Sway (Landry Family 1)

“So what you’re saying here is that he convinced you he’s this great guy, one that was good enough to lay aside your reservations and give it a whirl. And yet, at the first sign of struggle, you’re rethinking everything?”

Gulping, I feel my cheeks heat. “I’m not necessarily rethinking everything. I’m trying to be smart, Lola. I’m trying to make sure I’m not walking into a replica of what I walked away from.”

“No offense,” she says, tipping back the rest of her wine. “But Barrett Landry is spades over Hayden Baker. Okay? Regardless of what Barrett’s done to upset you, let’s not put him on the level with your asshole ex. It’s not like he has paraded up the steps of a swanky hotel with a hooker at his heels.” She groans. “And with a hooker in ridiculously ugly heels.”

I glare at her.

“What? They were. They actually looked Bedazzled, Ali. Who does that? And who fucks that?”

I roll my eyes, grateful for the bit of levity but knowing it’s not enough to completely distract me.

She wraps her arm around my shoulder and snuggles into me like only a best friend can. I wonder absentmindedly what would’ve changed if I’d had her in New Mexico when I was going through everything. I was alone then. Would it have been easier if I’d had her there? Because this is a lot easier with her here.

“I think, in my infinite wisdom, you need to give the disastrously hot mayor the benefit of the doubt,” she says matter-of-factly.

“What if it destroys me in the end?”

“Hey,” she says, tugging the blanket around her waist. “You were the one that insisted on tangling up the heart and vagina. I believe my initial suggestion was to keep them separate.”

“They’re pretty wound together.”

“I think they’re more wound together than you even realize.”

The stars twinkle a little brighter as I acknowledge that she’s right. Every part of me is tangled up in this irresistibly handsome politician and I’m afraid there’s no way out.

I’m really afraid I might not want a way out.

Barrett

The house is dark, just the light over the cook top is on. I sit at the kitchen table and take another swig of bourbon.

The room is full of expensive pieces of furniture from a double oven to a restaurant-style refrigerator. The table I’m sitting at was handcrafted, as were the barstools lining the granite-topped bar. It’s a warm room, the one everyone calls the heart of the home. Most assuredly the most expensive room in this house. Yet, when I think about sitting here or sitting at the little beat-up table at Alison’s, there’s no question where I’d rather be.

And it isn’t fucking here.

My body aches. My shoulders are stiff, my head feels like I’ve gone a few rounds with my trainer. My throat is scratchy from yelling so much today, my knuckle a little ripped from hitting a punching bag at the gym with no gloves. The pain felt purifying, distracting from my true ailment—a blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl that I just might have ruined my chances with.

Not being able to smooth this over with her destroys me. Seeing the pain on her face, the little spec of insecurity in who I am and what I believe about her, hasn’t left me all day. In fact, it’s only pressurized, built, and now is bubbling over.

My phone buzzes and I only look at it in case it’s her. But it’s not. Of course it’s not. It’s Linc.

As much as I don’t want to hear his stupidity, I really don’t want to be alone. So I answer it.

“Hey,” I say, flinching as the bourbon festers in my stomach.

“What’s up?”

“Not much.” I sit the glass on the table. “What about you?”

“Not much. Just seeing what’s happening over there.”

I look around the room and consider just how much of nothing is happening. No conversations, no plans for tomorrow, no lunch dates on the schedule that I actually want to attend. Not one damn thing.

“Graham called earlier and filled me in on the debacle with the papers and all that,” he says, like he’s just tossing that out there as a conversation piece. It’s the reason he fucking called and as much as that annoys me, it’s also a relief.

“Yeah, it’s been a fucked up day.”

“How’d you handle it?”