve lost count of the number of controversies I’ve lived through—it made for several headache-inducing days of damage control.
The one bright spot was my meeting with Senator Moreno’s team, who seemed more than receptive to working with us on the child care bill in exchange for Carol’s show of support on their infrastructure legislation. It’s exceedingly difficult to secure allies across the aisle these days, and it’s thrilling to have a glimmer of hope that my bill could one day become reality.
Nevertheless, by Friday morning I am ready to call it a week. I’m juggling my purse, workbag, coffee, and a file someone shoved at me as I walked in the door when I spot the bulging envelope sitting ominously atop my desk. This must be how celebrities feel when deranged stalker-fans stake out their house and leave dead roses on their doorstep. I orbit around it warily as I shuck my coat and various personal items, mentally running through the possibilities for its contents. Judging by the theme of this week’s correspondence, it could be anything from a stack of milk cartons with children’s faces on them to a set of nunchucks.
I open the envelope gingerly and when I shake out its contents, something in hard plastic packaging clatters onto my desk: a combination pepper spray–rape whistle on a key chain. The packaging promises an instant takedown of any number of dangerous predators at an eardrum-shattering volume only bats can hear. As usual, there’s a note attached.
Kate,
Although I stand by my thoughts on the subject, I may have come on a bit strong last week. Consider this a peace offering. If you need to pretend it came from someone else, that works too. Either way, I’d appreciate it if you’d put it on your key ring.
If anything ever happened to you, I’m sure there’s someone, somewhere, who would miss you.
* * *
When six thirty rolls around, I pick up Ben’s “gift” and traverse the perimeter of the seventh floor to Senator Hammond’s suite of offices. It’s been a few weeks, but Ben’s office number is branded on my memory like a bad tattoo.
I knock lightly. There’s a beat of silence before his voice rings out.
“Yes?”
Just hearing his deep baritone makes my arm hairs stand on end. Prepare for battle.
“It’s Kate.” I pause awkwardly. “Adams.”
I hear rustlings inside the office. The creak of a chair. A few seconds later the door swings open and Ben’s large frame fills the threshold. He looks like he’s struggling not to laugh.
“Hi, Kate . . . Adams.”
“Shaddap.”
He opens the door wider, motioning me inside. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
The sight of his desk chair triggers a sweat-inducing flashback to our last meeting in this office, but I shove aside my PTSD and sit. His desk is even messier than before—still covered with stacks of papers and files, but they’re taller now, and there are more piles on the ground. I make a face at the chaos. How can he work like this?
“I thought I’d come by to acknowledge my receipt of this . . . unique gift.” I hold it up as proof of his derangement.
His face lights up. “Do you need me to show you how to use it?” He motions to it with grabby hands.
“I don’t think it requires a PhD.”
He plucks it from my hand and cracks open the packaging. “You should play with it a little so you know how it works. You’d be surprised how you can freeze in the moment.” He tosses the clamshell into a trash can underneath his desk and slides the little instructional pamphlet across the desk to me. I’ve never seen him so animated.
Except for when he told me I was everything wrong with women, of course. Can’t forget that.
“You need to hold it while you’re walking. It won’t be helpful if it’s buried at the bottom of your purse. Also, look around and make eye contact with people. Women who are distracted or on their phones are typically the ones targeted for muggings or . . . other things.” He demonstrates, holding it in front of his chest while aggressively eyeballing invisible perpetrators.
“Has anyone ever told you you’re cra-zee?” I whisper the last part like I’m spilling state secrets.
“You can call me whatever names you want as long as you add it to your key ring,” he says, handing it back over.
“How could I not, after that charming note you included with it?”
He presses his lips together, suppressing a smile.
“And not that it’s any of your business, but I do know the basics of self-defense. An instructor came to my sorority and did a whole demonstration. Walk with keys in your hand so you can jab an attacker in the eye. Don’t wear a ponytail. Don’t use headphones on a run. See?”
He arches a brow. “So you think those cute tips will help you fight off a guy my size?”
“I’ve also seen Miss Congeniality. I know how to SING—solar plexus, instep, nose, groin.”
He shakes his head, apparently unconvinced that movie trivia can have real-world applications. How dare he thumb his nose at Sandra Bullock.
“The point is, I’m not stupid. It’s a short walk, it’s busy and well lit, and I’ve never had a problem. I’m an independent woman, and I depend on me.” I’m Beyoncé now, apparently.
He groans. “I was afraid you were going to say something like that. You have a false sense of security.”
I sit back and cross my legs, considering him. “Is this a trick?”
“Is what a trick?”
“You, pretending to care. I can’t figure out what your game is.” I twirl the key chain around on my finger. If I whipped it at him, it could take an eye out. It’s tempting.
He leans forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “There’s no game. I just take safety seriously. Especially when it comes to stubborn women who insist on ignoring the very real risks they’re taking.”
“You know, the only person I’m tempted to use this on is you.”
He pauses. “That’s probably fair.”
That’s probably fair?
“See, you’re not doing much to convince me this isn’t a trick. Did you hire someone to jump out at me on my way home or something? Give me some warning so I don’t wet my pants, at least.”
He laughs, shifting in his seat. “There’s no trick, I promise. But I do owe you an apology.”
I nearly fall out of the chair. “Say what? Come again?”
His cocksure smile suddenly looks a little . . . nervous. “I owe you an apology, Kate. You’re right, I was an asshole to you at our meeting. Working on this tax plan has been . . . challenging, let’s just put it that way. I haven’t been myself. It was a bad day, and the stress got to me.”
He rakes a hand through his hair, closing his
eyes as he massages the back of his neck. When he opens them again, his hair is thoroughly mussed, with sections sticking up at all angles. It looks hilarious and disheveled and . . . kinda hot, actually. Like sexy bedhead. I mentally slap myself for the errant thought.
“I promise, I’m usually a nice person. People like me.”
“Are you kind of a big deal?”
“Absolutely. I’m very busy and important.” He holds my gaze until we both start laughing. “Anyway, it’s not an excuse, just an explanation. I’m sorry I took my stress out on you.”
His genuine regret takes the wind out of my sails. I didn’t think he was capable of self-reflection or remorse, let alone an apology. It’s destabilizing—I marched into the lion’s den and instead encountered a declawed kitten. In the silence that follows, I find myself growing uncomfortable, unsure how to behave around him without guns blazing.
I eye him guardedly. “What brought on this crisis of conscience?”
“Maybe I just want to make sure you’ll put that on your key ring.”
“So is that all you’re sorry for?” I’m not letting him off the hook that easily.
“What do you mean? I think I’ve been pretty well behaved otherwise.” He raises one eyebrow, then the other, alternating back and forth. I wish I could do that. When I try, I look like I’m having a seizure.
“Belittling my work? Calling me names? You sorry for any of that?”
“What? No way. Getting under your skin is the most fun I’ve had in years.”
I blink in surprise as Ben grins at me from across the desk. I can’t quite decide if I’ve just been complimented or insulted, but there’s something so contagious about his smile that I find myself grinning back.
Meet You in the Middle Page 5
