“That’s a hard question to answer,” he said after a few moments. “Am I glad I ran and won? Absolutely yes. Is it hard as hell? Harder and more frustrating than I ever imagined it would be. But I think I’m making a difference, which has been my ultimate goal from the beginning. I think—I hope—I’m helping to move the country forward, helping to improve people’s lives, here in California and across the country. And I care more about doing a good job than I’ve ever cared about anything. So . . . I don’t quite know if I can say I like my job, exactly; at least, not all of the parts of it. But I’m really honored to be there.”

He spoke with so much enthusiasm, so much passion. She hadn’t expected that. She’d thought he’d give her a much more politic answer, but that had been an honest one.

“Do you know what I really miss?” he asked.

She shook her head.

“Tell me.”

He gestured to the traffic in front of them.

“Driving.” He sounded wistful. “Even just sitting alone in L.A. traffic. God, I miss it so much.” He laughed. “Sorry, I sound like a poor little rich boy right now, don’t I? Complaining that someone else drives me around all the time and I get to relax.”

Olivia shook her head again.

“No, I understand what you mean. I always felt that way when I went home from New York and drove my parents’ or my sister’s car somewhere—the time alone with your thoughts driving a car is different than walking down the street, or sitting on a bus, or standing on the subway.” She grinned. “And there’s absolutely nothing that compares to driving on a California freeway on a sunny day, blasting music with the windows wide open.”

He turned and smiled at her.

“Isn’t that the truth?”

He glanced down at the GPS and made another left turn.

“Is this your street?”

She nodded. She suddenly couldn’t wait to get him inside.

“It’s right over there.”

She gestured to the small house she’d rented. She’d been determined to live in a real house, after living in an apartment for so long. She no longer had upstairs or downstairs neighbors. It was strange and wonderful.

He pulled into her empty driveway and took off his seat belt.

“I’ll just walk you to the door.”

Oh, okay, sure, he would just “walk her to the door.” She smiled to herself. She knew bullshit when she heard it, and that was some bullshit, all right.

As he opened his door, his phone rang, and he pulled it out of his pocket.

“I’m sorry, I thought my phone was on do not disturb, let me just . . .” He glanced at the screen and grimaced. “I’m sorry, I have to take this.”

After a minute or so, he jumped out of the car, but left the door open.

“Hey—I’m sorry, I have to run, there’s something I have to deal with and it can’t wait.”

She also knew this kind of bullshit when she heard it.

“Sure, of course,” she said, when what she wanted to do was ask him why the fuck he’d led her on for hours just to blow her off.

She walked up to her front door, expecting him to just jump back in his car and drive away. But instead he walked beside her and waited for her to unlock the door.

“Thanks for tonight, it was great,” he said. He patted her on the shoulder and turned to race back to his car.

She walked in the house and barely managed not to slam the door.

Yes, sure, there was a slim possibility that had been an actual emergency. But he’d just patted her on the fucking shoulder and jumped back in his car. Not a kiss on the lips, or even on the cheek, not a lingering glance, not a long clasp of her hand, and definitely not a “let’s do this again.” Just a pat on the fucking shoulder!

She was pretty sure that had been the Max Powell version of when she’d been on a bad date and had secretly texted a friend to call her with an “emergency.”

Why had he even flirted with her all night if he was going to do that? And kept up all the little shoulder touches and back touches and “accidental” brushes of her legs with his, under the table? Was it all just some act?

She dropped her keys in the bowl by her front door and walked into the bathroom to start her bathwater. You know what, this was fine. She could get into the bathtub and read her book and drink a glass of wine and have a nice cozy Saturday night, and that would be better than sex with Max could possibly be.

She knew that was a lie as soon as she thought it.

She pulled her clothes off, wrapped a scarf around her hair, and got in the tub.

Oh God. She could not believe she was sitting here in the bathtub with a glass of wine in her hand feeling sorry for herself after a disappointing end to a date. She felt like a single-woman-in-the-city parody—all she needed was a sheet mask and a box of chocolates to really make it perfect.

She couldn’t concentrate on her book, so she leaned over the side of the tub and reached for the stack of magazines she always kept nearby. That glossy pamphlet from the community center luncheon was in this pile, so she flipped through it. While she knew she couldn’t spare the money to be on the board, she did want to stay involved with the center. Huh, they had a food pantry and community kitchen there . . . and they were looking for volunteers. Plus, it would only be to her benefit to keep herself and her firm in the forefront of Bruce’s mind. He knew everyone in the tech community in L.A., and a referral from him would be gold.

This was a great idea. She’d volunteer at the food pantry, and get some networking and do-gooding in all at the same time. And tomorrow, she’d do something wild like go for a walk in her new neighborhood. Maybe she’d find that bakery Alexa had told her about. And she was definitely not going to think about Max Powell.

When she got back from the bakery the next morning, a ham-and-cheese croissant in her hand, and a chocolate croissant in her purse for later, there was a vase full of bright spring flowers on her doorstep. She picked them up and stared at them, and then plucked off the note taped to the side of the vase.

Sorry I had to run last night—can I get a do-over? I leave for DC this afternoon, but maybe we can see each other again next weekend? I had a great time last night—hope you have a good week.

Max

 

Well. Maybe she’d been wrong about that “emergency” after all.

Chapter Four

Max sank down on the couch as soon as he let himself into his DC apartment on Monday night. He was starving, but too tired to search through their fridge for food. Congress had started back up again with a vengeance after their week of recess—he’d been racing from place to place all day, with four overlapping committee meetings, a meeting with some lobbyists, and then all the usual business on the Senate floor he half paid attention to. It must have been equally as busy over on the House side; his roommate and friend, freshman representative Wesley Crawford, wasn’t even home yet.

He and Wes had been friends since college. They’d been an unexpected pair, he the rich white kid from Beverly Hills, Wes the Black athlete from the Central Valley, but somehow their friendship had stuck ever since. They’d taken very different paths to get here—Max had gone straight to law school and become a prosecutor, then the L.A. district attorney; Wes had become a teacher, then moved to the school board, and then ran for the open House of Representatives seat in his hometown two years before.