Campaigning for Christopher (16 page)

“Yes,” she said. “He is.”

“Oh my God!” cried Sadie. “They are
so adorable
, Kelly!”

“
So in love
, Sadie! Can you feel it?”

“I think we can
all
feel it!”

“Ladies and gentlemen, stay with us! We’ll be back after this short commercial break with congressional hopeful Christopher Winslow and his charming
sweetheart
, Jules!”

***

The rest of the interview concentrated mostly on Christopher’s platform, and the hosts gave him a chance to share some of his ideas for job creation and education reform, which gave Julianne a chance to try to process everything that had happened between her and Chris this morning. She quickly realized it was an impossible feat. She’d need days to sort through their conversation in the greenroom and try to understand what was happening between them. And even then, she wasn’t sure answers were possible.

“Jules?” asked Chris, squeezing her hand, which he still clasped in his lap.

She looked up at him, realizing she’d zoned out. “Yes?”

“Jules,” said Kelly, “we only have two more minutes, but tell us what you love the most about Christopher. Tell the viewers.”

“I, uh . . .” She looked from Kelly to Chris, fanning her gaze across his face, touching on his green eyes and long lashes before dropping her eyes to his lips, remembering how they felt pressed against hers so recently. “I love . . . ”

“Tell us,” whispered Sadie.

“There’s so much,” she said on a sigh of exhaled breath. “I love his ideas. I love his goodness. I love his heart—it’s so big, you wouldn’t believe it. I love the way he wants to save the world,” she said, ignoring the way his hand was tightening around hers, his fingers adjusting and readjusting through hers as she continued speaking. “I love the way he m-makes promises that he keeps. He’s, um, he’s remarkable. That he belongs to me feels like . . . a m-miracle.”

She glanced back at him, and Christopher smiled at her, his eyes deep and tender as they flicked to her lips before catching her eyes again
.

Thank you
, he mouthed, nodding at her.

“Oh. My. God,” said Kelly after a long silence. “I think we can all agree that Jessica, Brooks, and Preston Winslow aren’t the only Winslows in Philadelphia who will be hearing
wedding bells
this year!”

The crowd burst into enthusiastic applause, and the show’s music swelled as Kelly and Sadie leaped from their seats to embrace Christopher and Julianne before bidding them farewell.

As they walked off the soundstage, still holding hands, Julianne wondered if Chris felt as shell-shocked as she did. The entire morning had been an unexpected emotional roller coaster, and more than anything she just wanted to go home, have a long cry, decompress, and start figuring out what the hell was going on between them and how to protect herself while still giving her all to Christopher’s campaign.

They headed back to the greenroom, which was now occupied by the next guest and her entourage, to collect their coats and Julianne’s purse. She looked up at Chris and sighed as they walked to the exit.

“Well, this was . . .”

He nodded, his expression serious. “Thanks for what you said out there.”

“It’s not hard to come up with nice things to say about you.”

His jaw tightened like her words upset him. “We need to talk.”

She knew this was true. She’d spilled the beans about Black Hat, and he’d admitted that he had feelings for her, even while violently protesting them. But Julianne’s reality? She simply wasn’t ready to talk to Chris anymore today. She needed a break. She needed some time alone.

“I can’t today. I have the biggest shoot of my career tomorrow. I’m leaving for New York tonight.”

“When are you back?”

“Friday night, late.”

“Have dinner with me on Saturday.”

She physically reeled, leaning back from him in surprise. “Dinner? I don’t know if that’s a good—”

“We leave for Washington on Sunday. I just think . . .” His eyes searched her face, and she truly couldn’t tell if he wanted to go out with her on Saturday or felt they needed to. “. . . we should clear the air before we go out of town together.”

Oh. She chastised herself for jumping to the conclusion that his offer of dinner was a date. Of course it wasn’t. It was about getting their relationship back on track for the sake of the campaign.

“Right,” she said. “Fine.”

“I don’t want us on display either,” he said. “We need to be able to talk without the pressure to look, well, you know, like a couple. I’ll have a car pick you up and bring you to my place.”

“Your place?”

“Uh-huh. My apartment.”

She couldn’t deny it. Spending an evening at Chris’s apartment all alone sounded like heaven, no matter how he was couching it. “What time?”

“Seven o’clock on Saturday night?”

“I’ll be ready,” she said.

He took her hand, squeezing it gently before releasing it. “I’ll be waiting.”

It’s not a date
, he told himself for the five thousandth time, putting away the candlesticks he’d set on the table and turning up the lighting in his dining room to full brightness.

“There,” he said, with zero satisfaction, looking at the bright, unromantic room.

Heading into the kitchen, he poured himself a scotch and gulped it down before pouring another. He leaned his elbows on the kitchen counter and closed his eyes. Two days apart from Jules had done absolutely nothing to cool him off. If anything, it had only given him more time to think about her.

He thought about her admission about the black-hatted man.

He thought about the fact that she hadn’t taken any money to sabotage him.

He thought about kissing her.

He thought about the incredible things she said she loved about him.

And God, how he wished the latter two were real and not just an act to help his campaign recover, because, more and more, though he’d never admit it aloud, he wanted things between them to be real. A good idea? Absolutely not. But he couldn’t seem to help it. The farce of their relationship needled him more and more the better he got to know her.

And something else: since he’d learned the reason for her actions at Jessica’s wedding, he had a harder time condemning her for them. Not that he approved of her motives or actions—for God’s sake, she took the word of some random stranger and nearly ruined a man’s life over it. Her behavior was shortsighted, stupid, and reckless to an extreme, but it was also passionate. She’d said
I thought I was doing something good. I would do anything to punish a racist, to sideline one. The idea of your being elected to office and abusing your power? It was unthinkable. I had to stop you.
The words had their own Hurricane Jules sort of logic, but they sounded so very much like him. They made sense to him. He quietly admired her passion and courage. What a risk it must have been for her to act on the information she’d been fed: to slip him the Rohypnol, lead him somewhere private, take those damning pictures, and give them to the man in the black hat.

He’d originally assumed that money had been her motivation, but it wasn’t money at all—though, from the look of her apartment, he knew she could have used it. She’d acted solely on principle, and frankly, it was a massive turn-on to him that, misguided or not, she believed so strongly in protecting the people of Pennsylvania from a crooked politician that she’d personally taken it upon herself to stop him. Seen in a certain light, it was the bravest, most passionate fucking thing he’d ever heard of. And in the strangest possible way, it was a relief to him because it gave him a window into her character, and he found that she was someone who, despite her treatment of him, was one of the most morally centered people he’d ever met.

Her destruction of his campaign wasn’t driven by greed, but by virtue.

Just like her offer to save it was driven by honor.

He raised his head and opened his eyes, reaching for the scotch as his lips twitched.

“To righteous indignation,” he said aloud in the quiet of his kitchen. “Except for when it’s irresponsible and misguided and destroys people’s lives.”

His phone buzzed on the counter near his hand, and he finished the shot of scotch before picking it up. Swiping across the screen, he found a text from the very object of his thoughts.

JulianneCrow: I’m sorry. I can’t make it tonight.

Christopher felt his eyes flinch and narrow. He looked at the time at the top of his phone. Six thirty.

CWinslow: The car is picking you up in 30 min.

JulianneCrow: I won’t be there. Sorry.

Christopher took a deep breath, hating the overwhelming feeling of disappointment that broke over him like a wet wave of awful.

CWinslow: Do you mind if I ask why?

He knew it was none of his business, but he couldn’t help himself.

JulianneCrow: I’m not in Philly. See you in DC on Sunday.

Christopher stared at her words, a million scenarios taking root in his head and none of them—
not one
—appealing or encouraging.

Maybe she met someone in New York? Or—
fuck!—
maybe she had a secret boyfriend there? Christ, could that be it? Could there be someone else?

He clenched his phone so tightly in his hand, it pinched his skin.

CWinslow: Are you still in New York?

He held his breath, watching as his phone sent the text, every muscle taut and on alert, waiting for her response. Please say no. Please say you’re under the weather. Please say—

JulianneCrow: Yes.

He stared at the screen, letting his breath out in a low hiss and pulling up her phone number. His finger hovered over the number, about to press Call, when he suddenly exclaimed, “What the
fuck
are you doing? She’s not really your girlfriend. Stop!”

Putting his phone back down on the counter, he turned off the oven (which had been keeping their dinner warm), poured himself another splash of scotch, and took his drink into the living room.

Disappointment collided with irritation, and he sat down on the couch, leaning forward and resting his elbows on his knees.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck.

He had wanted her here. Bad.

Whether he wanted to admit it or not, he’d been looking forward to seeing her all day. And not even just today—for two days he’d thought of little but her, trying to work out the complexities of her and develop a clear image of the woman who was Julianne Crow.

And damn it, he’d wanted her all to himself for a little while tonight. Out of the limelight. He’d wanted to talk to her, get to know her better, find out more about this girl who’d assaulted his life like an avenging angel, then offered herself on an altar like a goddamned martyr. Did he understand her? Not completely. Did he trust her? Not yet. Did that make her any less extraordinary or captivating? No.

Leaping up, he rushed back into the kitchen and grabbed his phone off the counter and speed-dialed Simon.

“Chris?”

“Si. Cancel the plane tickets for tomorrow.”

“For you and Jules?”

“Yeah. Cancel them.”

“They’re already purchased. You’re not going to get a refund.”

“I don’t care. We’re driving.”

“What the hell, Chris? It’s a thirty-minute flight. If you hit traffic, it could be more than three hours in the car!”

Exactly.

“That’s fine.”

“Okay,” said Simon. “Fine. I’ll let her know.”

“No. You don’t need to tell her anything,” said Chris. “What time was the car picking her up for the airport tomorrow?”

“Let me check . . . Here it is. Three.”

“Cancel the car.
I’ll
be there at three instead.
I’ll
explain the change in plans.”

“Oooo-kay. Chris, what’s going on?”

“I need to talk to her,” he said, opting for a partial truth over a lie. “We can’t pull this off in DC unless we’re on the same page.”

Simon cleared his throat. “I saw the
Good Day, Philly
interview on Wednesday. You looked pretty cozy, Chris. If you two
aren’t
on the same page, then I don’t know what the same page would look like.”

It would look different from this
, thought Chris. And for the first time since Julianne had drugged him, he realized something crucial and new. He
wanted
it to look different than this.

“I’ll see you in DC, Si.”

“I hope you know what you’re doing. She was a lucky break, Chris. If you fuck around with her, if you hurt her—if you
lose
her, God forbid—I don’t think your campaign will recover again.”

I’m not going to lose her
.

“Don’t worry about it. I know what I’m doing.”

“I hope to God that’s true, because I’m too young for a heart attack.”

“Keep calm and carry on, Si.”

“See you in DC.” And Simon hung up.

Chris lowered his phone back to the counter and, anticipating at least three hours alone in the car with Jules without a reporter in sight, smiled to himself before opening the oven and dining alone.

***

Was it cowardly for her to cancel last night? Yes. Yes, it was. Especially when all she was doing was eating cold pizza with Shappa. But two days on her own in New York, including two long train rides, had allowed her to draw some quick, unpleasant conclusions about the kiss they’d shared in the greenroom on Wednesday.

He didn’t like her. He didn’t trust her. But he
wanted
her.

And that just about made her want to cry her eyes out.

Because although it was nice to be wanted, it’s not what she wanted from Chris. She didn’t want to be a conquest. She wanted more.

And she was quite certain that if she slept with him—if she felt the heat of his arms around her, the touch of his lips along the plains and valleys of her skin branding her like a fire iron, his body driving into hers until she arched beneath him—she wouldn’t be able to bear their imminent and guaranteed separation. For him, it would be scratching an itch. But for her? In the short term, it would break her heart. And she knew, like she knew profound truths in the depths of her soul, that memories of being with him would haunt her forever.

So the idea of going to his apartment, where she might—where she
just might
—forget herself and end up in his bed? It had to be avoided because she didn’t know that she had the willpower to resist him. If he reached for her, she would—as he’d observed in the video of their first kiss—melt into him, turn into goo, never to be solid and whole again.

Because it would mean nothing to him.

And it would mean everything to her.

She took a jagged breath, unscrewing the top of her Diet Coke bottle and taking a sip as she glanced at the clock. It was ten to three, and a car was coming to take her to the airport at three. Her new rolling suitcase stood proudly by her apartment door, and she reviewed its contents: her navy-blue dress, her black wrap dress, two skirts (one new), two blouses (both new!), several pairs of shoes, her makeup and blow-dryer, the jewelry she’d been gifted by Alexis Bittar, and two sets of workout clothes.

Her photo shoot in Central Park on Thursday and Friday had been perfect days of modeling, and she’d enjoyed the work, even as she troubled over Chris near constantly. So much time thinking about him led her directly to the offices of Skid City, where she picked up the contract to be their official face of 2016. They were giving her three weeks to have the contract looked over by a lawyer and expected it signed and returned directly after the election. Staring at the agreement, any ridiculous dreams about a possible future with Christopher Winslow started to wither away, and as much as it ached, she tried to welcome it, or at least convince herself that Skid City was the right decision for her future.

The contract stipulated that she move to New York on or before January 1 and that she work out of the New York offices of Skid City for a period of one year. The contract also listed her salary, which practically made her eyeballs pop out of her head. Her weekly phone call to
Ina
on Friday night was full of celebration as she promised to fly her mother out to New York City for New Year’s.

But now? Back in Philadelphia, where Chris lived and reigned, it was harder for her to be as enthusiastic about never seeing him again.

No
, she insisted, forcing down wishful and unsubstantiated daydreams about Chris.
No. Don’t second-guess yourself. You’re making the right choice.

Her apartment buzzer sounded, and she pressed the button.

“I’ll be right down.”

Glancing at Shappa, who would be fed by her neighbor while she was gone, she pulled her suitcase out the door and carried it down the stairs. It wasn’t until she looked up, through the glass door at the bottom of the stairs, that she saw Christopher standing against a black luxury car with his arms crossed over his chest. He wore jeans and a white shirt with two buttons undone, and a navy-blue blazer. His almost-black hair sported a pair of sunglasses, and the silver watch on his left wrist glistened in the sun.

But it was his smile when she opened the door that made time stop, that made the earth stop spinning, that made her breath catch and her heart thunder.

Christopher Winslow, like everyone else, probably had a hundred different smiles, but this specific one had never been trained on Julianne before, and if she wasn’t completely in love with him before this moment, she could actually hear the door to her heart close and the bolt slide. No matter what happened, she would remember this smile, remember the way he looked at her when she knew for certain that he no longer hated her, and remember how it felt to know that some part of her would love him for the rest of her life.

“Jules,” he said, taking a step closer to her and reaching for her suitcase. His eyes scanned her simple outfit: jeans, a sweatshirt from her college, and white Keds. Her hair was back in a ponytail, and she wore a simple Lakota beaded cuff bracelet on her wrist. “You look . . . good.” He gave her a lopsided smile that made her heart leap. “Young.”