A sheriff’s deputy with a military buzz and a thick neck—she knew his name, had made a point of it upon election, but her brain had not accompanied her inside—finished what her father didn’t.
“Patrol found your car by the side of the road, hazards on, keys planted inside the wheel well. Residents who saw your car had called in, concerned. When your father didn’t know your whereabouts, couldn’t reach you on your cell, called everyone he knew and no one had seen you, we began a search of the vicinity.”
Gretchen’s stomach shriveled painfully. Her lungs sagged in on themselves when air failed to fill them. She turned to Chase who had his eyes closed, finger and thumb pinching the bridge of his nose, an exaggerated exhale on his lips. Chase, who was supposed to call Nat or Wes. Chase, who had insisted she go with him, which then triggered a county-wide search for their elected mayor.
Her father navigated the bodies, too many people, all taking up her air and judging. He pulled her into a desperate hug. “We’re glad you’re all right.”
She shoved everything down deep inside and put on her big-girl mayor pants. “Thank you all for your efforts. My apologies for worrying you. It was nothing.”
Not quite how she meant it to come out. Political evasiveness, nothing more. She glanced at Chase, who looked as if he had taken a direct hit of censure. The crowd mumbled and shuffled toward the door. One of the officers pressed his mouthpiece and told dispatch to call off the search. Gretchen wondered how many people had been up all night, impacted, while she lost herself in the most irresponsible way possible. This is what came of jumping off agenda, why surprises weren’t in her DNA. Nausea brewed in her gut.
She pulled her father into another hug and whispered, “I’m so sorry, Daddy. No one should have to go through that twice in one lifetime.”
His fragile shell, so much reduced from what it had once been, shuddered, part silent cry, part relief of pent-up stress. “I love you.”
She couldn’t speak, could only hold him tighter.
After a time, he sniffed and straightened and pulled free. He extended his hand to Chase, the only other person left in the house.
“I don’t believe we’ve been introduced,” said her dad.
“Pleased to meet you, sir. Chase Meier.”
“I know who you are.” Neither angry nor welcoming, only neutral, her father’s tone spilled over into his next words. “Thank you for bringing her home safe.”
Chase shifted his attention to her. “Gretchen, I’m so sorry…”
“This isn’t on you, Chase.” Though part of her wanted it to be, ultimate responsibility rested with her. She never should have gone, gotten swept up in the impulsiveness that was Chase Meier. Since the moment she entered Gabriel Mendez’s estate, she had thought only of herself, her ambition, her wants. She cost her entire town—hell, an entire county—taxpayer dollars in manpower and resources. For what? Something she swore she would never do? Someone she swore she would never do? “It’s on me. But it’s probably best if you go.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but his gaze snagged her father, and he changed his mind. Chase looked caught between a cliff and an ocean, snagged in mid-air, not knowing which way to turn his body or look or fall. He brushed out a quick, silent wave and retreated out the door.
Cool morning air eased in behind him. A few neighbors could be heard down the way, gossiping no doubt, catching the grapevine up on the latest development. His truck engine fired. She knew he did his best to tiptoe down the street, but he probably woke the town. Funny, how five minutes earlier it hadn’t mattered to her.
Her father tugged her over to the couch to sit beside him. Lincoln sat at her knees, worry lifting hairy brows over his wet, round eyes. He blasted her with his hot, all-night-worry breath.
Gretchen apologized again and cried to her dad. She was the mayor, but just now she was eight again, with all the emptiness and self-blame she shouldered back when she believed her mother’s death was her fault. That if she hadn’t asked her mom to get in the car, get on that highway before the sun came up to pick her up from a sleepover so that she could make it to her gymnastics competition on time, her mother would still be alive.
After she relayed the story—running out of gas, the attorney general, the law library—leaving out most of the parts about Chase because it seemed easier, neater that way, she explained that she had forgotten herself in the excitement of it all. And she promised it would never happen again.
She just wasn’t entirely certain which parts she meant.
Wes entered the kitchen and smacked Chase upside the head with a rolled-up newspaper.
“Nice going, dickhead. You made the morning edition.”
Chase coughed back the fat chunk of cinnamon bagel that circled his windpipe, chewed it with more precision then took another stab at sending it to his stomach. He grabbed the paper. His eyes immediately tracked to the headline: Mayor Found Alive After Scare. Subline: What is she hiding? Byline: Dale Euclid.
He took a half second to appreciate the photo. Seeing her again, twenty-four hours after he left her at her house, even in an old campaign photo dated years ago, did crazy fucking things to him. Burned his thighs. Watered his mouth. Change her mayor’s office attire, and he would make love to her all over again in a shameless heartbeat.
On second thought, the suit could stay. It was growing on him.
Nat entered the kitchen and wagged his thumb toward Chase. “What’s up with this goober? He looks like that time we brought him back from getting his wisdom teeth out and declared that Miranda Lambert wanted to take him to prom.”
“He’s reliving his sinful night as the mayor’s boy toy,” said Wes.
“So that’s the secret she’s hiding,” said Nat. “I always thought he deserved greater respect.”
“Are you two finished? Because I have this itch.” Chase reached down near his privates with both hands, did a grand show of scratching his boys, and brought out two middle fingers on the back side.