The Phoenix Candidate(11)

“Is this more than just civic engagement?” She makes engagement sound like a dirty word, and she’d be scandalized if she knew the truth of it.

We’re consenting adults. We’re consenting adults. “I doubt it. I need to keep my eye on the ball.” Lie. Huge damn lie.

Aliza touches my hand thoughtfully. “Look. I know you’ve given your life to fight for this, but don’t let it define you, OK? You’re more than a member of Congress. You’re a woman, and you’re my friend. And getting a bunch of bills passed isn’t going to make you happy forever.”

“It will.”

“It might make your head happy, but it isn’t going to heal your heart.”

I start to object but Aliza silences me with a zip-it glare that she used on obnoxious guys when we were in law school together. It beats my get-the-hell-out lobbyist glare, hands down.

“Nothing’s a sure thing,” she adds. “Don’t waste what you can have now for something you wish for.”





***





At ten minutes ’til two, I get a text. I never gave Jared my phone number, but I know it’s him.





Time to work out more details. Dress for the water, meet me downstairs in ten.





Bossy son of a bitch. But the prospect of water thrills me. Summer comes slowly to Oregon, and since this is one of the first real summer days in Portland, with temperatures pushing into the high eighties, I choose board shorts, a racerback tank with a built-in bra, and a loose, long-sleeve shirt to keep too much sun off my shoulders. I grab a wide-brimmed hat and go downstairs.

He’s parked at the curb outside my condo in a convertible and reflective sunglasses.

“Are we going on a boat?”

“If you’d call it that.” He pulls into traffic with a squeal and follows the Willamette River south to a marina. Several brightly colored kayaks are lined up on the dock. “You’re teaching me to kayak today.”

I give him a look that says Get out of town and snort. “Why would I want to do that?”

I love the water. Love it. But the prospect of telling this pushy man what to do in a kayak doesn’t appeal. It would rob the peace I get from paddling.

“Because I need you to trust me.” He grasps my shoulders so I face him. I tilt my chin to look in his eyes, realizing I’m actually a lot shorter than him now that I’m in sandals instead of heels. His voice softens. “Grace, I’m going to ask you to do a lot of things in the coming months. Some of them aren’t going to be comfortable. Some of them you’ll hate. And I need you to trust me on them.”

“What’s that got to do with ruining a perfectly good paddle?” I frown, but my fingers itch to get in the water.

“I read your bio. I know you like kayaking. And I’ve never done it before. So I’m giving you the next hour to teach me, so that you’ll give me the same kind of credit when it comes to teaching you.” He leans close to me and his stubble brushes softly against my cheek. “You never know what you’ll like until you try it.”

His last sentence liquefies my insides, a throb of need pulsing between my legs. Try it. You might like it. His promise is wrapped in wicked temptation.

I step out of his grasp and take two life jackets from the bin, handing him one. The young guy monitoring kayak rentals helps me push a tandem kayak in the water. I stuff our phones, my purse, and his wallet in a dry bag, then show Jared how to brace the paddle on the dock to keep the boat stable and slide in.

I kneel on the dock and look inside the boat, between his legs. “Knees apart.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice, darlin’.” Jared chuckles, the warm sound rich and gooey. God, did I just compare this guy to a cinnamon roll? I am losing it. I reach inside the boat and adjust the rudder pedals.

I pick up a paddle and begin his lesson. “It’s not hard.”

“It will be.” His eyes twinkle with the double entendre.

“It won’t work if you force it. Technique matters more than muscle. You’ve got to get the stroke right.” I ignore his smirk when I say technique and stroke.

I show him the right paddle orientation, how far apart to space his hands, and how to get the most from each stroke by using the opposite hand to lever the paddle through the water.

He listens and seems willing to follow directions. I’m the mature one here. Then I jump in the boat and push us off without a second paddle.

“Don’t you need one, too?”

“Why? I thought you were supposed to be learning.”

“So you’re going to sit there and just … hang out while I row your ass all over the river?”