Chapter 1
Trent glanced down at the Patek Philippe Aquanaut on his wrist. It was fifteen minutes until he was expected in his father’s office; more than enough time to grab a cannoli from the bakery located near the courthouse. He didn’t know what the bakers at Ambrosia did to their pastries, but their cannoli were the best he’d had anywhere.
Crossing the street, he pulled out his smartphone when it beeped letting him know he had a text message. Another message from Lindsey. He’d told her when he relocated to Rhode Island a month ago he had no idea when he might be back in London again. If all went as he hoped, he’d remain here in Providence until he made his way to the United States Senate. Without stopping, Trent typed out a message as he walked toward the bakery, the scent of the pastries and espresso already making his stomach rumble and he hadn’t even stepped inside yet.
He hit an object and heard the startled cry of surprise seconds before the hot coffee splashed across his hand and phone. The message forgotten, he looked down at the living object he’d just run over. “I’m sorry about that. Are you okay?” He knelt down to help the woman retrieve the papers she’d dropped. Several were covered with coffee, as was the front of her blouse.
“I’m fine.” The woman stacked the pages together and stood. “I’ll need to reprint these though.” She accepted the pages he held out to her.
Trent stood and without a second thought, he reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a case holding his business cards. “Send a copy of your dry cleaning bill to this address.” He held out the card, but she made no move to accept it.
“Thank you, but that’s not necessary.”
Trent let his hand fall back to his side. “At least let me replace your coffee.”
The woman shook her cup. “There is a little left. I’ll make my usual afternoon stop later and get more.” A hint of impatience sneaked into her voice.
Turned down twice in less than three minutes; he didn’t think that had ever happened to him before. He assumed either the woman didn’t recognize him or was one of the few people out there who turned down a freebie when offered. Trent dropped his business card on her stacked papers. “Just in case you change your mind about the dry cleaning.”
This time the woman picked up the card. “Don’t worry about it. Accidents happen.” She gave him a kind smile and began to turn. “Have a good afternoon.”
Trent stood and watched the woman walk away, enjoying the sight of her bare legs as she headed down the sidewalk. For him, there was just something about a great pair of legs that drove him up the wall. In his hand, his phone beeped letting him know he’d received another message. After typing in a short reply, he stuck the phone in his jacket pocket and headed into the bakery.
Both his father, Supreme Court Chief Justice Mark Sherbrooke, and Marty Phillips were already seated at the glass conference table in his father’s office when Trent walked in ten minutes later with a box of cannoli in one hand. He hadn’t been inside the office in over a year, but by the looks of it, his stepmother, Abigail, had redecorated. All the dark wood furniture had been replaced by sleek chrome and glass. Where the leather sofa and barrel chairs had been now stood some futuristic pieces that he feared would break if an average adult male sat in them. The only thing that remained was the antique grandfather clock that Trent’s mom had given his father on their last wedding anniversary before her death. The piece stood out among the ultra modern decor, but it remained a constant reminder of Donna Sherbrooke, the woman Mark Sherbrooke never stopped loving.
“Good, you’re here,” Mark Sherbrooke said in way of a greeting. “Have a seat.”
Trent pulled out a chair at the conference table and eyed it for a moment before sitting. Then he placed the bakery box on the table.
“I arranged for lunch at noon. Your cousin Sara should be here by then.” His father didn’t waste any time grabbing a cannoli from the box.
Trent hadn’t seen Sara in almost a year. Last he’d heard, she had moved to California to work for the governor. “She’s in Rhode Island?” Although not as close to Sara as he was to her older brother Jake, he knew how knowledgeable she was when it came to Washington and politics.
Mark nodded. “She’s here for a fundraiser this weekend. She offered to help when I mentioned your plans.”
“We can catch her up when she arrives,” Marty Phillips said, his Texas drawl coming through loud and clear.
Marty Phillips had served as his Uncle Warren’s campaign advisor during his run for the Presidency. Although he’d only met him one time before, Trent hadn’t questioned his father’s suggestion that he hire him for his own campaign. The man had a fabulous reputation. Of the last four campaigns he’d worked on, all had been victorious, including two presidents, one senator and a governor.