Will Darrow get me within a heartbeat of the Oval Office, or will Conover?
From the conventional wisdom in the press, the answer seems obvious: Darrow. The primary votes left the Democratic nominee undecided, with no clear majority of delegates voting for one candidate. At the convention next month, two things will decide the next presidential nominee: the superdelegates and Boyle’s delegates, if he releases them to align with a different candidate.
This means the superdelegates will be watching Darrow and Conover closely to see who’s gaining momentum, who’s raising money, and who’s likely to be the best bet in the general election. And I’ll bet anything that Boyle’s working furiously behind the scenes to get the most bang for his buck when he releases his delegates.
“I need to know what you’re willing to do, Grace,” Lauren says. “We hashed out your positions last night. You and Aaron are fairly compatible, and we can divide and conquer on your pet issues.”
“What about vetting?” I blurt. I don’t relish another inquisition from a political consultant, but Darrow is moving a lot faster than Conover did. Somehow having Jared ask me those intensely personal questions didn’t sting the way they would coming from a complete stranger.
Lauren waves a dismissive hand. “Already done, long before we talked, Grace. You think I’d be having lunch with you in public if we hadn’t already determined you’d be good for Aaron’s ticket?”
I whip my head around, feeling exposed. Anyone could see us right now in this open, atrium-style restaurant with massive windows facing a busy sidewalk. It’s nothing like yesterday’s quiet dinner.
And I realize that’s by design. “How—how did you vet me?”
Lauren smiles slightly, her lipstick still intact despite eating the salad. “Private investigator. It’s a simple process, Grace. We just want to turn up anything that might not sit well with voters.”
“You had me investigated?” My stomach clenches, unease and the fennel-orange salad roiling in my gut.
“Don’t frown, Grace. It’s not a good look.” Lauren picks up her fork as if we’re planning something as innocuous as a baby shower, rather than an all-out run at the White House. “Besides, there’s not much you have to worry about. You’re almost squeaky clean.”
I let out a slow breath. Nothing to worry about, Grace. No skeletons in your closet.
Lauren leans in. “But I do want to talk to you woman-to-woman. You’re single, Grace.”
I nod, stunned by her lightning-fast change of subject.
“This man in your life? If you’re a running mate, your relationship won’t fly under the radar for long. Can you honestly say this man is someone voters should get to know? Does he make you more electable?”
I avoid her gaze. I can’t talk about Jared.
“I didn’t think so.” She gives me a slow, appraising look, then leans back in her chair. “I’ll ask you again. Do you control him, or does he control you?”
I halt, remembering Jared’s command to be wet and naked and waiting. That text showed up as “read,” because it was read. By Lauren.
Embarrassment trumps my anger over the fact that she read my text. “And I’ll tell you again, it’s complicated.”
“Who is he?”
“Jared Rankin.”
Lauren’s eyes flare. “Conover’s campaign consultant?”
I twist my napkin in my hands and stare at the tabletop. “Yes.”
Lauren mashes her lips into a thin line. “Grace, you have to cut this off. Immediately. If you run with my husband, you’d literally be sleeping with the enemy.” She leans back. “Plus, we don’t want voters to get distracted by a relationship. You’re still a widow in their minds.”
I bite my lip against a snippy retort. I lost my family five years ago. What’s the appropriate mourning period? A decade? A lifetime?
“Think about it, Grace. I’m trying to help. A fling with the wrong man could damage your future. You need to keep your eye on the ball.”
I give her a noncommittal nod and let several seconds tick by and the tension eases. “What happens next?”
“Next we make our choices. You agree to sign on to our campaign. Our speechwriters go crazy, and we hash out certain issues to ensure we’re all working from the same playbook.”
“You mean you want me to fall in line.”
Lauren’s mouth tightens. “I don’t think I need to remind you that Aaron’s first on the ticket. Not you. You fall in line behind him, or you don’t get on it at all. Are we clear?”