Georgie wanted to pretend this wasn’t happening. Instead, she watched Hunt extend his hand.
“Hunter Tate, Clay’s director of security.”
Jen glanced at Hunt, and then Georgie watched her friend’s whole body react. She looked him up and down as she offered her hand. “Jennifer Antonelli. Georgie’s best friend.”
Her eyes cut to Boone. “Wait. Tate? Are you and Boone related?”
“Brothers.”
“Holy cannoli. Are there more of you at home?”
Georgie giggled, unable to hide her amusement. “Honey, the Barrons and Tates are known for throwing sons.”
“I have no clue what that means, but I think I’ve died and gone to that big romancelandia buffet in the sky.” She sank onto the chair Hunt had vacated, a dreamy look suffusing her face.
“It means there are five Barron brothers and...” Georgie counted on her fingers.
“Seven Tates,” Boone finished for her.
Jen’s mouth gaped before she screeched, “Wait. Wait! OMG! Is Deacon Tate your brother?”
Georgie pressed her lips together to keep from laughing at the look of disgust Boone and Hunt exchanged over the top of Jen’s head.
“Never heard of him,” Boone muttered.
She sensed Clay’s silent laughter as his palm skimmed down her back. The practical angel on one shoulder cautioned her about diving into water over her head. The devil on the other side insisted she needed to take a running jump into the deep end.
Clay continued to surreptitiously pet her as he spoke up. “So what are we going to do about Cyrus?”
Eleven
Monday morning Clay arrived early at the office. He and Georgie had dodged any mention in the news cycles for Saturday and Sunday, despite Parker nosing around. He didn’t expect to find his father sitting in his office.
“Who is this?” Cyrus stabbed at a blurry photo on the front page of a tabloid more likely to feature a Photoshopped picture of a Hollywood starlet and Bigfoot above the fold.
The corners of Clay’s mouth curled down in a perplexed frown. “Good question.”
The old man rattled the paper. “You know who it is, Clayton. You broke up with Giselle for this woman?”
“No, I can’t tell who that is or when that photo was taken. And get out of my chair, Dad.” When his father didn’t move, Clay shrugged. “Fine. Sit there all damn day. I have work to do.”
Snagging some files from his in-box, Clay pivoted and headed for the exit.
“Don’t turn your back on me, Clayton.”
When the desk chair squeaked, Clay turned around. “Don’t order me around, especially in my own office.” He pointed to one of the leather armchairs arranged in front of his antique mahogany desk. Very little occupied the desk’s surface—his in-box, a telephone console, his nameplate and an antique bankers lamp with a green shade and patina-dark brass base.
Clay waited until Cyrus settled into the guest chair before he rounded his desk to sink into the worn leather seat. The files landed on the desktop. “First, I stopped seeing Giselle before Christmas, though to be precise, she broke off things with me. I won’t call it a breakup as no actual relationship existed between us. She was convenient. That worked both ways.”
“You need to fix it, boy. You’re declaring for the presidency in a few weeks. You need a woman next to you who looks good. Giselle will make a fine first lady.”
“What part of I’m not seeing Giselle any longer do you not understand, old man? I’m done with her.”
“And I’m saying you aren’t. Nobody is going to vote for a bachelor for president. Time you got with the program, boy. That doesn’t include this woman.” He glowered at Clay. “I know she writes your speeches. Women like her are a dime a dozen. Get her out of your system, fire her ass and then get back with Giselle.”
Cyrus surged to his feet and went to the door. “I’ve rented space for the election team, but you need to clear out space here in your office so they can work closely with you. That woman is going to be trouble. I could see it when you brought her home. Get shed of her. My people will be ready to move into her space by the end of the week.”
The door closed behind his father’s back but Clay didn’t move. When the door opened again, he glanced up, angry and ready to let his father know. Boone stood there, arms folded across his chest as he leaned against the doorjamb.
“So Plan A didn’t work.”
Clay huffed out a frustrated breath then chuckled. “Actually, it went exactly according to plan.”
* * *
Friday morning dawned gray and rainy. Thursday night Clay and Boone had flown to New York for a meeting with some campaign finance bundlers. For the first time in a week, Georgie spent the night in her own bed. Alone. And she discovered she didn’t like it, not one little bit. How could she have gotten so used to sleeping with Clay—she who never spent the night with anyone, not even as a kid on a sleepover?