He spoke with so much enthusiasm, so much passion. She hadn’t expected that. She’d thought he’d give her a much more politic answer, but that had been an honest one.
“Do you know what I really miss?” he asked.
She shook her head.
“Tell me.”
He gestured to the traffic in front of them.
“Driving.” He sounded wistful. “Even just sitting alone in L.A. traffic. God, I miss it so much.” He laughed. “Sorry, I sound like a poor little rich boy right now, don’t I? Complaining that someone else drives me around all the time and I get to relax.”
Olivia shook her head again.
“No, I understand what you mean. I always felt that way when I went home from New York and drove my parents’ or my sister’s car somewhere—the time alone with your thoughts driving a car is different than walking down the street, or sitting on a bus, or standing on the subway.” She grinned. “And there’s absolutely nothing that compares to driving on a California freeway on a sunny day, blasting music with the windows wide open.”
He turned and smiled at her.
“Isn’t that the truth?”
He glanced down at the GPS and made another left turn.
“Is this your street?”
She nodded. She suddenly couldn’t wait to get him inside.
“It’s right over there.”
She gestured to the small house she’d rented. She’d been determined to live in a real house, after living in an apartment for so long. She no longer had upstairs or downstairs neighbors. It was strange and wonderful.
He pulled into her empty driveway and took off his seat belt.
“I’ll just walk you to the door.”
Oh, okay, sure, he would just “walk her to the door.” She smiled to herself. She knew bullshit when she heard it, and that was some bullshit, all right.
As he opened his door, his phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket.
“I’m sorry, I thought my phone was on do not disturb, let me just . . .” He glanced at the screen and grimaced. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”
After a minute or so, he jumped out of the car, but left the door open.
“Hey—I’m sorry, I have to run, there’s something I have to deal with and it can’t wait.”
She also knew this kind of bullshit when she heard it.
“Sure, of course,” she said, when what she wanted to do was ask him why the fuck he’d led her on for hours just to blow her off.
She walked up to her front door, expecting him to just jump back in his car and drive away. But instead he walked beside her and waited for her to unlock the door.
“Thanks for tonight, it was great,” he said. He patted her on the shoulder and turned to race back to his car.
She walked in the house and barely managed not to slam the door.
Yes, sure, there was a slim possibility that had been an actual emergency. But he’d just patted her on the fucking shoulder and jumped back in his car. Not a kiss on the lips, or even on the cheek, not a lingering glance, not a long clasp of her hand, and definitely not a “let’s do this again.” Just a pat on the fucking shoulder!
She was pretty sure that had been the Max Powell version of when she’d been on a bad date and had secretly texted a friend to call her with an “emergency.”
Why had he even flirted with her all night if he was going to do that? And kept up all the little shoulder touches and back touches and “accidental” brushes of her legs with his, under the table? Was it all just some act?
She dropped her keys in the bowl by her front door and walked into the bathroom to start her bathwater. You know what, this was fine. She could get into the bathtub and read her book and drink a glass of wine and have a nice cozy Saturday night, and that would be better than sex with Max could possibly be.
She knew that was a lie as soon as she thought it.
She pulled her clothes off, wrapped a scarf around her hair, and got in the tub.
Oh God. She could not believe she was sitting here in the bathtub with a glass of wine in her hand feeling sorry for herself after a disappointing end to a date. She felt like a single-woman-in-the-city parody—all she needed was a sheet mask and a box of chocolates to really make it perfect.
She couldn’t concentrate on her book, so she leaned over the side of the tub and reached for the stack of magazines she always kept nearby. That glossy pamphlet from the community center luncheon was in this pile, so she flipped through it. While she knew she couldn’t spare the money to be on the board, she did want to stay involved with the center. Huh, they had a food pantry and community kitchen there . . . and they were looking for volunteers. Plus, it would only be to her benefit to keep herself and her firm in the forefront of Bruce’s mind. He knew everyone in the tech community in L.A., and a referral from him would be gold.
This was a great idea. She’d volunteer at the food pantry, and get some networking and do-gooding in all at the same time. And tomorrow, she’d do something wild like go for a walk in her new neighborhood. Maybe she’d find that bakery Alexa had told her about. And she was definitely not going to think about Max Powell.
When she got back from the bakery the next morning, a ham-and-cheese croissant in her hand, and a chocolate croissant in her purse for later, there was a vase full of bright spring flowers on her doorstep. She picked them up and stared at them, and then plucked off the note taped to the side of the vase.
Sorry I had to run last night—can I get a do-over? I leave for DC this afternoon, but maybe we can see each other again next weekend? I had a great time last night—hope you have a good week.
Max
Well. Maybe she’d been wrong about that “emergency” after all.
Chapter Four
Max sank down on the couch as soon as he let himself into his DC apartment on Monday night. He was starving, but too tired to search through their fridge for food. Congress had started back up again with a vengeance after their week of recess—he’d been racing from place to place all day, with four overlapping committee meetings, a meeting with some lobbyists, and then all the usual business on the Senate floor he half paid attention to. It must have been equally as busy over on the House side; his roommate and friend, freshman representative Wesley Crawford, wasn’t even home yet.
He and Wes had been friends since college. They’d been an unexpected pair, he the rich white kid from Beverly Hills, Wes the Black athlete from the Central Valley, but somehow their friendship had stuck ever since. They’d taken very different paths to get here—Max had gone straight to law school and become a prosecutor, then the L.A. district attorney; Wes had become a teacher, then moved to the school board, and then ran for the open House of Representatives seat in his hometown two years before.
Max had been stunned when Wes suggested they share this apartment, after their disastrous stint as roommates in college. “You’re neater now though, right? It’s been twenty years,” immaculately tidy Wes had said. Max was not neater now, but he promptly hired a cleaning service to come to their apartment once a week to preserve their friendship. Thank goodness for Wes; these past sixteen months in the Senate had been stressful and lonely as it was; it would have been so much worse if he’d come back to this bland, generic, furnished apartment alone every night. At least now he had Wes to vent with whenever either of them needed it.
He wondered what Wes would say about Olivia. Probably make fun of him for sending her the cake, but it had worked, hadn’t it? As had the flowers—she’d texted him just after he landed in DC the day before. He’d been so relieved she didn’t hold it against him that he’d had to rush away at the end of their date because of breaking news. Times like that he definitely wasn’t as big a fan of his job.
Speaking of Olivia, he should text her. He scrolled back through their texts from the past few days.
Thank you for the flowers! Sorry I missed you—was out scouting for a good bakery in my neighborhood, and I think I found one. Haven’t tried their cake or pie yet, but the pastries were delicious. A rain check sounds good—next weekend works for me.
You’re very welcome, and I’m sorry again I had to run off. I had to just guess on your favorite flowers, I hope there were some you liked in there. I want details about this bakery—maybe you can tell me on Friday night?
Let me check my work schedule, but Friday night should be fine—excited to see what your “normal person” disguise is this time. Different glasses? Different hat? A wig???
He laughed out loud again at the thought of himself in a wig.
I wouldn’t know the first thing about where to find a wig, but then I do live in LA, don’t I? There must be realistic wigs everywhere. So far I’ve just relied on glasses/hat/no gel in my hair, but maybe I’ll do something wild next time. Stay tuned!
He turned on the TV as he waited for her to text back, and was flipping channels when he heard a key in the door.
“Hi, honey, I’m home!” Max shouted as the door opened. Wes walked in, suit and tie on, natty briefcase over his shoulder, and—bless him—a pizza box in his hand.
“Oh, thank God, I was starving,” Max said.
Wes dropped the box on the coffee table and disappeared into his bedroom to change.
“Didn’t occur to you to pick up dinner on the way home, did it?” Wes shouted through the crack in his bedroom door.
“I was going to order something!” Max shouted back. Okay, at least he’d been thinking about it.
Max stood up and got plates and napkins (Wes always insisted on this) and brought them to the coffee table. They had a kitchen table, too, but they almost never ate at it.
“Sure you were,” Wes said. He came out of his bedroom in sweats and a T-shirt and grabbed two beers out of their fridge.
Wes sat down on the couch and picked up the remote control.
“You’re not going to tell me you were attempting to watch preseason baseball when there’s basketball on, were you?”
Max sat down at the other end of the couch.
“It’s spring training, not ‘preseason.’ But no, I was actually looking to see if there was any soccer on.”
Wes flipped open the pizza box.
“Hey, thanks again for letting my cousin crash at your place last week when he was stranded in L.A.”
Max waved that off.
“It was no big deal; it was only for a night. Nice kid.” Max glanced at the pizza. “Broccoli on the pizza? Seriously?”
Wes gave him a stern look.
“You can’t work as hard as we both work and not eat vegetables. I should have gotten us a salad, too, but this is better than nothing.”
Max’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up from the table.
Now I’m already excited for Friday night
Shit, wait a minute—he was only going to get into LAX midday on Friday, if everything went well. He’d better temper her wig expectations. Maybe he could order new glasses or something instead.
Ok don’t get too excited—the wig may have to wait until I have extended LA shopping time. This is where being in DC the bulk of the time cramps my style. How’s your Monday going?
“Who are you texting?” Wes asked him.
Max picked up a slice of pizza and took a bite. Should he tell Wes about Olivia already? He laughed at himself—he hadn’t even kissed her yet, and he wanted to tell the world about her.
“Man, do you need to work on your poker face,” Wes said when he didn’t answer right away. “It’s a woman, that’s clear enough.”
Max shrugged, but he couldn’t keep from smiling.
“Yes, it’s a woman. Her name is Olivia. Olivia Monroe.”
Wes dropped his pizza back on his plate and turned to stare at Max.
“Oh no. She’s already a full name with you? You’ve got it bad. How did this happen? We only had recess for one week!”
Max laughed.
“I know, but it started a few weeks ago. You see, one night there was a water main break in my neighborhood, so I went to a hotel for the night. And at the hotel bar . . .”
Wes covered his eyes.
“No. Oh no. Don’t tell me that you, a United States senator, fell for some line from some woman at a hotel bar and took her back to your room, where all of your classified documents live in your electronics. Don’t they teach you better than that over in the Senate?”
Max picked up the remote and turned the TV back to spring training baseball.
“This is what you get for thinking so little of me. No, I did not fall for some line from some woman at a bar. I just met her at the bar, that’s all. And there was no line at all; I’m the one who started talking to her, not the reverse. And . . . we talked for a while, and she was funny, and smart, and interesting, and she kept making fun of me, and . . . it was great. That’s all.”
Max’s phone buzzed again.
Ok, I won’t expect a blond guy to show up at my door Friday then. My Monday is busy—tons of meetings with clients and potential clients. Now on my way to a local bar association thing to network, even though I wish I was on my couch watching bad reality TV
Wes waved his hand at Max’s phone.
“That little meeting at the bar was obviously not all, because if it was, why do you have that schmoopy look on your face? Did she take you back to her room after she got you to hit on her at the bar?”
Max rolled his eyes.
“Get your mind out of the gutter. No one went back to anyone’s room. I didn’t even get her last name—then, anyway. But then—last week when I was back in L.A., I gave a speech at a luncheon. I looked around the room when I was up onstage, and there she was.” He held up a hand to forestall Wes’s conspiracy theory. “She was not stalking me; she’s a lawyer, she just moved to L.A. to start her own firm, and one of the board members of the center has known her for years and invited her to the luncheon.”
Wes took the remote back and changed the channel.
“I see. How did you get this poor woman’s number, then? Did you fall that hard for her after a chat at a bar and seeing her from across a hotel ballroom?”
Max picked up his phone to text her back.
Good luck! You’ll be fantastic.
He looked up from his phone to Wes, and tried to wipe the schmoopy look off of his face. Whatever that meant.
“I remembered the name of her law firm and looked it up.” Wes didn’t need to know about the cake. “And long story short, we went out Saturday night.”
Wes’s eyes widened.
“Oh shit. You really are running for president, aren’t you?”
Max set his beer down.
“What? No, what are you talking about? How did you get from here to there?”
Wes tore off another slice of pizza.
“Gotta wife up to run for president. Everybody knows that.”
Max balled up a napkin and tossed it at him.
“Now you sound like one of those stupid magazines that put both of us on their hottest bachelors in Washington lists. I’m not trying to ‘wife up’—I just like her, that’s all!”
He wouldn’t admit this to Wes, because then Wes would be certain he was going to run for president, but he had been . . . lonely lately for more than just the reasons he’d said to Olivia the other night. He’d been to a lot of fundraisers for other candidates in the past sixteen months, and at many of them, the candidate’s spouse was there with them, by their side. He’d wished he had that.
But he hadn’t wished it enough to go on a single second date in the past two-plus years. Olivia was different.
“Mmmhmm,” Wes said. “How long did this date last, anyway?”
&
nbsp; Max sighed.
“Unfortunately, not long enough—Kara called with that leak about the attorney general’s announcement, so we had to come up with a statement ASAP. Which sucked, because I had to rush off right when I’d driven Olivia home. But even so, it was one of the most fun nights I’ve had in . . . well, at least the past two years. I’m going to see her again this weekend, and . . .” He took a deep breath. “She’s just great. Smart, funny, thoughtful.” He shook his head. “I know it’s early, but I can’t wait to see her again. I really like her, Wes.”
Wes turned to look at him, all trace of mockery on his face gone.
“You really do, don’t you? I haven’t seen you look like that in years.” He punched his friend on the shoulder. “Okay, who is this woman? Let’s see.” He gestured at Max’s phone.
Max sighed and pulled up the tab for Olivia’s law firm website.
“This is her,” he said, and handed his phone to Wes.
Wes took the phone, stared at the picture for a few seconds, and then looked up at Max with his mouth open.
“Oh. Ohhh, okay. Well, if you are trying to wife up, I approve.” He paused for a second. “But.”
Max should have known there would be a “but.”
“Can I get you to promise me one thing?” Wes asked.
“I’m pretty sure I don’t want to do that,” Max said.
Wes ignored that.
“Promise me you won’t sleep with her yet.” Max opened his mouth to protest, but Wes kept talking. “I know, that’s a ridiculous thing for me to say, but just listen. That might force some caution on you. I know how you are—you jump into things, you make decisions in seconds. I don’t want you to fall hard for this woman and whisk her off to Vegas on the third date, or worse, have her sell stories about you to the press.”
Party of Two Page 6
