Lightning flashed outside, energizing the life on the streets, and then thunder cracked, reminding me that it was hurricane season. We’d be getting a lot of rain in the coming weeks.

We drove up the long street, entering the quieter and even more picturesque section, and then slowed to turn into my driveway, taking us deeper into the veil of trees, behind which sat my home.

The old Victorian, surrounded by a generous plot of land, was three stories tall and featured a pool and a guesthouse on the grounds. Even though it had been in desperate need of renovations when I’d bought it ten years ago, I hadn’t doubted my purchase for a moment. The beauty of the home was in the quiet, isolated feel of its position even though I was in the heart of the city.

Bars, restaurants, and shops sat only a short distance away, but inside the house, you wouldn’t know it.

The home was surrounded by an acre of land with the lushest grass and foliage I’d ever seen, as well as a few old oaks that created a canopy around the edges, hiding the house and allowing me the privacy I enjoyed.

And even though my son and I were barely on speaking terms, I knew he loved it here as well.

His mother and her husband lived in the more sedate Uptown area, not far from here in distance – only a matter of blocks – but worlds apart in terms of liveliness and culture.

After pulling into the carport, my driver got out to open our doors, but Christian swung his door open first and bolted out, obviously still angry that he’d lost his phone.

I hadn’t planned on keeping it, but since he’d chosen to be disrespectful, I might, after all.

His mother had said that I needed to earn his love, and that may be true – he had no reason to like me, and I knew that – but I wouldn’t coddle him, either. He’d show his elders respect, because it was good manners. If I tried to get his love first, he might never take me seriously.

Or he might not, either way. I really had no idea what I was doing.

I watched Christian barrel into the house by the side door, and I waved off Patrick when he tried to open my door. Picking up the papers I’d collected when I’d visited all of Christian’s teachers, I handed them to my brother.

“His syllabi,” I explained. “Find them online and download them to my phone, and then enter the important dates on my calendar as well as all of the teachers’ contact information,” I told him.

He nodded once. “Consider it done,” he said, flipping through the papers.

My brother was my campaign manager, having left his position at my company to handle my political interests full-time last spring. He also tried to do anything that made my life easier.

“Is this her?” he asked, stopping on one set of papers. “Easton Bradbury?”

Her? And then I remembered that Christian had mentioned her name about the phone battery.

Jay slipped the papers into his briefcase and started typing quickly on his phone.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Googling her,” he said matter-of-factly.

I breathed out a quiet laugh I was sure he didn’t hear. Thank goodness for my brother and his tech savviness. He researched everything and everyone, and I was better for it. But I didn’t require his interference when it came to my son.

I moved to get out but stopped when he spoke up.

“Twenty-three years old, summa cum laude from Loyola University —”

“I don’t care.” I cut him off, stepping out of the car.

But the truth was, I kind of did care. I liked my memory of her and hadn’t enjoyed a woman nearly as much since our night together, and we’d only talked. Her mystery made the attraction more fun, and I didn’t want that ruined.

Easton was a woman I’d wanted in my bed, but Ms. Bradbury was off-limits.

The lines were there, clear as day, and not to be breached. For the sake of my son and my career.

“How’s my week looking?” I changed the subject as I entered the large kitchen through the side door.

“You’re booked solid Monday through Wednesday between the office and meetings.” He slammed the door behind him and followed me through the kitchen and down the hallway, past the living room and media room.

“But Thursday and Friday are calm,” he went on, “and I confirmed your dinner this weekend with Miss McAuliffe. If you’re still up for it,” he added.

“Of course I am.” I pulled off my tie, entering my den and slipping off my jacket.

Tessa McAuliffe was uncomplicated and low-maintenance. She was beautiful, discreet, and good in bed, and while my brother had encouraged me to form a steady relationship with her – or anyone – to help my campaign, I simply wouldn’t be pushed into changing my life for a vote.

Getting into the Senate was important to me, but while I enjoyed Tessa’s company for what it was, I didn’t love her and didn’t have the time to try.

And surprisingly, she never gave the impression she wasn’t okay with that.

She was a producer and anchor for a local morning show, and from day one, there were never any misconceptions about what was expected from either of us. On occasion we met for dinner and then ended the evening in a hotel room. That was it.

Afterward, I’d call on her again when I felt the need. Or she’d call me. It never went beyond that.

I briefly contemplated seeking a serious relationship when I’d first started campaigning. Most voters wanted to see candidates representing good family values in their own homes – spouse and children – but I had been focused on work, and I refused to force my private life.