The Phoenix Candidate

Chapter One





June 26, 2016





“You look like you want to be alone.”

My eyes snap to the man sliding onto the barstool next to mine. “You’re right.”

“I’ve always been terrible at picking up on those cues.” His light Southern accent immediately marks him as a visitor to Portland. He takes a long drink of beer and sets the pint down on the bar. His butt doesn’t move.

His nice butt. His chiseled butt, at least what I can see of it.

“I can be more direct. I do want to be alone.” I narrow my eyes into my signature get-the-hell-out look.

“OK, go for it.” He shrugs and takes another drink.

I huff. “I mean, without you. Right … here.” I flap my hands toward a half-dozen empty bar stools, all a polite distance from me.

He’s crowding my space. He rotates on his barstool and brushes my knee, sparking every nerve on high alert. I know his touch is not an accident; there’s a challenge in his gaze.

I am going to have to physically move if I want him out of my space.

But no way am I going to give him that satisfaction.

I turn precisely ninety degrees to give him nothing but my profile. I nod to the bartender to refill my white wine. He wants to play? Fine. Mr. Chiseled Ass can just get over himself.

Aliza’s doing shots, Lacey’s on her fourth margarita, and they’re both on the dance floor while I’m sitting here like the responsible adult, ignoring the hell out of a stranger and sipping my second pinot gris.

Check that, third. The bartender pours.

I focus on my wineglass, exploring the man through my peripheral vision as he sips his beer, ignoring me in turn. White collared shirt. Dark jeans: belted, expensive. He’s got a jaw full of stubble and dark hair curls on his forearms from beneath rolled sleeves.

I look. No ring. Just a sleek, modern watch.

He turns and catches me red-handed checking him out. A slow smile curls his lip. “I think I’m starting to like Oregon,” he drawls, pronouncing my state Ah-ra-gone.

“Ory-gun,” I correct him automatically, the way I’d like to correct most of my four hundred and thirty-four colleagues, plus their staff and an army of lobbyists. They insist on pronouncing my state like it’s a polygon.

He leans in to compensate for the noise from the rowdy dance floor and thumping bass. “How long have you lived here?” His Southern accent is like honey on a warm biscuit.

“It’s a life sentence.”

He laughs at my small joke, a low rumble from his chest that reveals perfect white teeth.

Wait—what? I’m supposed to be ignoring this guy, not making jokes. The crowd spills beyond the edges of the dance floor and someone knocks into me, sloshing my wine. A puddle of pinot gris slicks the bar.

“Allow me.” He leans over the bar, snatches a towel and mops up the mess in front of me. Then he takes the glass from my hand and towels off the drips from its base. He hands the glass back to me. “All better. Aren’t you glad I’m leaving you alone?”

“Very.”

His warm, dark eyes crinkle at the edges. I love crinkles. In my twenties, I was all about abs. But now the crinkles draw me in—lines that say this man smiles and loves the sun and has some good mileage on his life.

His dark eyes drop, and I feel his gaze ghost over my cleavage, inspecting my hands. My fingers curl instinctively around the stem of my wineglass. Although my left hand is evenly tanned and free of jewelry, the telltale dent in the muscle on my ring finger remains.

He’ll think I’m divorced. Which is fine. I don’t care what he assumes, as long as he doesn’t recognize me. In this age of Internet dating, online’s the worst place for me to meet someone. I can’t hang my name out there for anyone to see.

And cast judgment. Should I really be dating? Shouldn’t I be in mourning?

And take pity. Poor woman lost her family.

Fuck pity—it’s a four-letter word more foul than anything that comes out of my potty mouth. Pity diminishes you, it puts you and your poor, sorry life beneath them.

But in a bar like this, with a man like this, my only identity is this man’s assumptions. Unfortunately, my plans for a girls’ night out don’t quite match reality: Aliza’s keeping up with the twentysomethings on the dance floor and Lacey’s getting closely acquainted with some guy’s tongue. I don’t have security detail tonight or staffers trailing me, but I still feel stuck here, afraid someone will recognize me if I start to have fun.

A light touch on my knee sends a shiver through my body, but this time I don’t turn away or brush him off. Instead, I take a sip of my wine and meet his gaze, challenging him.