“Sorry, wrong number,” I say. I hang up, mortified, and slam another espresso capsule in my machine. I need to be mainlining coffee.
I shove my panic down and give my carton of half and half the sniff test. It fails, so I heap extra sugar in my cup.
My phone rings again and I groan and curse at once. Then I straighten up, paste a smile on my face, and answer.
“Hello?”
“Representative Colton, this is Senator Conover’s office calling to arrange a meeting today.” It’s a male voice, but different from the other caller.
“Today?” I squeak. On a Sunday?
Senator Shepard “Shep” Conover is the Democratic dark-horse candidate for president. Although the field has thinned to three, at sixty-eight, he’s the oldest candidate by more than a decade, not nearly as well-funded as Mr. Hair-and-Teeth Aaron Darrow of California, and he has far less name recognition than past vice-presidential candidate Jim Boyce.
Also, he has no earthly reason to meet with me.
“No time like the present, Ms. Colton. How soon can you make yourself available?”
“I—uh, where does he want to meet?” I’m tripping over easy words, so I sip my too-hot espresso—sonofabitch, that hurts—and try to re-engage my brain.
“He hosted a private fundraising dinner last night in Portland. He’d like to see you as soon as possible before he flies to Seattle later today.” The man’s clipped tones hint at a Southern drawl. “Is nine too early for a meeting downtown?”
My eyes swivel to the clock: it’s just after eight. But given his leadership of the Senate Committee on Foreign Relations, when Senator Conover says jump, people don’t ask how high. They jump and wait for his signal to come down, gravity be damned.
“I can make it. Anything I should prepare for the senator?”
“No. We’ve got it. Just give your name to the concierge and they’ll escort you to his suite at The Nines.”
I’m mid-sip listening to the staffer’s instructions and nearly choke. Of course it has to be that hotel. Of course.
“Thank you,” I croak and click off the phone, making sure it is completely off before I let out a little scream of frustration. Time to put on my big-girl panties and act like a member of Congress.
Chapter Five
“The senator would like you to sign these nondisclosure forms before you meet.”
The bland, late-twentysomething staffer hands me a clipboard and pen and guides me to a seat. Man, he doesn’t miss a beat. I frown, sign my life away, and hand back the clipboard.
“Coffee?” he asks brightly.
“Please.” I press my hand against my knee where it’s already bouncing with nervous, espresso-injected energy. Any more coffee and I’ll hit my target heart rate. Then I can skip working out today, right?
An inner door of the suite opens and Senator Conover emerges, looking fresh and spry, his white hair perfectly matching a starched white shirt with monogrammed cuffs. Navy trousers hang on his lean frame the way only expensive tailoring can.
“Ms. Colton, it’s a pleasure to see you again.” His handshake is firm and his skin is perfectly smooth, as if he’s just finished a manicure. His eyes twinkle with the avuncular charm I admire on Sunday talk shows.
To have that charm turned on me, full force and in person, is stunning.
“Senator Conover, thank you so much for asking to meet with me.”
He chuckles and steers me to a pair of wingback chairs. “Oh, we’re all friends here. It’s Shep. Please. It’s been a while since we met at the Associated Press luncheon last November.”
I squeak out “yes” because my head’s spinning with his total recall. That, or a staffer briefed him. The senator is a person who people remember meeting. I, on the other hand, am not.
He continues, “I’ve been keeping my eye on you and the good work you’re doing, Grace—may I call you Grace?”
Well, considering you’ve asked me to call you Shep, I don’t see how I can say no.
“Of course.” I try to inject my voice with warmth, try to observe perfect manners as I sip my coffee, and yet I feel like I come off as a sullen, awkward teen next to this elder statesman.
Shep Conover oozes charm and good breeding and money.
Except for the last one, which I only came into by way of Seth’s life insurance, I have none of the above.
“Grace, I’ve had my eye on you because I think we might make a good team.” He smiles broadly.
“On which legislation?” I mentally rifle through my bills under construction or consideration—environmental reform to improve downriver water flows for salmon, anti-revenge porn and cyber-privacy laws, and a handful of gun-control laws that make me pretty unpopular, even with people in my own party, and especially those from the South.