14. Jesse

Chapter 14

Jesse

Like a philanderer trying not to get caught, I returned home as stealthily as I could. I dimmed my headlights on the way up the driveway, thankful for the moonlight that allowed me to make it around the fountain without clipping anything. I parked in front of the garage and left the engine idling as I went around to the side door. Once I’d keyed myself in, I opened the garage door manually—less noise than using the mechanical opener—and pulled my car in. Then I closed the garage door before going inside.

I cringed as the security system chirped to announce it was disarmed. I swore it wasn’t usually that loud, and I froze, not even breathing, listening to the stillness for any indication Simone was awake.

After almost a full minute of prolonged, nervous silence, I carefully pocketed my keys so they’d make as little noise as possible. I slipped off my shoes and carried them down the hall to my bedroom. As I closed the door behind me with a quiet—but still panic-inducing— click , I exhaled.

And now that I was in the clear, I was still and silent for another long moment. I told myself I was just relieved I hadn’t disturbed Simone. It had nothing at all to do with the ache in my muscles or the fact that that ache felt suspiciously like the guilty one beneath my rib cage.

It wasn’t cheating, I reminded myself again and again. Simone probably would have given me hell if I hadn’t taken Anthony up on the opportunity for a long-overdue night together, but it still didn’t feel right. And it didn’t feel safe with all the cameras and prying eyes watching my every move. But it felt so, so good. And wrong. And amazing.

I closed my eyes and let my head gently fall back against the door. If there was one thing I was sure of right then, it was that I was too fucking tired to know which way was up, never mind what was right or wrong. Might as well sleep on it, or at least try to, and maybe I could make sense of something in the morning.

Yeah. Right.

I shouldered myself off the door, then quickly and quietly got undressed and into bed.

I was exhausted. I swore my mind ached as much as my body did.

But surprise, surprise, I couldn’t sleep.

All too aware of the absence of Anthony’s warm skin against mine, I stared into the darkness. Beneath the covers, I idly turned my wedding ring around my finger with my thumb. Divorcing or not, these trysts ate at me. God, why did I let Roger talk me into running like this? Into running now instead of after I’d had a chance to settle things with Simone and get my life in some semblance of scandal-free order? On the one hand, I probably wouldn’t have met Anthony. On the other, I wouldn’t be trying to get elected as one of those rare honest politicians while using a completely dishonest tactic to polish up my personal life.

I rubbed my eyes and cursed all the reasons for my sleeplessness. There had to be a way to calm some of this shit down. I could divorce Simone and spare us both the additional headache and heartache of pretending to be what we weren’t. I could, but we were in too deep now. Our public image had been established and was as good as written in blood.

I sighed. Lots of luck getting the lid back on this can of worms, and I had no one to blame but myself for taking my uncle’s advice. Jesus, Anthony must have thought I was an idiot for that. Then again, I was new to this aspect of politics. I was new to most of it. There wasn’t a doubt in my mind that I could hold my own once I was in office, but this campaigning shit was completely Greek to me.

“Casey’s getting elected over my dead body,” I’d said to Roger half a year ago. “I’m ready for this. I know I am.”

Put me in, Coach. I’m ready. Honest, I am.

“And I have just the man to run your campaign,” Roger had said. “Do what he says, and the election’s as good as yours. You’re inexperienced, but you’re exactly what California needs.”

“One slight problem, though.” I’d avoided my uncle’s eyes. “I’m gay.”

Without missing a beat, he’d said, “Not if you want to win this election, you’re not.”

“Um, except I’m—”

“Listen, son.” Hand on my shoulder. Head tilt. “You’ve got something Casey doesn’t, which is a solid marriage.”

“What about the part where Simone and I are planning to div—”

“Isn’t important.” He’d waved a hand and shaken his head. “What you have now is a marriage that’s lasted several years without any affairs or public blowups. You want to beat a crowd favorite like Casey? You use every potential advantage you have.”

“And if Simone’s not on board with this?”

Roger had given that laugh that bordered on condescending. “She will be, son. You and I both know that.”

I know, I’d thought. That was what I was afraid of.

“ His weaknesses are your strengths, Jesse,” he’d said. “The voters will love your policies, and you’ll be a breath of fresh air over that idiot. Don’t shoot yourself in the foot by creating a scandal. You’re too early in your career and pushing for too big an office to take that chance. The public’s going to have a hard enough time trusting you. A recently divorced and openly homosexual candidate is a risk, something people just aren’t…aren’t sure about. You need to prove you’re worth putting into office before the people will trust you. You’re inexperienced but more than qualified, son, and the voters will see that. Tell them you’re homosexual and divorcing America’s sweetheart? You’ll never have that chance.”

I’d wanted to disagree. I wanted to believe California was as progressive as it thought it was. I really did. Just last year, though, a slimy former bank exec who’d been involved in the crash of 2008 won a congressional seat over an openly gay—and spectacularly qualified—opponent. Much as it killed me to admit it, my only shot at winning this election was as a straight man.

A married straight man.

“Maybe I shouldn’t run this time, then,” I’d said. “If Simone and I divorce now, by the time the next election comes around—”

“There isn’t a qualified candidate in sight. It’s you or Casey in California’s future.”

“But what about Simone? She’s itching to just be done with the divorce, and I don’t want to stress her out with the election.”

“She’ll be fine,” he’d said with a dismissive gesture.

“Assuming she doesn’t have a breakdown or something,” I’d said. “You know she doesn’t deal well with stress, and I don’t want to push her over the edge.”

Roger had fallen silent for a long moment, furrowing his brow and presumably mulling everything over in his head. I’d thought he might agree that running wasn’t wise at this point, but then he’d put his hand on my shoulder again and said, “She’s a strong woman. She’ll be fine, Jesse.”

Simone had echoed his assurances that she’d be fine and wouldn’t even hear of me refusing to run.

“This is what you’ve dreamed of all your life,” she’d said with that glowing smile. “Don’t you dare pass up this opportunity.” And with a flippant shrug, she’d added, “It’s only a few months. Maybe a year if we don’t divorce right away after the election. Jesse, honey, it’ll be fine, and it’ll be worth it in the end.”

And now here we were.

In spite of stress and my guilty conscience, I eventually fell asleep, and I dreamed about the campaign, sex with Anthony, getting caught having sex with Anthony, and having sex with him anyway, even if it fucked my campaign all to hell. In one dream, I panicked so badly I woke in a cold sweat, certain we really had gotten caught fucking on a hotel balcony in front of hundreds of cameras. After another, I was so beyond giving a shit about anything, especially facing reams of tabloids with their damning photos, I woke with dull apathy still pressing down on my shoulders.

By the time the sun came up, I was still exhausted from last night and doubly tired from dreaming about it. Guilt still chewed the edges of my conscience, but with that delicious soreness in my legs and hips, I couldn’t help indulging in a damned good mood.

I got up, swam in my own pool for once, and showered, and as I dried off, I glanced in the mirror. A couple of shadowy marks on my hip brought a grin to my lips. I always had been one to bruise easily, and with someone like Anthony, I supposed it was inevitable. He could be gentle, but my God, when he wanted to, he could let loose and be so, so deliciously rough. If I’d known during my college years just how amazing it would be to let another man top me, I’d have said to hell with discretion and control and all of that nonsense. In exchange for an orgasm like that—like all the ones he’d given me—political suicide just didn’t seem like such a big deal.

Goose bumps prickled along the length of my spine, following the path his lips had taken during a slow interlude while we’d caught our breath last night. This morning? Sometime before I’d come home, anyway.

Before I came home at oh dark thirty and hoped to God I didn’t wake my wife.

At that, I groaned, and my good mood threatened to fade. I swallowed the rising guilt, though, and reminded myself I hadn’t broken any rules. I hadn’t done anything wrong. Still, Simone had to know where I’d gone last night, and I couldn’t imagine she was thrilled about it.

Whether or not she was happy about last night, she certainly made a good show of being cheerful when I walked into the kitchen.

She looked up from pouring cream into her coffee and smiled. “Morning.”

“Morning.”

“Coffee?”

“God, yes.”

She snickered. “Tired, are we?”

I eyed her as I reached into the cabinet for a mug. “A little.”

The knowing grin on her face twisted my gut into knots, but I needed some caffeine before I even tried to broach the subject.

As I poured my coffee, Simone said, “By the way, you’ll be pleased to know that after you and Anthony left, I had a lovely evening with your family. Especially Chris and Julie.” She emphasized my sister-in-law’s name with a note of disgust.

I grimaced. “Sorry.”

With an exaggerated scowl, she said, “You owe me so big.”

“Name your price.”

“How about a free pass to get out of the Cameron family dinner engagement of my choosing?”

I laughed and cradled my coffee cup between both hands, waiting for it to cool enough to drink. “Hey, if you get a pass like that, I want one too.”

“They’re your family,” she said with a shrug. “You’re stuck with them. I’m not. Daughter-in-law’s privilege.”

“Where was that in the rule book?”

“Page thirty-seven, section three, under the section marked ‘how a girl can stay sane when she’s married into a fucked-up family like this.’”

I chuckled.

“So what’s on your agenda today?” she asked.

“Same shit, different day.” I tested the sides of my coffee cup to see if it had cooled at all. “I can’t even keep track of what’s going on most of the time. I just go where Anthony and Ranya tell me to. ”

“Sounds like a good plan.” She sipped her coffee. “I don’t know how you keep up with those two. They send me or my assistant a calendar, and I about have heart failure.”

“At least they both understand things like physics and travel time,” I said. “Roger’s campaign manager before Anthony, oh my God.” I rolled my eyes. “He’d line Roger up for appearances in San Diego and San Jose in the same afternoon, and expect him in Sacramento for a dinner.”

“I might have had to hurt someone.”

“No kidding.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” she said. “Speaking of people who I sometimes want to hurt, I got a call from my agent yesterday.”

“Is that right?” I brought my coffee cup to my lips and cautiously took a sip.

She nodded. “About a potential sequel to Black River .”

“Seriously?” I leaned against the counter. “I didn’t think they were going to do a sequel to that one.”

Simone shrugged. “Apparently Edwin’s got a hair up his ass and wants to direct a second, possibly a third film.”

“You going to do it?”

“I want to see the script before I sign anything in blood, but if anyone can pull it off, it’s Edwin. So, probably.”

“That’s great,” I said. “If it’s anything like the first one, people will love it.”

She held up her free hand with her fingers crossed. “Here’s hoping.” She set her coffee cup down and reached for the pot. “So did you and Anthony have a good time last night?”

I nearly dropped my own coffee. “What? I…um…”

Simone laughed. “Come on, I know you two weren’t dealing with campaign crap last night. Not after the way you guys spent dinner eye fucking each other from across the table.” My face burned, and she giggled. “It’s okay, Jess. You know I’m fine with it.”

“Well, yeah, I know, but…” I hesitated. “Are you really sure this doesn’t bother you?”

She laughed again, too easily this time. “No, of course it doesn’t.” She playfully narrowed her eyes. “And I know what you two were doing, so don’t even try to deny it.”

I cleared my throat and dropped my gaze, focusing on my coffee. “We…um…yeah, we had a good time.”

“So he’s good, then?”

“Simone!”

She snickered. “Oh come on. He’s gorgeous, but he’s gay. At least indulge me and let me live vicariously through you.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Simone… ”

She gestured dismissively. “Okay, fine .” Reaching for the stack of mail that had accumulated while we were both out of town, she added, “Or you could just tell me he’s awful so I don’t envy the hell out of you for snagging him.”

“Would you believe me if I said it?”

“Nope.”

Laughing, I shook my head and picked up my coffee again. As I took a sip, Simone pulled a colorful tabloid magazine out of the stack of mail.

“Must you read that stuff?” I asked.

She shrugged. “I’m curious what they say about us.”

“Exactly why I avoid them.”

“Well, I’d rather hear it straight from the horse’s mouth than have someone catch me off guard during an interview or something.”

“Okay, good point. But still…”

She shrugged again and opened the magazine while I forced myself not to grumble about it. Not a week went by that these idiots didn’t have something to say about us. With every page Simone turned, every hiss of paper across paper, I cringed a little more, because it was only a matter of—

“Oh, what have we here?” She flattened the paper on the counter in front of her. Resting her hands on either side of it, she scanned the article, probably oblivious to the way her collar puckered and revealed her frighteningly gaunt collarbones. With every silent moment that passed, her expression shifted from vague amusement to irritation to deep, teeth-grinding anger.

“Simone,” I said, treading carefully, “if it bothers you, just—”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she growled, more to the paper than to me.

I exhaled. “What does it say?”

She shoved the paper across the counter. I wanted nothing more than to ignore it, maybe even set the pages on fire and forget they ever existed, but Simone was upset, so she’d interpret that as me blowing off her feelings as nothing.

I put my coffee cup down and picked up the paper.

BEAUTY AND THE BODYGUARD? the headline read. Below that, “Shocking images of Simone Lancaster and her bodyguard!” Three photos of varying clarity were plastered below the headlines. One showed Dean shielding her on the way through a crowd as they left an event, maybe with more physical contact than was necessary, but that was debatable. In another they exchanged smiles while I, looking like an oblivious idiot, faced the other direction and waved at the crowd. A third presented them having what must have been a hushed conversation; they were turned toward each other, heads inclined and gazes down, his brow furrowed as she said something to him.

Below the pictures, a caption insinuated these were proof that all wasn’t well in la casa de Lancaster-Cameron. And of course, there was the article, which I read aloud .

“‘Model/actress Lancaster, 34, has a long and difficult past but appeared to have found happiness and stability in her rock-solid union with husband Jesse Cameron, 32, the Democratic Party’s candidate for California’s governor. Now allegations have emerged that Lancaster is carrying on an affair with her bodyguard of three years, Dean Reilly, 36. Sources say the often troubled model/actress has found solace with Reilly during the busily campaigning Cameron’s long and frequent absences.’”

The article went on, but I grimaced and shoved the tabloid aside. “They’re just mining for a story to tell. It—” I paused, chewing my lip. “Well, I mean, is it true?”

“No!” She slammed her palm down on the counter. “I am not sleeping with Dean, for God’s sake.”

“Okay, okay.” I put up my hands. “I’m not making any accusations. If you were, I’d be fine with it, you know that. But if you’re not, then they’re just spewing bullshit.”

She scowled and nodded sharply at the magazine. “Well, not everything they say is bullshit.”

“What do you mean?”

She gestured at the magazine again.

Reaching for it like it was a snake, I eyed her, wondering if she’d elaborate rather than making me read it for myself.

“Look at the inset,” she muttered and snatched up her coffee cup.

In the middle of the article, an inset poured salt on Simone’s wounds: Lancaster-Cameron Baby? Medical Experts Say Time is Running Out. Dr. J. D. Ratner, also known as the OB of the Stars, says advancing age, drastic weight loss, and increasing stress could prevent Simone Lancaster from having the baby she longs for.

I winced and pushed out a breath as I shoved the paper aside again. Of all the things they could nitpick her about, they just had to go there. “Jesus, Simone. I’m sorry.”

“Do you think they’re right?” Her coffee cup rattled on the countertop as she put it down. “That I might be too old to have a baby?”

“I don’t know. My mom was almost forty when she had me, but…” She was healthy. She wasn’t so dangerously thin. God, Simone, I’m so worried about you. I shook my head. “I just don’t know.”

She laughed bitterly and looked into her coffee cup, holding it as still as she could with two unsteady hands. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter. Takes two, after all.”

Ouch. I shifted my weight, resisting the urge to drum my fingers nervously on the counter. “For the record, the offer I made before still stands. If you—”

“I am not having a baby with you,” she said with unexpected venom.

I drew back a little, eyes wide, and showed my palms. “All right, all right. I’m just saying the offer is there. ”

“Great,” she muttered and picked up her coffee cup. “So if I can’t find someone who will stick around long enough to have kids, I can have IVF with someone who won’t fucking touch me.”

My throat tightened around my breath. It didn’t matter how much I told myself this was her defense mechanism, that she was lashing out and didn’t mean any of it, things like that still stung.

Simone exhaled hard. “I’m sorry, Jesse.” She ran a hand through her hair. “I didn’t mean…that was…”

“Don’t worry about it.”

We stood in awkward, prolonged silence. Her coffee cup scraped on the tile. My fingers tapped out a subtle beat of nerves and discomfort. We had long ago perfected the art of throwing each other uncertain glances and timing them just right to avoid making actual eye contact.

Simone broke the silence, and in spite of her apology a moment ago, she spoke through clenched teeth. “At least they’re leaving the two of you alone.” I looked at her across the kitchen island, and she narrowed her eyes. “But then I suppose the media wouldn’t dare accuse their golden child of being a gay cheater, would they?”

I stared at her. “You don’t—”

“Save it,” she snapped, waving her hand. “They make me look bad, and everyone can be all sympathetic toward you.” She laughed bitterly. “Just imagine how many votes that will score you. Poor Jesse Cameron and his infertile whore of a wife. In fact, just think, if I got hit by a bus tomorrow, they’d probably skip the whole fucking election and declare you the winner.”

“What?” I shook my head and came around the kitchen island. “Don’t talk like that, Simone. I’m sorry for the things the press is saying about you, but that’s them. Not me.” I put my hands on her shoulders and took a breath to go on, but hesitated. Gaze darting to my hands, I gently squeezed, my heart dropping into my feet as I realized just how thin her shoulders were. “Simone, are—”

“I’m fine ,” she snapped and wrenched away from me.

“You’re losing weight.”

“Is that a problem?” she growled.

I sighed. “Yes. It is. You can’t afford to lose any more.”

“Yeah,” she threw back. “God forbid I lose enough to give the press even more ammunition to blame me for not giving you a goddamned baby.”

My lips parted. “No, I’m worried about you, that’s all.”

“You’re just worried how it’ll reflect on your fucking campaign,” she snarled.

I blinked, taking a half step back. “What? You know that isn’t true.”

She folded her arms across her chest and refused to look at me. At first glance, her posture was defensive, but she hugged herself tighter and stayed focused on the floor between us. We’d had fights like this before. She lashed out, realized she’d crossed a line she didn’t mean to cross, and now she didn’t know how to uncross it. Something told me this wouldn’t be the last time we played this game between now and the divorce, but could I really blame her with everything I was putting her through?

“I can talk to Anthony,” I said softly. “Maybe we can reduce the stress put on you during the campaign.”

She met my eyes, and for a fleeting second, her expression said nothing if not please? But pride kicked in, and her lips hardened into a straight line. “It’s only a few more months.” She stepped back. “I can handle it. But no more delays. As soon as this election is over, so are we.”

Before I could reply that we already were over, Simone turned on her heel and stormed out of the kitchen. Sighing, I kneaded my stiff neck with both hands.

In the silence of the kitchen, I glared at the tabloid. This wasn’t what I’d bargained for. I knew going into the campaign that it would be hell for both of us, and I’d wondered time and again if Simone could handle it. But somehow, maybe because I was eternally optimistic or ridiculously na?ve, I hadn’t thought it would be this bad.

I turned my head toward the kitchen doorway she’d disappeared through. Simone was an amazing, intelligent woman, but she was not equipped to deal with emotions. Asking her to play the happy wife while the clock quietly ticked down to the divorce was asking a lot of her. Too much. Far too much.

But whether either of us liked it or not, or if we could handle it, the show had to go on. With the primary behind us, the show was just about to get even more intense too.

Oblivious to the problems between my wife and me, Ranya arrived right on time at a quarter after nine. She’d barely stepped through the front door when she scowled at me. “Is that really what you’re wearing?”

“This?” I gestured at my suit. “No. This is a hologram. I’m going completely naked.”

“Smart-ass. Anthony specifically said business casual for this one.”

“Business casual?” I rolled my eyes. “Fuck, I thought today was suit and tie, tomorrow was business casual.”

“No, today is business casual, tonight is suit and tie, and tomorrow is…” She quirked her lips. “Oh hell, I can’t even remember what tomorrow is. But today?” She gestured at me and shook her head. “Casual, darling.”

“This shit is way too complicated sometimes,” I said.

“Yeah, well, your complicated life keeps me employed, so I’m not bitching.” She nodded sharply down the hall. “To the bedroom so we can get you dressed, Your Highness.”

I chuckled and led her to my bedroom. “All right, what do you suggest?”

“I’d go with khakis. Or at least light gray. Something that’s less funeral chic. ”

“Funeral chic?” I glanced at her. “Really?”

She shrugged. “Hey, I’m not the one who’s a sad face away from fitting in next to a grave site. Now get out of the way and let me find something.”

I moved aside, and she stroked her chin as she peered at the clothes hanging in my closet. Hangers squeaked and clattered as she shoved things aside.

“Here.” She turned around and handed me a pair of khaki slacks and a dark blue shirt. “Put these on.”

“Yes, ma’am.” I took the hangers from her and toed off my shoes.

She turned around so her back was to me. “Just keep the suit handy. You’ll need it for this evening.”

“We’ll throw it in the garment bag.” I slipped off my black slacks and reached for the khakis. “I suppose Anthony would shit kittens if I showed up in shorts and a ripped T-shirt?”

“Well, he’d probably get a hard-on first, but yeah, probably.”

I rolled my eyes. “Cute, Ranya.”

“What? I’m just saying.”

“Uh-huh.” I zipped and buttoned my slacks. “All right, I’m decent.”

“That’ll be the day.” She turned around. “You know, it’s a crime that I’m picking out clothes for a gay man. You should be picking out mine .”

I started unbuttoning my shirt. “You’re the one who told me to step aside and let you choose.”

“Only because you have the fashion sense of a blind man.”

“Just trying to break the stereotype.” I took off my shirt and picked up the blue one she’d selected.

“Well, break a different one. I need someone to take me shopping. Ooh! Maybe I should ask Anthony.”

The very mention of his name made my stomach flutter. I laughed halfheartedly. “You go right ahead and ask him, my dear.”

She laughed but eyed me. “You all right, boss man?”

Rubbing my temples, I nodded. “Fine. Tired.”

She gave a quiet laugh. “Oh, I don’t doubt that.”

I shot her a look, one eyebrow up, and she snorted.

“Please,” she said. “It was only a matter of time before you two got it on. Dinner with everyone last night? Some downtime afterward? You looking like hell this morning?” She threw me a significant look.

I couldn’t help chuckling. “I don’t know why I ever try getting anything past you.”

“Neither do I.” She clicked her tongue and sighed melodramatically. “And yet you do. I guess you get an A for effort, at least.”

“Funny. That’s what Anthony said.”

“What? What are—Oh my God. Damn you, Jesse Cameron.”

I laughed. “You asked for that. ”

“Eww, Jesse.” She grimaced and shuddered. “Just…eww.”

“Oh whatever.” I nudged her with my elbow. “Oh ye of the gory-slasher-film obsession, and you’re really all squicked out at the thought of two men engaging in consensual—and rather hot, if I may say so—anal sex?”

“Jesse!” Ranya shuddered and shook her head vigorously. “It’s not that. It’s that I don’t want to think about my boss having any kind of sex, never mind that kind.”

I shrugged. “Well, then, think about Anthony having it.”

She furrowed her brow and seemed to mull it over for a second.

“With me,” I added.

“Fuck. You. Though I have to say, aside from all the—” She paused, looking me up and down. “Hmm. Still a bit formal. Ah, roll your sleeves to the elbows. It’ll look more casual.”

I unbuttoned the cuff. “Glad one of us has some fashion sense.”

“Well, as long as they don’t put the governor in charge of the fashion police, there might be hope for California.”

I laughed and rolled up my sleeve. “Anyway, you were saying?”

“About?”

“Aside from all the…”

“Oh right.” She folded her arms across her chest, watching me roll my other sleeve. “I was just going to say that aside from all the squicky mental images your unholy union with Anthony has produced, I had a feeling from day one that if you guys didn’t kill each other, you’d eventually end up fucking each other.”

I laughed. “Guess this is the lesser of two evils, then.”

“Absolutely,” she said. “Considering the alternative would leave me unemployed.”

“Heaven forbid.”

“Exactly. But hey, when it comes to Anthony, I can’t really blame you. The man’s smoking hot.” She paused. “Literally smoking, in his case.”

“Glad he meets your approval.”

“Well, aside from the smoking.”

“I don’t know,” I said with a shrug. “I usually don’t like it, but when he does it, it’s kind of…” Sexy. Distracting. Hypnotic.

“Man, you’ve really got it bad, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t.”

“Liar. Everything he does makes you swoon. You’d probably get turned on watching him do dishes.” She paused, her eyes losing focus. “Though I admit, a man doing dishes is pretty sexy.”

I laughed. “Let me guess, you also like them shirtless and doing yard work?”

“Absolutely.”

“Shallow much? ”

“I didn’t say those were the only things I liked a guy doing. Jesus, Jesse. But I have my purely shallow fantasies just like the next person.”

“Apparently.” I chuckled.

“I just can’t believe you like it when he smokes.” She wrinkled her nose. “That is so gross.”

I shrugged. “I don’t know why. He just makes it look good.”

“Now I’m the shallow one?”

“Did I say that’s the only thing I like him doing?”

“No, and I don’t want you to elaborate.” She put up both her hands. “Please, for the love of all that’s holy.”

“I wasn’t going to go into detail, but I’ll have you know, it’s not just the shallow stuff. He’s a pretty good guy too.”

“D’aww.” She grinned. “Someone’s not just in it for the hot booty.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Hot booty? Really?”

“Look, if you’re going to make me picture it, I’m going to give it immature nicknames. Accept this. It’s happening.”

“Yeah, that’s news.” I tried to laugh, but thinking about Anthony made my stomach twist in simultaneously pleasant and unpleasant ways. I wanted to relive last night as often as we were physically capable, but guilt had set up shop in my head and wasn’t leaving anytime soon.

“So what’s wrong?” she asked.

I sighed. “Look, stupid as this sounds, I swear I’m just setting myself up to get hurt. Or hurt him.”

“How do you figure?”

“The stress of the campaign. Having to keep things quiet if I get elected. Plus Simone’s still in the picture.”

“Yeah, she’s still in the picture on paper .”

“On paper,” I said with a nod. “But I can’t imagine it’s easy for him to watch Simone and me play the happy couple while he’s the skeleton in my closet. Any more than it’s easy for Simone to play the happy wife while I’m with Anthony.”

“No, I can’t imagine it is. But the election won’t last forever, sweetie. After November, you and Simone will be free to go out on the prowl, and I’d be willing to bet money you and Anthony will still be burning up the sheets anyway.”

I sat on the edge of the bed to put on my shoes. “How do you figure?”

“Jesse, my friend, some people just go together.” She picked up my suit and started putting it in the garment bag, adding over her shoulder, “They hook up, and it’s like, yep, that’s how it should be.”

“People said that about Simone and me.”

“And you two are compatible as hell except for that minor detail about you being a sausage fiend.”

I snorted. “Have I mentioned lately how exceptionally classy you are? ”

“No, but duly noted.” She zipped the bag emphatically. “Anyway, you and Anthony seriously go together. You two click. From where I’m standing, you boys go together like texting and car crashes.”

I raised an eyebrow, glancing up from tying my shoe. “Texting and car crashes? Well, if that’s not the most romantic analogy I’ve ever heard.”

“Blame my mother.” She showed her palms. “No, seriously. Blame her. And it’s not a perfect analogy, but whatever. The point is, you guys go together. End of story.”

“How do you even know? You’ve only seen us working together.”

“And making disturbingly adorable googly eyes at each other when you think no one’s looking.”

“What? We do—”

“Don’t argue with me, Cameron. I know you. Shit, just going by the dreamy look on your face and the way you were almost limping earlier, I could probably give a play-by-play of every horrifying thing you two did to each other last night.”

I smirked. “Or what he did to me, anyway.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Goddamn you, Jesse…”

“Hey, you went there. Again.”

Shuddering, she shook her head and made a disgusted noise. “Brain bleach. I need brain bleach.”

“Whatever.” I finished tying my shoes and stood. “You know damn well you’d be all over it if a Jesse-Anthony sex tape ever made it out there.”

“Pfft. I can’t even watch films of you when you’re not making sweet wrong-love to someone else I have to work for.”

“Yeah, but at least I’m not acting.”

“Thank God for that.” She picked up the garment bag and draped it over her arm. “Still…no.”

“Okay, whatever. But just because Anthony and I have some chemistry doesn’t mean we’re ‘perfect for each other’ or anything like that.”

“I never said your dirty chemistry was the only reason.”

“Enlighten me, then,” I said as I collected my wallet, phone, and keys.

She gave an exasperated sigh. “Listen, you remember that singer I used to work for? Kip Royal? He always hung out with Ace Borden, and Ace had this PA named Jamie. Oh my God, Jesse. Ace was the biggest hard-ass when it came to his PAs. Didn’t cut them any slack for anything…until Jamie. As far as Ace was concerned, Jamie could do no wrong. Three years later? They’re still together.”

“Okay, but what does that have to do with Anthony and me?”

“Anthony is a lot like Ace. Okay, so technically he’s working for you, not the other way around, but let’s face it, everyone is Anthony’s bitch as far as he’s concerned. Except you. ”

“Somehow I don’t think Anthony’s any more willing to take crap from me than he is anyone else.”

“No, I don’t doubt that at all. And I don’t think you’d want to be with a man who did.”

“Definitely not.”

“But I’ve seen Anthony interacting with staffers and your uncle and whoever else comes tromping through at events. I’ve seen him with you around, and I’ve seen him without you around. Jesse, he’s completely different when you’re in the room.”

“How so?”

“It’s hard to explain. He’s just…calmer. Maybe that’s not even the word. Like, in a way he’s more tense, but he’s not quite so riled up and impatient, I guess.” She pursed her lips. “It’s like he has this air about him that everything is the way it should be. And when you’re not there, it’s…not.”

“That doesn’t mean…” Does it?

“Okay, so maybe he’s just relieved you’re within earshot so he knows you’re not getting into trouble.” Her expression turned serious. “But I don’t think so, Jesse. I just…”

Our eyes met.

I swallowed. Then I glanced at my watch. “Shit, we’re gonna be late. We should get moving.”

Ranya nodded and fussed with my sleeves. “Okay, I guess you look presentable enough to be around your man.”

I scowled at her, but when she grinned, I couldn’t help laughing and heat rushed into my cheeks again.

“Now make yourself useful and carry this.” She shoved the garment bag into my hands. “And let’s go.”

“Hey, who’s telling who what to do around here?”

“I just told you.” She shot me a playful glare. “You going to argue with me or carry the suit?”

“Yes, dear,” I said, and we both laughed.

Clothes changed and suit in hand, we went out to my car and left for the day’s events. And even as we carried on with our usual banter on the way through Malibu and into the morning commute, I pretended every mile didn’t make the guilt, apprehension, and anticipation tug harder at my gut.

Because every mile took me closer to the man I shouldn’t have slept with last night.