“This is why I love you, Grace.”
“Hey, Trey?”
“What?”
“I love you, too.”
Chapter Twenty-One
I work through constituent calls, read legislation, and check the web too often for news of Senator Conover. Now it’s a waiting game, as I wonder whether he’ll choose me or Rivera.
There’s nothing from Jared, not a shred of communication no matter how many times I check my messages. Voicemail. Text. Email. Social media. Nothing.
A hole grows in my chest where I’ve never noticed an absence before. Was I lonely before I met him? Did I need anything or anyone?
No. I was fine. I had my district and my girlfriends and the back-and-forth travel. I had my hobbies and my time on the water, paddling solo in a kayak. I had all of the culture Portland could offer, from First Thursday art in the Pearl District to concerts on the Edgefield lawn or in the Crystal Ballroom.
But yes. Yes, I needed something, and someone. Yes must be the only answer, or else why would I have allowed myself to be taken in and taken home by a man about whom I knew nothing?
And I still know nothing about him.
A Google search turns up snippets from various campaigns—he’s become one of the country’s most sought-after Democratic strategists. His credits include Conover’s four successful senate bids and dozens of contentious state and national races. In this tight primary, understanding the strengths and weaknesses of both sides makes him a lethal weapon for Conover.
Maybe campaigning is what does it for him, and I’m just the convenient distraction. I’d like to think it’s something more than just wild sexual attraction, spitfire fighting, and hot make-up sex.
God, I miss kissing. The kind that liquefies my insides and makes me feel like I’m flying. Even a dozen orgasms are not enough to make up for that sweet, simple need.
The sharp sting of being deserted in Jared’s hotel room becomes a dull but more painful throb as days pass with no contact from Jared.
Did I push him too far? Did I ask too much?
No.
I spend my evenings kayaking the Willamette River and stay up late reviewing docs on the e-reader Jared gave me, forcing myself to stop seeing Jared’s hands as he gave it to me, his strong frame as he pressed me against the wall inside my condo, his skin tangled in the sheets on my bed.
He’s been everywhere, all over my condo, and he touched nearly every part of my body. He’s gone, but he left his ghost behind.
New documents pop up in the e-reader every night, and I wonder if he’s sending them. The sheer volume of pages makes me feel like I’m back in law school. I dig deep into the issues I skirted before: foreign trade, appropriations, military spending.
But I can hack this. I’ve been a domestic-issues legislator so far, but if I’m going to get within a heartbeat of the presidency, I need to be at the top of my game. I pull out all the stops. I write briefs of the briefs, make lists of the top people on each issue, and keep Trey busy hunting down source docs and setting up interviews.
I need to get to the heart of this.
By Friday night, I’ve got a hot date with YouTube, watching old videos of VP debates. Lacey tries to drag me out for cocktails but I refuse—the learning curve isn’t just steep, it’s a brick wall.
And the fact that Jared was picking on me for things like my wardrobe, car, and lack of a dog start to piss me off. Hell, the fact he hasn’t called truly pisses me off.
My phone rings midway through a Palin-Biden debate and I’m tempted to ignore it, but the little needy voice that says it could be him forces me to at least look at the screen.
“Trey? It’s practically midnight in D.C.”
“And look at us, both still working. Your constituents are getting their money’s worth.”
“How did you know I’m—”
“Grace, I know you. You attacked this week like a freakin’ tiger. And since I haven’t pried whatever’s going on out of you yet, I’m going to help you anyway. Feel like a flight tonight?”
“Not especially.”
“Good. You’re booked in two hours. That’s plenty of time to get to the airport.”
“What? Not unless I leave right this minute.”
“I’ll give you ten minutes to pack. You’re going to want to do this.”
“What?” I’m suspicious. Trey usually asks me before he books anything, so the fact that he’s taken over is more than a little suspect.
“I’ve got you on a panel for tomorrow at ten a.m. in D.C. It’s a national women’s leadership conference, and Nancy Pelosi just dropped out. She’s sick.”
“So you want me to jump on a redeye. Awesome.” My sarcasm is thick but I feel my pulse speed up, eager for this opportunity. “Who are the other panelists?”