The Saint (Notorious 3)

“No comment?” Jim asked.

“Go to hell, Jim,” I said and walked away, my night in ruins around me.

6

“Deputy Deadbeat Daddy Denied?” Amanda asked as she walked into the office on Monday morning. She tossed the paper onto my desk so I could see, once again, the photo on the front page.

There I was, in bright crisp and clear color, leaning in, eyes closed, lips pursed—puckered up, really, like a child. But that wasn’t even the best part of the photo—no, the look on Zoe’s face as she leaned away from me, as if I were made of stinky cheese—that was the best part of the photo.

“It gets worse,” Amanda said.

“USA Today?”

“No, YouTube. The photographer got video. Deputy Deadbeat Daddy Denied is worldwide right now.”

“Great,” I muttered, spinning in my chair to face the window. Outside it was a gorgeous day, blue skies, fluffy white clouds—everything mocked me.

Why did I kiss her? I wondered, feeling thick and heavy. This wasn’t supposed to be real.

She wasn’t supposed to be so damn real.

One of the most real things I’d experienced in a long time.

I had no idea what she was thinking about right now, and I hated that I wondered. That I cared.

“I’ll deal with it,” I said.

“How?”

I’m not sure yet, I admitted to myself.

“I have a meeting with Eric Lafayette in an hour about the Glenview—”

“You can’t just brush this off,” Amanda snapped. “Eleven months until elections, Carter. You want a life in public service, you need to handle this crap. Pretending it’s not happening isn’t going to make it go away.”

“I’m not. I said I’d deal with it, and I will.”

“Carter, I’m on your side. I can help.”

“You want to call Zoe and explain that the kiss wasn’t a promotional stunt?” I snapped. A promotional stunt gone so wrong.

“Er…no?”

“Then we’re done here.”

After a long moment Amanda got the point and left.

Zoe’s stink face stared up from the paper and I couldn’t take it anymore.

I pulled out my cell phone and faced the music.

ZOE

My cell phone rattled against the kitchen counter, and my heart did a similar dance against my rib cage.

I didn’t know why I was so nervous, or frankly, how I knew it was Carter calling.

But I was nervous and it was him.

“You want me to talk to him?” Penny asked, ready to rush to my defense, as though we were on the playground and Carter pushed me off the slide.

“I can handle this, Mom,” I said, though I was slightly afraid I couldn’t. I’d woken up this morning to Penny and the front page of the paper.

A combination that had me running for the ginger cookies and salsa and I didn’t care who saw.

It was bad, being kissed for a publicity stunt, but it was far worse to have that kiss all over the front page of the paper. And I wasn’t even the one that looked bad.

Poor Carter.

His pride must be sore this morning.

I scooped up the phone and answered it as I walked into my bedroom and some privacy.

“Hello,” I said, cool as a cucumber.

“Zoe, it’s Carter.”

“Good morning,” I said, channeling every aloof and distant receptionist I’d ever come across.

“Zoe.” He sighed, and I heard the frustration in his voice, a certain weariness that pulled at me.

Do not fall for that again, I told myself. This is a man you are fake dating. That’s it.

“You’ve seen the paper?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “I have.”

“I didn’t know that photographer was there,” he said.

“Really?” I asked, not at all cucumber-like. “He just happened to burst out from behind the bushes the moment we…kiss?” I whispered the last word, sure my mother was eavesdropping. Not that Penny didn’t know about the kiss; I just didn’t want to talk about it with my mom listening.

“I had no idea,” Carter said. “I promise.”

Promise? I thought. Something about Carter making a promise to me seemed authentic. It wasn’t something he would do lightly.

If it wasn’t a stunt, that meant the kiss was real. Genuine.

And somehow that was worse. I didn’t know what to do with those feelings. There was no slot in my life for wanting to kiss Carter.

“And if I really wanted to catch you in some kind of compromising position, it backfired—”

“Terribly,” I agreed. Then, because the photo was so awful, and the situation so ridiculous, I started to laugh.

“Are you laughing at me?” he asked.

“Yep,” I said, and laughed some more. Some of that strange magic from last night lingered on my skin, the tips of my hair. I felt young and giddy.

“It is a bad photo,” he admitted, and I could almost hear the smile in his voice.

“The worst!”

I turned and sat on the edge of my bed and saw my mother standing in the doorway, her face cut into stern, unforgiving lines.

My laughter died in my throat.

The magic vanished, and I felt like a teenager caught doing something wrong.