I grip the sink for balance before turning to face him. “What?”
“Election night is less than two weeks away.” He pauses just enough to make me worry—worry that it all ends right here. He needs to cut off contact now that the day is drawing close. But I’m caught off guard when he says, “Will you come?”
“Me?” I blurt the word, immediately shaking my head. Who else would he be talking to? Still… “That doesn’t seem wise.”
“I’ve asked for no cameras or press while the results come in. We’ll be in City Hall, after hours. It’s just going to be me, my parents. Chris and Lydia. Maybe one or two trusted staff members. And I want you there.” His expression is usually so open and relaxed, but right now, he seems…determined. Maybe even a little ragged around the edges. “Will you come?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” His head tips forward, a relieved smile on his mouth when he comes back up. “I’ll wait out here until you’re done.”
I flip on the water as soon as the door closes, but don’t get anything accomplished for a good five minutes, because all I can do is smile like a goof at my own reflection. I have no delusions that Elijah will magically start thinking of me as more than a friend. I can’t. Whenever I start to let hope run away with me where Elijah is concerned, I think of the vacancy in my mother’s eyes as she sat, day in and day out, waiting for her ex-lover to come back. Until the light completely went out and she broke, running away as far and fast as she could. Hope can be the devil for women when it comes to men. Especially men who’ve already pledged their love to someone else. To an ideal that a Potts girl could never fit.
As long as I continue to reality check myself, though, a tiny pinprick of hope won’t hurt, will it? Carefully, I let myself feel it, exhilaration filling my lungs with air.
Maybe, just maybe, Elijah isn’t going to hide me away forever.
CHAPTER TEN
Elijah
Exclusive
Dewberry Hotel staff claims Captain Du Pont’s bed never needs to be made!
So exactly whose sheets has he been messing up?
Unrelated: Getaway Girl positively glowing on her way into the market on Election Day.
—Charleston Post
“Congratulations, son.” My father slides a tumbler of bourbon into my hands, sending a nod toward the television and the series of pie charts on the screen. “Your performance in last week’s town hall put you over the mark. The son of a bitch has no chance.”
My throat burns under the slide of liquor. I want to correct his use of the word performance but decide to let it slide for tonight. It’s rare for my father to be in a good enough mood to stop plotting and laugh, plus we’re not the only people filling the downstairs conference room. My father thinks the development plans I outlined in last week’s event were just lip service to secure votes. That I intend to maintain business as usual once I’m elected. How well does he really know me, if he thinks I’m not a man of my word?
Not for the first time tonight, I glance at the door, willing Addison to walk through. Her encouragement, her belief in me, provided the boost I needed before last week’s town hall. And I want her here now. I want someone in my corner who has no doubts about who I am.
Taking another sip of my bourbon—my third of the night—I nod at Chris’s thumbs up, Lydia’s encouraging smile from where they sit speaking with my mother. My oldest friends believe in me, too, but something about it doesn’t feel the same as Addison giving me her confidence. Not as…satisfying.
My thoughts are interrupted when the conference room door opens and Addison slides inside, closing it behind her without making a sound. I’m not sure why I stand there like a moron, my drink caught in midair. Something about seeing Addison outside the confines of the apartment is almost surreal. It has only happened a few times. Once after I was jilted, another time in the supermarket. And the final time was outside the market when she looked like she had a reservation with death. All moments when I was more than a little distracted.
It’s election night, so I’m the epitome of distracted. Right? But not enough to notice she’s gone shopping. I’ve been in her closet to hunt down ornament supplies at least a hundred times—and I’m certain I’ve never seen the dress she’s wearing. It’s ruby red with some kind of silvery flower print and it’s very…fluttery around her legs. Her hair—did she get it trimmed today?—is down and brushing her arms, her back. God, she’s pretty.
She’s wearing new silver sandals. Did she replace the brown ones?