Getaway Girl (Girl 1)

So I’m not losing faith. Fuck that. These two women aren’t going to waltz in here and demolish the trust and friendship Elijah and I have built together. It’s ours and I’m not going to let anyone touch it. If he knew they were here saying these things to me, I know he wouldn’t like it. That’s why they’re dividing and conquering. When he comes home tonight, I’ll ask him if what they’re telling me is true and we’ll go from there. I trust him to tell me.

I have to. My other option is, believe that I’m actively hurting him—and that’s unacceptable.

“The snowman is on the house,” I say in a scratchy voice, taking it from Elijah’s mother to wrap it in tissue paper, handing it back with a level gaze. “It’s only fair, since you’re related to one half of the manufacturing team.”

“Thank you.” I think I see the barest flicker of amusement in her expression as she inclines her head. “We’ll let you get back to work.”

Watching both of the women disappear into the crowd, I refuse to let the earth shift beneath my feet. I force it to firm up along with my lady balls. As soon as Elijah gets home tonight, we’ll talk about this and he’ll have an explanation. Everything will be fine.

I don’t even consider the possibility that he won’t come home tonight.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Elijah

Inauguration Day fashion!

What are Charleston’s celebutantes wearing to the ceremony?

—Avant-Charleston

I hereby solemnly swear to stay thick and juicy.

—Twitter @DuPontBadonk

I lean back from my computer and massage my eye sockets.

How long have I been staring at the damn screen? Days?

A check of the clock tells me I’ve lost track of time—again—and I need to leave now or I won’t make it home before Addison goes to sleep. But if I go home, I’ll start my first official term as mayor in the morning with loose ends and plans without a solid foundation.

Dammit, I can’t do it. I owe it to the people who elected me to mean what I say tomorrow. I’m not going to stand in front of everyone tomorrow without conviction.

Thinking of Addison bundled up under the covers makes me want to slam my head against the desk, though. That’s where I want to be. Need to be. She’s so sweet when she’s half asleep. Even when she’s digging her toes into my hips and urging me to go faster, that husky middle-of-the-night sleepiness in her tone has become my addiction. Lord, I crave her in all her forms. Seductress, friend, tease, champion, partner in crime, mean girl, lover.

No wonder the news outlets have no idea what to make of her. She has the ability to be several incredible things at once—and they can’t keep up.

Good. She’s mine to figure out. Mine to pin down. No one else’s.

With a half-smile on my face, I sort through the newspapers on my desk. Every morning, one of the aides drops them off, pertinent news stories highlighted. Addison is always a topic of interest, but depending on the news outlet, the coverage ranges from utter worship to outright derision. I loathe every single negative word printed about her, but it’s the damn nature of the beast in politics. There are just as many negative opinions about me—mostly from the miffed upper crust—and before that, my father was the target of disapproval.

In a city the size of Charleston, making everyone happy is near impossible. Hell, my approval ratings reflect that, don’t they? In one paper, my numbers are at an all-time high for any sitting mayor. In another, I might as well quit they’re so low. Focusing on the job is the only answer. Getting lost in the bullshit will only distract me and drive me crazy.

I’m just about to pick up the phone to call Addison when there’s a knock on my office door. Looking up, I’m surprised to see my mother framed in the doorway.

“Mom.” I stand up and come around my desk, kissing her on her offered cheek. “What are you doing here so late?”

“I remember the night before your father was sworn in.” She holds up a brown paper bag. “Macaroons are good for frayed nerves.”

I take the bag and immediately dig in, popping a cookie into my mouth and she laughs when I make a big show of enjoying it. “Want one?”

“No, those are yours. I have plenty at home.”

We fall silent after that, which is unusual. My mother usually talks a blue streak. “Is everything okay?” I ask, moving back to the other side of my desk.

She sits down across from me. “Having your father at home so much already has me at loose ends. I’ve cleaned every corner of the house—or supervised, anyway—I’ve lunched with every friend in my address book.” She shrugs. “I guess I was just hoping to be helpful.”