Campaigning for Christopher (18 page)

“Can I talk to you about my campaign?” he suddenly asked.

She laughed softly with surprise. “What?”

“My campaign. Can I talk to you about it?”

“You can talk about anything you want, Chris.”

“No,” he said, shaking his head as the traffic lifted and he laid on the gas. “You don’t understand. I don’t just want to talk
at
you or
to
you, or chitchat. I want you to listen, and then I want your feedback. As a woman. As a minority woman. A fighter. As someone who’s known need and want. As someone who wants to see an improvement in the status quo. A citizen of this country, a survivor, and a—”

He stopped himself. He was about to say “remarkable woman,” but he wasn’t ready to share that opinion yet. He felt it on the tip of his tongue, but once it was out there, he wouldn’t be able to take it back. She would know that he didn’t just desire her—she’d know that he admired and respected her too.

“You want . . . my opinions?”

Staring out the windshield, he nodded.

“Chris, I’m just a . . . a fashion model. I didn’t even finish college. I’m just a girl from a small town in South Dakota.”

“No, Jules,” he said softly, with conviction. “You’re much, much more than that. You’re here. You’re here against all of the odds. I think you’re, well, I think you’re remarkable.”

She gasped lightly beside him and, from his peripheral vision, he saw her brush the back of her hand under one eye. She took a deep breath, which stuttered a bit because, he suspected, she was swallowing a sob. And finally, when she was composed, she looked up at him, her eyes glistening with pride as she asked, “How can I help?”

The next three days were a whirlwind.

Simon and Lori accompanied Julianne and Chris to almost every major event—which included meetings with lobbyists, senators, and congressmen; a reception at the National Geographic Museum; a tour of the Botanic Garden; a wreath laying at the Korean War Veterans Memorial; and, most emotional for Julianne, a mostly bureaucratic, but incredibly moving, signing at the Bureau of Indian Affairs.

Standing beside Christopher, Julianne blinked to hold back tears when Assistant Secretary Poser issued a public decision approving a request by the Mashpee Wampanoag tribe to acquire one hundred and seventy acres of land into trust in the town of Mashpee, Massachusetts, for tribal governmental, cultural, and conservation purposes. The lands would be the first purchased by the tribe and would be the future home of the first official, federally recognized Mashpee Wampanoag Reservation.

Though Julianne had no personal connection to the tribe itself, she still felt a deep sense of satisfaction to see fellow indigenous people reclaiming land that had been theirs first. And she listened with a bursting-at-the-seams level of pride when Christopher pulled Secretary Poser aside a few minutes later and asked about the status of the Lenape Nation’s request for federal recognition and land rights in Pennsylvania.

Here in Washington, moving and shaking like a living, breathing thing, government was in constant motion. It was the very portal for national change and growth, and Julianne’s heart thrummed with an awareness that exhausted her by the end of every day.

If it was possible to fall in love with a city, it had happened to Julianne Crow. Part of her had always felt like an alien in South Dakota, and although she was grateful for her modeling career, she didn’t feel like she belonged in Philadelphia or New York either. Never had the ground trembled metaphorically beneath her feet until she’d landed in DC. She tried to absorb every moment, drinking in its beautiful parks and whitewashed buildings, the grandeur and dignity, and the palpable sense of power. Hands were shaken, decisions were made all around her, all the time, and she fairly buzzed from the currents of political energy surrounding her.

When she returned to her hotel room each evening, Julianne’s mind was bursting with the information she’d gathered, people she’d met, and conversations she’d overheard. Pulling out her secondhand laptop, she’d surf the Internet for hours, filling in data gaps and educating herself on the issues closest to Chris’s heart. And with every second, every breath, she fell harder for the young, smart, idealistic politician. Whether he won now or six years from now, she knew in her heart that he would eventually win a place in Washington because he belonged here just as surely as she did.

How she wished she could knock on his door, sit on his bed, and ask him about Congressman Schaefer’s immigration agenda or why Secretary Poser wouldn’t meet Chris’s eyes when he said the Lenapes’ application was caught in some unexpected red tape. Why did the lobbyist pushing for stronger gun control legislation grin at Christopher like she knew a secret? And why did the Independent senator from Rhode Island say “Good luck, kid. You’ll need it” when he bid Christopher good-bye yesterday?

She was inexperienced with the nuances of government, and yet she had never felt so electric, so captivated, so turned-on by a city—she wanted to understand everything happening around her.

What grieved her the most was that, although she and Christopher spent a fair amount of time together each day, they spent no time alone. The girlfriend or wife of any other candidate would offer friendly waves and polite smiles while in the limelight, but could look forward to private moments alone at the end of the day to talk and decompress with her partner. Though Julianne had never known those moments with Chris before, she still missed them.

During their drive to DC, any lingering acrimony between them had been lifted, and by now she had become accustomed to feeling his arm around her waist or his fingers braided through hers at events. Sweet kisses to her cheek and temple, which had so discombobulated her a few weeks ago, felt as natural as breathing now. She expected them. She loved them. There were no more biting comments that caught her unaware, or whispered unkindnesses that made her wince. Christopher was warm and polite to her—almost to a fault.

To a fault, because, as much as Julianne had warned him not to play with her, she thought back on their studio kiss with a longing that bordered on actual, painful hunger. Not that she had had much experience with lust—her sexual history consisted of some high school groping, a few lackluster make-out sessions in college, and losing her virginity to a fellow student who told her she could stand to lose a few pounds when they were finished. Her mother had kept a tight leash on her for most of her life, reminding Julianne of the high price of an unexpected pregnancy, and her desire to eventually leave the reservation had helped her keep her cool when it came to boys.

But with Christopher? The hand-holding and nuzzling were like this torturous, extended form of foreplay that made her so hot for him, she had to swallow whimpers for more when he touched her casually. He made her reconsider whether or not she could stand to have a physical relationship with him that lasted only the length of their agreement. Could she love him, let him make love to her, and then watch him walk away? It was an agonizing question because her body screamed yes, while her heart whispered no.

She stared out the car window as they returned to the decadent and understated Georgetown Inn after cocktails at the British Embassy on Wednesday evening. Ignoring Simon, who was perpetually on the phone, keeping tabs on the campaign in Philly, and Lori, who was advising Chris against pushing for a late-game debate against the other two front-running candidates, Julianne was comforted by Chris’s hip tucked snugly against hers, and watched woefully as the sun set on her last night in Washington.

As the car pulled up in front of the hotel, Julianne sighed heavily. and Chris turned to her as Lori and Simon got out of the car.

“All okay?” he asked.

She gulped. “I love it here.”

“At the inn?”

“Yes. No. I mean . . . Washington. All of it. I’ve really loved it here. I . . . I hate to leave.”
She noticed that he’d been very careful over the past few days not to take liberties with her when they were out of the public eye. But now he raised his hand like he was going to drag his knuckles softly against her cheek. Julianne held her breath in anticipation of his touch, wilting inside when he pulled his hand away and gave her a polite smile.

“It’ll be here whenever you’re ready to return.” Then he turned away from her, slid across the seat, and exited the car.

Feeling extra forlorn now, she followed him into the hotel in time to say good night to Simon.

“I’m beat,” he said grumpily as they reconvened in the lobby. “I’m going to hit the hay. Unless the hotel’s burning down, don’t call me. And even then . . .”

Chris chuckled softly, slapping Simon on the back. “You were a rock star this week, Si.”

“A rock star,” mumbled Simon, heading the elevator. “Why did I leave my comfy job in academia again?”

“Because you knew I could win!” Chris yelled after his campaign manager, who stepped onto the elevator and subtly gave Christopher the finger as the doors closed.

Julianne turned to Lori, who was typing frantically on her phone. “Do you want to grab a bite?”

Twice, when Simon and Christopher had had evening prep sessions, she and Lori had dined together in the hotel restaurant, which essentially meant sharing a table while Lori worked through the meal, fielding calls, typing messages, and reviewing any press Chris had received that day.

“Can’t,” she said. “One of my old
Post
contacts invited me out for drinks. Good opportunity to get Chris some coverage. I’m going up to change, and then I’m going right back out.”

Still typing on her phone, Lori walked to the elevator distractedly and pressed the call button, never looking up from her texting as she stepped inside and was whisked out of sight.

Feeling uncharacteristically shy, Julianne turned to Chris, who leaned against a white pillar in the lobby, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes merry. He smiled at her—a big, happy grin that made her lips tilt up in response.

“What?” she asked.

“Hi,” he said softly, taking a step toward her.

“Hi?” She grinned back. It wasn’t as if she could help it. “We’ve been together all day.”

“No. We haven’t been together in days, Jules.”

She exhaled sharply, his words sending a slick of heat coursing through her veins. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, if I promised that I wouldn’t
play with you
, would you have dinner with me tonight?”

“Um . . .”

He took another step toward her, leaning close to her ear, sending goose bumps down her spine as he whispered, “I promise I won’t touch you like I did last Wednesday at
Good Day, Philly
. Not unless you ask me to. Come and have dinner with me.”

Not unless you ask me to.
Her brain was on the verge of short-circuiting. She forced her mouth to make words.

“H-here?” she asked, her eyes darting to the hotel restaurant without moving her head from his lips.

“No,” he murmured, a slight rasp in his voice. “In my suite.”

She gulped, her breath quickening, ragged and audible in her ears. She turned her head just enough to look into his eyes, but his lips were so close, she could almost taste them.

“Why?”

As if he understood her torment and wished to prolong it, he wet his lips, tugging his bottom lip between his teeth as he looked into her eyes. “Your eyes . . .” He searched them carefully, his smile widening as his voice dropped to an intimate whisper, and she could feel the puff of his breath against the sensitive skin of her lips. “Your eyes are like the night sky. I get lost in them. I lose track of . . . everything.”

The words were so similar to those he’d said to her at his sister’s wedding, her heart clenched and her breath caught. “Chris . . .”

His gaze dipped to her lips for a long moment before he looked up at her again. “Come have dinner with me, Jules.”

“I don’t know,” she said, feeling her will to resist him dissolve like sugar in warm water.

“You asked me why before.” His smile slipped, and suddenly his eyes looked sad. “Because I want you to. Can that be enough?”

Her mind said to run. Her mind said that unless she was prepared to
be
with him tonight, she should say no. Her mind said that she was not strong enough to have him and then lose him.

But her heart roared to life, silencing every doubt and assuaging every fear.

I
am
strong enough
, it declared,
for whatever happens.

“Yes,” she said, following him to the elevator.

***

For three days Christopher had waffled between two primary states of being.

The first was one of frustration controlled by the memory of her words.

I won’t let you play with me. I will help you. I will reverse the wrong I did to you. I will appear in public with you and let you touch me as I would if I was precious to you. But I won’t let you play with me, Chris. We need to be clear on that.

The second was one of frustration controlled by his body.

He wanted her. Oh God, he couldn’t remember wanting something or someone or anything or anyone so fucking badly in his entire life.

He complained bitterly to himself over how these two states were mutually exclusive, and yet he challenged himself to figure out how to mesh them together.

Even though he and Julianne had never traded notes about their sexual histories, it wasn’t a stretch for him to figure out that hers was somewhat reserved. She was young, and her mother had sheltered her, and regardless of his bout of jealousy last weekend, when she didn’t show up for dinner, Christopher was fairly certain that she didn’t currently have a boyfriend. Her cheeks reddened over anything remotely sexual, and she didn’t reach for him with the same comfort and familiarity with which he reached for her. Now, she couldn’t possibly be as effortlessly sexy as she was and have zero experience, but her little speech about his not playing with her all boiled down to one thing: she wasn’t cheap. She wasn’t going to put out, and she wasn’t going to be a one-night stand. And he—grudgingly, with all the enthusiasm of a fourteen-year-old boy being denied the chance to feel up his first girlfriend—respected that.

But his body ached for hers. He reveled in the public moments when he could touch her freely: hold her hand, keep his arm around her waist, hug her against him, kiss her for the camera, or—his favorite—gently move her hair to the side and nuzzle her neck while he whispered in her ear.

But more and more, the public moments weren’t enough. He longed for her at the end of the day, distracted by the memory of a certain way she’d smiled, or the fact that her hand had reached for his while she was speaking to someone, or the moment she’d unconsciously moved closer to him, as though needing to feel the heat of his body beside hers. One question circled around in his brain at all times: Was there a way to
have her
that wouldn’t be
playing with her
?