Stolen Hearts (Hearts 1)

“Spanish food. From a place down the corner.”

“You like Spanish food?”

“There are a lot of things about me you don’t know,” he said.

Oh, for fuck’s sake. How dramatic could I be.

“Sit,” I said. “You’re hungry, too.”

His smile was a flash, and in that flash I saw what he must have been like when he was younger. When there was something grateful and happy left in him. “I’m not going to lie,” he said. “I’m starving.”

He started to take out the boxes, opening them to reveal paella with juicy black-shelled mussels, grilled octopus, flaky manchego cheese, and roasted red peppers. Pale almonds and bright green olives. He set out napkins and plastic utensils. There were bottles of water. And what looked like a to-go cup of coffee.

“Here,” he said, handing me a paper plate while I stood there staring at the feast he made happen. For me. I mean, for us, sure. But . . . for me. “What’s wrong? You don’t like Spanish?”

“No,” I said. “I love it.” My mouth was actually watering. “I’m just grateful. Thank you.”

Again, that half smile from him. That sparkle in the corner of his eye, the way he ducked his head as he scooped up the rice and seafood covered in aioli and fresh bright green herbs.

I sat down and took some cheese, olives, and bread.

“So, you’re going to be the executive director of the foundation,” he said, sitting back with octopus and a mound of saffron yellow rice, flecked with fresh green peas. “Are you excited?”

“Nervous.”

“Why?”

“I’m not—” I almost said ‘qualified’ but I wasn’t going to reveal that to him. He already knew too much. “It’s just been a while since I’ve worked.”

“Did you always want to work with charities?”

“No.” I laughed. “I wanted to teach fifth grade.”

“A teacher!”

“Does it seem so ridiculous?”

“Not at all. Why fifth?”

“Because Mrs. Jordal was my fifth-grade teacher, and she was the best teacher ever. And I like the age. Not little kids, but not yet teenagers.”

“So? Why aren’t you a teacher?”

I thought back to the conversation I’d had with the senator.

“I need you to be my wife. To travel with me. To manage functions and throw parties. You can’t teach school and be the wife of a senator.”

“That’s not true,” I said. “There are plenty of senator’s wives who keep—”

“You can run the foundation, if you feel like being my wife isn’t enough for you.”

“Jim,” I said, putting my hand on the desk between us. “That’s not what I mean—”

So fast, like a snake, Jim lifted the hard-backed book in front of him and smashed it down on my hand.

“Poppy?”

I blinked. Flexed the fingers of the hand he’d hurt. There’d been no broken bones, but I hadn’t been able to hold anything in that hand for a week. And the bruise had been purple and green for even longer.

“Sorry,” I said. “I got married.” I shrugged like that explained everything. Like a shrug could encapsulate the slow shrinking of my world.

“And you stopped wanting to teach?”

I set down my fork, feeling heckled by his questions. “What about you? Did you always want to be a . . . whatever you are for rich people?”

He smiled and then laughed. “No. I wanted to be a priest.” My mouth hung open. “When I was little and where I was from the priests had a lot of power. And if it was get hurt or hurt someone, I reckoned I’d rather not be hurt.”

“It’s hard to imagine you as a priest.”

He took a bite of rice and shrugged. I ate yet another piece of cheese.

“How did you end up working for Caroline?”

I was watching so I saw it, the tiny freeze. The way he set down his fork and instead of feeding himself he wiped his mouth with a napkin. “She was in the UK, and I did some work for her there.”

“Doing what?”

“Solving some problems with oil companies.”

“Are you a lawyer?”

That made him laugh. “A negotiator.”

I didn’t exactly know what that meant, but I nodded like I did.

“For what it’s worth,” he said, sitting back in his chair, the plate he’d made for himself empty. “I think you’d be a great teacher.”

“Why?” I laughed. “Nothing you know about me has anything to do with teaching.” I blushed as I said it. He knew outrageous things about me.

“You’re patient. And kind. Empathetic. Intelligent. You understand the value of small braveries.” I set down my plate, my fingers suddenly shaking. “And you’re beautiful. Which I think probably goes a long way with children.”

I stood up because I didn’t know what else to do. “I . . . ah . . . I have to go,” I said.

“Because I called you beautiful?” he asked.

And smart and kind and the small braveries thing. All of it. I hadn’t been paid a compliment in years, and that was too many.