I shrug. “I . . . I don’t want to fail anyone. Being in my position, both as a Landry and as the mayor of the city, has all sorts of responsibilities, and I lay awake at night sometimes worrying about the best thing to do for everyone.”
“What about for you?”
My brows pull together and I lean back in the bed and face her. “What do you mean, what about me?”
“What about doing what’s best for you? Do you ever think about that?”
“Sure,” I say, stumped by her question.
“I don’t know how that’s true. When is the last time you did something purely because it was in your best interest?” she asks, her voice tilted with sass. “When is the last time you didn’t consider what was best for your campaign or your father or the city?”
I lean forward so my breath tickles the side of her neck. “When I sucked grapes out of your pussy.”
“Ah!” she gasps, trying to pull away, but I don’t let her. I pull her into me and she melts, letting me kiss her.
When we finally separate, we’re both grinning like crazy and I hope that’s the end of this questioning.
But it’s not.
“So I’m your little form of rebellion?” she asks. She means it as a joke, as a taunt, but there’s no denying the fear hidden beneath the surface.
“Maybe,” I say, watching her for a reaction. “Or maybe you’re the first thing I’ve thought was worth going after.”
She relaxes, but looks away.
“Alison? What’s the matter?”
Her head shakes from side-to-side, but the blankets are pulled higher up her waist. “Nothing. Nothing’s the matter. Why would you ask?”
“Talk to me,” I whisper, my gaze pleading with hers to talk to me. “What are you scared of?”
She bites her lip and gathers her courage. I watch her do it, the blues of her eyes solidifying, her shoulders quietly squaring. “You.”
“Me? You’re scared of me?” I laugh. “Why in the world would you be scared of me?”
“Because it’s too easy to be with you. Even at this slow pace we say we’re going at . . .”
I lift her chin with my fingertips. “It’s crazy, huh?”
She nods, her eyes wide. “It’s so crazy. I’ve spent the last few years making sure all of my ducks are in a row so I never get trampled by anyone again.”
“The only place I’ll trample you is in this bed,” I grin.
“The parallels from what I went through and this are so similar. What if I get caught up in this, in you, and you get elected? Don’t get me wrong—you should be elected. You’re smart and funny and charming and have the best heart. But you move to Atlanta and . . . what then?”
“Then we figure it out,” I say with as much confidence as I can muster. “What if I lose? Will you want to fuck a loser?”
She shakes her head. “Even if you don’t win, you won’t be a loser.”
“Even if I win, that doesn’t make me a winner.” I say the words before I think about it, before I realize I’ve said them aloud. Something clicks and I know she’s going to ask me to expound on the idea, and I grimace and wait for it.
“What does that mean?”
I huff a breath and think about lying to her, but the openness we have in conversation is nice. Cathartic, even.
“It just means,” I say, grabbing a strawberry, “that sometimes in this business you have to agree to things you don’t necessarily believe in.”
“Like what?”