Something Reckless(66)

“I’m nervous,” I say, forcing my mind to think about something other than my endless litany of Sam-related what-ifs. “I’m proud of what I wrote, and I know your father liked it, but the idea that so many people are going to be listening to my words, that what they take from those will affect what they think of your father’s campaign and how they talk about it . . .” I shake my head. “It’s intimidating.”

He tilts my chin up with his index finger and looks into my eyes. “My father wouldn’t read anything that wasn’t perfect. Trust me. He is unwavering in his high standards.”

I bite my lip and nod. “I just need to think about something else.”

He drags his gaze over me slowly, his grin growing. “I think I can help you with that.”

Judging by the way he’s looking at me, I assume I know what he means, even though he doesn’t explain. But then he turns the key in the ignition and starts driving without any of the thought-dissolving touches I’m anticipating.

“What should I expect?” I ask when we’re merging onto the highway.

“Lots of people. Lots of money. Lots of bullshit. Most of these people are my dad’s supporters, and they won’t give you any trouble. The only ones you need to watch out for are the journalists. They’ll try to trick you into talking, saying more than you should.”

I tense at the idea of someone trying to get me to spill some campaign secret, and Sam puts his warm hand on my thigh.

“Just smile and stay by my side. I won’t let anyone bother you.” His hand shifts, finding its way under the hem of my skirt as he curls his fingers around my thigh.

The muscles between my legs squeeze at the nearness of his hand. My breath catches and I instinctively scoot my hips toward the edge of the seat, silently urging his hand closer to where I want it. He doesn’t give in.

The whole drive there, we chat intermittently about who will be there and what to expect, and every so often his fingertips sweep over my inner thigh, but never any higher.

When he pulls into the valet parking line, he turns to me. “Your cheeks are a little flushed, Liz. You feeling okay?”

“Yeah, well . . .” I drop my gaze to where his hand is still positioned under my skirt and then look back to his face.

He grins and brushes the center of my panties. After a forty-five-minute drive thinking about exactly that kind of touch, it’s all I can do not to grab him by the wrist and beg for more. He removes his hand. “Not nervous anymore, are you?”

Someone opens my door, and I stare dumbly at the red-vested man offering his hand.

“I think this is the part where you get out of the car,” Sam says.



* * *





Sam


“That’s what I see for the future of this great state,” my father says from the podium on the stage. “The workers, the innovators, the believers—they’re the ones who will bring the jobs back to Indiana, and if you elect me, I will help them make it happen.”

The audience breaks into applause, and my father smiles and waves before exiting the stage.

Beside me, Liz is pale. I’m not sure she’s taken a single unnecessary breath in the last fifteen minutes. In fact, I’m pretty sure she skipped a few essential doses of oxygen.

“Well done,” I whisper in her ear. I help her to her feet, since everyone else is already standing to applaud, and that seems to snap her out of it. She claps with the rest of us until my father returns to our table and kisses my mother hard on the mouth before taking his seat.

“That was an amazing speech,” Sabrina tells my father.

“Agreed,” Governor Guy says as we all take our seats. “I’m afraid my opening speech paled in comparison.”

“Your speech was fantastic, Governor,” Liz says. “The part about Hoosier pride and the two Indianas—small town and city—and how we need to work together so both can thrive? That was spot on.”

Christine beams. “Why, thank you, Elizabeth. I thought that might resonate with this crowd. But don’t be modest. Travis tells me you’re responsible for his speech tonight.”

“I can’t take all the credit,” Liz says. “Connor and Mr. Bradshaw each played a big part in getting it right.”

“She flatters us,” my father says. “Connor and I tweaked, but Liz was the mind behind the speech. Quite the wordsmith, this one.”

The string quartet starts to play, and my father and mother excuse themselves for the dance floor.

When they’re gone, Christine leans across the table toward Liz. “Have you applied for a position on my campaign yet?”

“What?”