The Phoenix Candidate(7)

Missouri counts as the South, right?

“On all the legislation.” He smiles again, and now it’s getting creepy. “I’d like you to consider being my running mate.”

I blink.

My jaw must have hit the floor and shattered because I can’t speak. I just sit there as my face gapes.

And then I breathe. And then I sputter into a coughing fit and cover my mouth and make horrible choking noises that don’t belong in this hotel room with Senator Shep-Fucking-Conover.

“Would you like some water, Ms. Colton?” a male voice asks as I hack into a napkin. It’s not the senator’s voice, but it’s familiar. Low, warm, dipped in a light Southern accent.

I drop the napkin and look up, directly into chocolate brown eyes that crinkle at the corners. Jared.

Sonofabitch! I’m not going to be the first thirty-nine-year-old to have a heart attack, but I could be the first to keel over for this insanity.

I muster all of my composure, which is in shreds on the floor, and apologize to the senator for my coughing fit. Then I ask for details while mentally forcing my brain down this singular path, excluding Jared entirely.

Running mate. Vice president. Veep. Ho. Lee. Shit.

I don’t know how Geraldine Ferraro or Sarah Palin felt when they had this talk, but I’m ready to pee my pantsuit.

“You can take a bit of time to think about it, as I will, but I plan to announce a few days before the convention,” Conover says. That’s in late August, less than two months away. “Before we commit to each other, we’re both going to have some work to do. I’m deep in fundraising and appearances, and I’ll expect you to get up to speed on my platform so we can dovetail on the issues.”

My mouth tightens but I say nothing. I can imagine how fun it will be hashing out our differences over social issues when I’m a pretty flagrant liberal and he’s more of a moderate, Clinton-esque Democrat.

“In short, Grace, I think we could be a good fit. You balance the ticket in every way that matters, and some of the ways that shouldn’t, but still do. You’re a woman. You’re nearly thirty years younger than me. You’re from the West. You’ve been focused on domestic issues.”

“You mean gun control.”

“Among other things. A Conover-Colton ticket has a good ring to it. Nice alliteration, and broad name recognition.”

He doesn’t say it, but he doesn’t have to: There’s no way a second-term congresswoman from Oregon would be invited on a presidential campaign if she didn’t have something more to offer than being a youngish female legislator from the West.

And I do. I have a story.

My personal tragedy from five years ago has become a national narrative, and losing Ethan and Seth is a political chip.

I let out a shaky breath and try to refocus. Bring coffee to lips. Sip. Swallow. Breathe. Repeat. I miss most of what the senator’s saying, but I catch snippets including “background check” and “image management.”

“I’m sorry, could you explain that further?” I ask, hoping he’ll just rewind and play it all back to me. He’s been gesturing toward Jared and I’m still fitting the pieces together.

The senator glances at his watch and stands. “Grace, I’m sure Jared will explain what his consulting entails better than I could. I need to be on a plane and in Seattle by lunch. Can I count on you to follow up on what Jared asks?”

My eyes go wide and my panties go damp as I remember the things Jared asked of me last night. Strip. Kneel. Crawl to me. My cheeks flush, but if the senator notices, he doesn’t indicate it.

“It was a pleasure to see you again. I suspect we’ll be spending a lot of time together soon,” Shep says, clasping my hand between both of his. He turns his megawatt smile on again and I swear to God, I could bask in that. With SPF 100.





Chapter Six





I hold the wingback chair for support and paste a smile on my face as I watch the senator and the staffer who made me sign the nondisclosure form leave the suite.

That leaves me and Jared and a hell of a lot of silence.

He picks up several thick manila files from a side table, perhaps the same ones I saw in his hotel room last night, and sits in the chair opposite me. His expression is unreadable.

I remain standing. Fight or flight. That’s what I’m deciding as I lament there’s nothing in view that I could bludgeon Jared with.

“Ms. Colton. Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the chair I’m supposed to occupy.

“No.” I sound like a petulant child.

“Grace—”

“No! What the hell was that, Jared? What the fucking hell?” I bend to get in his face to really shout him into submission, but he grabs my wrist.