Campaigning for Christopher (9 page)

“Th-that was just . . . I’ve n-never . . . Of course not. I wouldn’t even, um, know . . . No. The answer is n-no.”

Still playing the part of reporter, Lori asked coldly, “The answer to
what
is no, Miss Crow? It’s difficult to understand you.”

Christopher took his coffee cup and headed back to his desk, flicking his eyes to Julianne, who looked tired and upset.

“I think that’s enough for now,” he said, standing in the narrow aisle between his desk and Lori’s. With every atom in his body, he told himself that he was intervening because he needed Julianne’s help and couldn’t risk her quitting. Definitely
not
because he cared about her comfort or delicate fucking sensibilities.

Lori reached for her glasses and pulled them off so she could rub her eyes. “Nuh-uh. No way, Chris. I haven’t even begun yet. I need to prepare her. We still need to—”

“Nope,” he said calmly. “She’s done.” He turned to look at Julianne, trying to ignore the softening of her night-sky eyes, which gazed up at him in thanks and relief, and made him feel ten feet tall. “Why don’t you go home now and get some rest?”

“I . . . I promised to help. If Lori needs me to stay—”

“Don’t be a hero,” he said gruffly. “We need you to look fresh tomorrow. I’m sure Simon has something planned for us.”

“Oh,” she said, her lips turning up just a touch as he said
us
. “I didn’t realize I would see you . . . I mean, I didn’t know we had
an appointment
tomorrow.”

“Yeah. We’ve got a lot coming up.” He had to stop staring at her lips, but looking into her eyes felt like drowning, so he turned away, calling to Simon, “Hey, Si, you have a schedule for the next few days?”

Simon covered the mouthpiece of his phone. “Dinner with Pres and Elise at Parc Brasserie tomorrow night at seven. Got you four a table next to the windows.” He gestured to the phone. “I have to take this. Get her e-mail address, huh? We’ll get the other dates over to her later tonight.”

“I’ve already got her contact information,” said Lori in a clipped voice, clearly annoyed that her information-gathering session was being cut short. “But I think she needs to stay a while longer and be—”

“No,” said Christopher firmly, refusing to think about Julianne’s discomposure when Lori had asked her questions about sex. He wasn’t actually sure he could stand more questions about sex and Julianne Crow in the same room right now. He just wanted her to go. “She’s done for today.”

“Fine,” huffed Lori, pushing her keyboard away angrily and stomping away from her desk.

Christopher looked down at Julianne, who sat alone, her head tilted back so she could stare up at him. The column of her neck was stretched taut, and he could see the trembling of the pulse in the center of her throat. He felt his heart kick into a gallop and his eyes widen, mesmerized by that tiny blinking beacon. Even from where he stood over her, he caught a subtle whiff of sandalwood. He longed to bend closer, so close that he would discover how soft and warm her skin felt under his lips. He would close his eyes and take his time, letting the delicate tissue of his lips rest on the feathery beat of her heart, breathing her in, tasting her—

“Chris?” she whispered.

He started, jerking his glance away from her throat and spilling his hot coffee on the skirt of her navy-blue dress. She cried out, standing so abruptly her breasts slammed into his groin, then his chest, and then her shoulder knocked the rest of his coffee to the ground.

“Jesus!” he yelled.

“Sorry!”

Staring at her stunning face, almost eye level to his, he felt a sharp wave of arousal that made his dick twitch and his brain short-circuit.

“Just go!” he bellowed, fighting like hell against the impulse to drop his mouth to hers and taste it all over again. “Just go the fuck home!”

Her face crumpled, and she gasped, a sharp sound of shock and hurt catching in her throat. Before he could say another word, she pushed him aside, and a second later, he heard the front door open and close.

***

Elise called Julianne bright and early on Tuesday morning to give her the details about dinner and make sure she was still willing to join them after the way Christopher had kicked her out of his office last night.

“He said he yelled at you,” said Elise, her kind voice holding a little bit of censure that soothed Julianne’s hurt feelings.

“Yes, he did.”

“He’s just—”

“Angry,” said Julianne, pouring herself a cup of tea and sitting in a beat-up easy chair covered by a clean sheet. “I know.”

Like most of her furniture, the chair had been rescued from the street curb. The only thing she’d purchased new for her apartment was the full-size mattress on her bedroom floor. Everything else, including her linens and kitchen items had either been found and claimed on the sidewalk, or purchased used at the Goodwill store not far from her apartment on North Seventh Street.

She bent her knees and perched her feet on the edge of the chair, remembering Chris’s red and furious face as he’d yelled “Just go the fuck home!”

“I’ll talk to him,” said Elise.

“And what will you say? ‘She didn’t mean to drug you’? ‘She feels bad about the pictures that may ruin your career’?” Julianne shook her head, rubbing her temple with her fingers. “Don’t bother. We don’t have to like each other.”

“But you do, don’t you?”

Julianne frowned. “Do what?”

“Like him.”

“N-no. I mean . . . I, um, I don’t even know him . . . really, um, at all.”

“Uh-huh,” said Elise. “But he’s cute, right?”

With his hands raking through his jet-black hair and his flashing green eyes filled with rage,
cute
wasn’t exactly the word that came to mind when Julianne thought about Chris. Furious? Yep. Hot? Uh-huh. Smoldering? Yeah. Cute? Not so much.

“I d-don’t know,” she said.

“Well, I think he’s cute. He looks just like his brother, and I’m a big fan of his brother.”

Julianne didn’t know what to say, so she remained quiet, taking another sip of tea and reminding herself that she wasn’t actually dating Christopher Winslow. She was making amends for hurting him. She was helping him. She had no right to develop feelings for him. No right and no business. That would just be an exercise in stupid.

“Got it. You don’t want to discuss it.” Elise sighed. “Can you meet me, Pres, and Chris at Parc Brasserie tonight at seven? Simon said to take a cab and keep the receipt. He’ll reimburse you just like he would any other staffer.”

“Fine.” She swallowed nervously. “What should I wear?”

“Hmm. Well, I always overdress a little for these sorts of things. Do you have a cocktail dress?”

She did. It had been given to her by Soft Surroundings after the catalog shoot. A simple long-sleeved wrap dress with a V-neck, it flattered her cleavage and sucked in her waist. Paired with the black suede boots she’d purchased on sale after the shoot, she should be all set.

“I have a black dress.”

“Great,” said Elise. “See you there at seven?”

Julianne sighed, nodding her head. “I guess so.”

She hung up the phone and placed it on the white-painted end table beside her, thinking about Elise’s question:
But you do, don’t you? Like him.

Did she like him? She barely knew him.

All told, their relationship consisted of some flirty banter, her drugging him and taking lewd photos of him, showing up at his headquarters, finding out he hated her with the heat of a thousand suns, becoming his fake girlfriend, kissing him like the world was about to end, having her feelings hurt by his furious comments, knocking a cup of coffee out of his hands, and being kicked out of his office.

Not exactly an auspicious beginning.

Then again, she admired that he was only in his twenties and running for Congress. From what she knew of his platform, she admired his principles and policies. Just from the short amount of time she’d spent with him, she could tell he stood on a moral high ground. He was smart and driven, successful and hardworking, . . . and he hated every last centimeter of her guts.

Did she like him?

“What is there to like?” she asked Shappa, who turned and walked away as though embarrassed for her.

“I mean it!” she called after her cat. “What? His insults? His unforgiving, thankless demands? His disrespect? His nonstop cussing?” When she finished her tirade, she found herself perched on the edge of her chair, rigid with indignation, and suddenly slumped down, all the wind knocked from her sails as she recalled his face on Saturday night when he first laid eyes on her. The searing heat of his gaze. The wonder that took over his face as he stared at her like she’d just fallen from heaven.

“His fingers woven through mine,” she said weakly, recalling their walk down a brambled path.

His light hair catching the sunlight yesterday on the steps of the campaign headquarters. The way his arm felt around her waist. His lips moving hungrily over hers.

Your eyes are like the night sky. The universe. The heavens and a million stars.

She sighed softly.

Of course she liked him.

Elise gave Christopher a little pep talk before dinner that went something like this:

“She walked into that office yesterday with everything to lose, but she still walked in. She has strength and courage, and yes, she did a reprehensible thing, but unlike the rest of the world, she is taking responsibility for it. She didn’t have to do that. She doesn’t even have to come here tonight. I know you’re angry, but if you want her to stick around? Might want to try dusting off your Winslow manners and putting them to the test.”

Giving Chris a stern look that would have made his mother, Olivia, proud, Elise got up to use the bathroom, leaving the brothers alone.

Preston grinned, taking a small sip of his beer.

“You agree with her?” asked Christopher with an uncertain scoff.

“She’s my wife,” said Preston carefully, glancing in the direction of the ladies’ room. “And yes, I think she makes a good point.”

“What does her being your wife have to do with it?” asked Christopher, pulling at his necktie. Julianne hadn’t arrived yet, and he kept scanning the sidewalk nervously.

“We’re a team. Team Winslow. If I’m going to disagree with her, I’m going to do it in private. Everywhere else, we’re a united front.”

“God, you’re a sap.”

“Yes, I am,” agreed Preston, “and you don’t have to call me God.”

Christopher rolled his eyes. “Do
you
think she has strength and courage?”

“Who? Jules?”

“Don’t fucking call her that, man. Julianne.”

Preston nodded. “I do.” He paused. “Why can’t I call her Jules?”

“If you give her a nickname, you’ll get attached to her.”

Christopher hated the shit-eating grin Preston gave him, so he ignored it, glancing out the window again.

“Admit something,” said Preston.

“Huh?”

“You’re scared.”

Christopher whipped his eyes around to face his older brother. “Scared? Of what?”

“That she’s not coming.” Preston’s green eyes sparkled as he took another sip of beer.

“I’m not scared.”

“You’re about to shit your pants.”

“I hate you.”

“As much as you
think
you hate her?”

“I
do
hate her.”

Preston shook his head. “Nope. You don’t. But, man, you
wish
you did.”

“Pres, you’re wrong,” said Christopher, turning away from the window and fixing his brother with a no-bullshit glare. “I hate her. I fucking hate what she did to me. Screwing up my campaign. Those damning pictures that will be out there forever. I do. I hate her.”

“Okay,” said Preston, gesturing with his chin to the window, from which they could see a cab pull up outside the restaurant.

Christopher was on his feet in an instant, relief making him light-headed as he ran to the front of the restaurant to meet her.

She stepped into the vestibule wearing a black dress and fringed black boots, her black hair in a chic ponytail at the nape of her neck and her full lips glossy and tempting.

“Jules,” he said, holding his hand out to her.

“Chris,” she said, smiling uncertainly at him as she took it.

Though no one else in the restaurant probably noticed, her eyes were wary. He leaned in, as close to her ear as he dared, so that it looked like he was kissing her hello.

“You’re late,” he said. “I worried you weren’t coming.”

As he leaned back, she tilted her head to the side, her eyes searching his. “I promised I would.”

Somehow during their greeting, his fingers had threaded themselves through hers, and he decided to hold on to her hand as he would if he was truly greeting the woman he loved and shepherding her to their table. It was all for show, right? It had nothing to do with the fact that her hand was warm and her fingers rested so naturally on the back of his hand.

“I’m sorry I was late,” she said conversationally. “It was farther than I thought.”

Elise’s words passed through his head:
I know you’re angry, but if you want her to stick around? Might want to try dusting off your Winslow manners.

“It’s okay,” he said. “You’re here now.”

She didn’t respond, and he grumbled at himself internally. He could do better than that, couldn’t he?

We’re a team. Team Winslow.

“I’m
glad
you’re here,” he admitted softly, arriving at the table and pulling out her chair for her.

She’d been looking at the floor, but now she gazed up at him from her seat, and he had a brief flash of memory:
Your eyes are like the night sky.
He felt like he was losing himself in the depths of those midnight orbs.

“You are?” she breathed.

He swallowed.
Oh, shit.
He was.

“I am.”

Before she could say anything else, he pushed her chair in abruptly, and—thanking God that Elise had taken the seat beside Preston so that Christopher wouldn’t have to stare at Julianne all night—sat down beside her at the tiny bistro table.

Except that he realized, in the space of one hot minute, sitting beside her bore its own serious set of problems.

He could smell the sandalwood on her warm skin.

He could feel her thigh pressed against his.

When she reached for her water glass, her bracelets clinked together on her wrist, and her elbow slid back and forth against his side.

To sit comfortably at the lilliputian table, he needed to put his arm around the back of her chair, and it took all his willpower not to stroke her back or play with the ends of her ponytail.

And so it went for two long hours of a hell called restraint as paparazzi snapped their pictures from the sidewalk outside. Elise and Preston carried most of the conversation, and Christopher was acutely and intensely aware of every time Julianne moved, every time she breathed, every time she sighed and laughed softly beside him. And he was aware of forcing every atom of his body to stay apart from her, while every basic instinct drew him closer.

By the time dinner was over, he was wound up so tight, it was a wonder he could stand up. His body screamed for a woman—no, not any woman—for the woman who was now sitting beside him on the cab ride to her apartment. And yet he couldn’t let go of the anger he felt toward her, and the mistrust that shadowed his dealings with her was profound and felt permanent.

“So we’re visiting an elementary school on Thursday?” she asked after several quiet minutes, glancing at him from her side of the backseat.

“In Hunting Park,” said Chris. “And you’re in New York on Friday.”

“Uh-huh. For work. Do we have something this weekend?”

“I don’t think so, but next week we’re visiting a Native American exhibit at Penn on Monday, and we’re appearing on
Good Day, Philly
on Wednesday.”

Silence stretched between them for several awkward moments before she spoke again.

“I like Preston and Elise.”

Christopher moved as close to his window as he could, leaning his elbow on the sill. “Yeah. They’re great.”

“How long have they been together?”

“It’s complicated,” said Christopher, wishing she’d quit the small talk. He wasn’t in the mood.

“My neighborhood’s still five minutes away,” she said encouragingly.

Christopher sighed. Couldn’t they just ride in silence, ignoring each other? That would be about a million times easier. Then again, she was going to see Preston and his wife a fair amount, and knowing them better would probably help her appear more comfortable.

He turned to her. “They met in New York two years ago, fell in love, and ended up getting married. Elise was a stage actress, and Preston was studying for the bar. The day after they got married, Elise got a movie deal in LA, and without really consulting Pres, she moved out there, leaving my brother behind. He lost his job, came back to Philly, drank himself into a stupor for a year or so, then got his shit together. All the while, Elise had been missing him, trying to muster up the courage to return to him. Finally, she had an opportunity to shoot a movie in Philly, so she came back East. It wasn’t pretty at first,” he said, recalling how pissed Preston had been when Elise suddenly reappeared in his life. “She’d hurt him pretty badly. But . . .”

“Love found a way?” she prompted.

“More like propinquity,” he said. “Her mother died, and they sort of got trapped together.”

“Like us,” she said.

He fisted his hands in his lap as he whipped his head around to face her. “
Nothing
like us.”

In the dim light of the cab, she raised her chin, the warmth seeping from her gaze. “I only meant that we’re trapped together too.”

“They loved each other,” said Christopher. “We hate each other.”

She flinched, shaking her head slowly at first, then faster.

“No. That’s not true. I don’t hate you.”

Christopher knew his line. It was,
Well, I hate you.
He heard it in his head. He felt the taste of it in his mouth. But try as he might, he couldn’t form the words. He stared at her stunning face in the uneven shadows from the light of streetlamps, and felt his mouth drop open mutely.

Pres was right. I don’t hate her. Huh. When the hell did
that
happen?

As the taxi stopped abruptly in front of a shabby walk-up, the cabbie slid open the plastic privacy shield and flicked his glance at the rearview mirror.

“Fourteen fifty,” he said. Cocking his head to the side and leaning closer to the mirror, he exclaimed, “Hey! Wait a minute. Aren’t you two . . . the congressman and his girlfriend? I read about you two in the paper!”

Christopher reached for his wallet, pulling it out and handing the man a twenty. “That’s us.”

“Wow! My wife’s not going to believe this! Hey, would it be wrong to ask you two to . . . you know . . .”

Christopher cleared his throat. “Yes?”

The cabbie held up his cell phone hopefully. “A quick kiss for the camera?”

Glancing at Julianne, Christopher found her face set in stone. Without looking at him, she opened the taxi door and stepped out onto the curb, walking purposefully toward her apartment building.

“Give me a sec,” said Christopher to the driver, sliding across the seat and out the door.

He caught up with her just as she turned the key in the exterior door and grabbed her arm to stop her from stepping inside. She turned around, looking up at him, and he saw hurt in her eyes, but it surprised him to see anger too.

“You know what, Chris? You can hate me all you want. But I’m sorry for what I did, and I’m trying to make it right. And frankly, if you can’t see that and accept it, you’re a jackass.” Leaning around Christopher, she waved at the cabdriver with a forced smile. “Now kiss me on the cheek so I can
go the fuck
home.”

As she spoke, Christopher had been clenching his teeth, staring at the fiery beauty of her face, as the words
I don’t hate you, I don’t hate you, I don’t hate you
circled in his head like a mantra. And still, he couldn’t give them to her. He didn’t hate her anymore, but he also didn’t like her all that much. Anyway, she didn’t deserve to know that his hate had dissipated. Showing up at a press conference and going out to dinner hadn’t earned her that sort of honesty from him.

Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to the apple of her cheek, his eyes fluttering closed as he savored the fleeting moment.

“Good night, Chris,” she whispered, pushing open the door of her apartment building and walking inside without a second glance.

***

Although the schedule Simon sent indicated that Julianne should meet Christopher at the William Wrigley Elementary School in Hunting Park, Chris had texted her half an hour ago asking if he could pick her up instead. While it had briefly occurred to her to ignore his text and show up at the school as planned, she was anxious to figure out a way for them to work together without contention, and ignoring his texts wouldn’t exactly be a step in the right direction.

“Shappa,” she said, dusting some blush on her cheeks after she’d put on the simple navy-blue dress she’d worn on Monday and washed out in her kitchen sink, “if he’d just give me a chance, he’d see I’m not that bad. What I did to him? That was the worst thing I’ve ever done in my whole life. What if the first day I saw you, you’d been at your worst? I never would have brought you home.”

Shappa, who lounged in the basin of her sink, looked up at her and meowed.

“Right? If you were scratching and biting and hissing, I would’ve just kept walking. But you were sweet on me from the start, weren’t you? You did figure eights around my legs and purred for no reason at all.” She sighed heavily. “I wasn’t sweet to Chris. I wasn’t even myself. It was like blindness. After Black Hat called him a racist, I couldn’t see past my own nose.”