Primary Season

  * * * *

  Primary Season

  Copyright © 2016 by Sara Celi

  Published by Lowe Interactive Media, LLC

  All rights reserved.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products, bands, and/or restaurants referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  For anyone who loves a good romance

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Patrick Blanco was not supposed to win the New Hampshire primary. The polls had him five points behind the leading candidate, Howard Sayers, and every national political pundit claimed Patrick didn’t have enough experience. No thirty-eight-year-old had ever dared a serious run for president, and Patrick hadn’t finished his first term as a senator from Ohio.

  But that night, a bitterly-cold February fourth, the lower-third graphic crossing the breaking news screen on CNN changed just after 9:00 PM. With their eyes glued to the large TV, staffers and supporters cried out with joy. Patrick Blanco had just won New Hampshire—by two thousand votes.

  We’d done it. We’d actually freaking done it.

  No, he’d done it.

  “Oh, my god,” I said under my breath as I watched CNN’s election wall place New Hampshire under Patrick’s name. “Holy shit.”

  “Can you believe this? Amazing.” Heather raised her wine glass and clinked it to mine. “A total dream.”

  “I know. When are we going to wake up?”

  “Never. This is really happening.” Heather beamed. “We’re going to South Carolina. South Carolina!”

  “Yep.”

  “No stopping us now.”

  “Nope.”

  Her eyebrow raised. “Come on, Alex. Let up for one night. We just won. Celebrate a little, okay?”

  My stomach twisted, and I gave her a tight smile. Heather might not realize it, but our jobs would get drastically harder once we took this campaign to the Palmetto State. South Carolina could be a presidential dream killer, a place where contests turned nasty and secrets came to light. If we wanted to win there, we’d have to battle twice as hard as we did in New Hampshire.

  Were we ready?

  I swallowed some cheap white wine as my gaze roamed the room. It was almost at capacity, and I expected it to grow now that Patrick had defeated his three challengers: Howard Sayers, Tom Sutton, and Mark Grace. Patrick was a winner, and everyone in politics liked to be around a winner.

  Everyone.

  “Someone should check in on him,” I said to Heather after another swallow of wine. “Do we know if he figured out a victory speech?”

  She shrugged. “At least he’s good at public speaking.”

  Two weeks earlier, we’d come in third place in the Iowa caucus, and political analysts had laughed at Patrick’s insistence about hanging on for the next race. They said the junior senator from Ohio didn’t have enough experience, didn’t have enough money, and wasn’t equipped to tackle New Hampshire with three full-time staffers, five interns, and a handful of die-hard volunteers. Turned out, that was all we needed.

  “I’ll go get him,” I told Heather. “He needs to get down here soon.”

  Patrick hadn’t wanted to show up at the party too early. He wanted to make an entrance. At first, I’d argued against this strategy, but now it seemed like the perfect way to capitalize on the night. Patrick’s supporters wanted him, and every minute they waited seemed to heighten their anticipation.

  Heather clinked her glass with mine once more before I wove through the loud, boisterous crowd. The watch party in the conference room of Burlington’s downtown Hilton had started three hours before, so many people were on their third or fourth drink of campaign-financed wine and beer. They toasted each other and chanted Patrick’s name, along with his slogan, “Dream big, dream bold.” Across the room from me, talent from the major TV networks and the twenty-four-hour cable outlets reported on the jubilation of our small campaign. Someone turned on the sound system and blasted 1980s rock music. This party would go on for hours—I could feel it.

  I found the bank of elevators in the hallway and rode the middle one to the sixth floor of the hotel. Patrick stayed in room 631, and when I got there, I took a deep breath before I knocked twice. He opened the door a half second later, and the mixed scent of aftershave and musky cologne engulfed me. My stomach flipped.

  Damn, he is gorgeous.

  “They’re waiting for you downstairs,” I said. “You’re the man of the hour.”

  “I told you it was a good idea to ‘make an entrance’.” Patrick grinned. “Has it been hard to hold back the crowd?”

  “It’s getting tough. They don’t want to see staffers anymore. They want the real deal. The winner. And that’s you.”

  He leaned one hand against the door and his gaze locked with mine. “Then I guess we’ll have to give them what they want, right?”

  Patrick and I met six months before, right after he’d officially launched his national campaign. I’d been living with my roommate, Lisa, in a tiny apartment over a boutique in Arlington, Virginia; my post-graduate school job in Senator David Hughes’s office wasn’t working out, and I’d wanted something more exciting than a job as communications chief for the bland, vanilla, extremely religious senator from Oklahoma. Ohio’s own, Patrick Blanco, needed someone to light up his campaign at a time when the national media wouldn’t pay attention to him or his ideas. I pitched him one night over drinks and oysters at Old Ebbit Grill, and he called me two days later with a decent offer: communications director, Blanco for America. Since then, we’d danced the fine line between business and pleasure.

  At least, in my mind, we had.

  “Don’t talk too long at the podium tonight,” I said, going through the victory speech plan I’d filed in the back of my head for just this moment. “Keep them wanting more. You don’t have to give too much in the way of policy tonight. Just be you.”

  “Right. Be myself.”

  Patrick strung out the words, and I took the opportunity to size him up again, something I found myself doing a lot those days. Fine, black woolen pants wrapped around a tight ass. White button-down shirt. Cobalt-blue tie. A small hint of boyish stubbl
e to frame a sharp jaw and eyes that always seemed as if they knew a secret others didn’t. Thick lips. Flat stomach. The kind of lean muscle only developed at CrossFit.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Alex?”

  I recoiled. “What? Enjoying myself?”

  “Tonight.” Patrick pulled away from the doorway and walked inside the hotel room. I followed. “At the victory party. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  I caught a glimpse of myself in the large, gold-rimmed mirror across from the bed, and I nodded. “I think everyone is.”

  “I didn’t ask about everyone else.” He paused, and it made me glance back at him. Patrick’s next words came out slow, steady, and loaded. “I asked about you.”

  “I’m having a fantastic time. It’s an important night.”

  “But it could be better, right?” Patrick stared at me. A small surge of heat slowly built inside my stomach, and I wondered if he felt the same energy that I did. “Maybe if you had a decent date?”

  My cheeks warmed, and he laughed.

  “I’m sure you wouldn’t have any problems finding one—if you wanted,” he said. Something flickered across his face, but then, a moment later it was gone. “Kathryn,” Patrick called in the direction of the bathroom. “Are you finished in there?” He walked over to the chair next to the desk and took a black sports jacket off the back of it. “We don’t want to be too late.”

  After a muffled reply, the bathroom door opened and Kathryn sauntered out in a blue sheath dress with black leather trim.

  “What do you think?” She flashed Patrick a mouthful of blinding white teeth as she picked up her Louis Vuitton monogrammed handbag from the bed. “Do I remind you of a first lady?” Patrick shot me a knowing expression, and my jaw tensed as I watched her. Kathryn Van der Loon had the Pilates-toned body I had always wanted, a last name that opened every door on the East Coast, and a billionaire father. She was Patrick’s current girlfriend, and she hadn’t left his side since he lost in the Iowa Caucus.

  “Let’s go,” Kathryn said with a flip of her auburn hair.

  “Perfect outfit.” Patrick took a few steps and kissed her cheek. “And you’re the best. The very best.”

  The three of us left the hotel room and made our way back to the conference room, which by then teemed with even more people. Everyone wanted to get a piece of the moment. Already, this election captivated the nation, and Patrick’s victory only ramped up the excitement in Burlington and beyond. Four male Democrats wanted to be president. One billionaire Silicon Valley tech mogul. A TV star and former host of a popular CNN show. One senator. One governor. I wondered how many of them would follow Patrick to South Carolina.

  If we got lucky, not many.

  Patrick took the podium after a short introduction from Doug, the campaign’s chief of staff. Kathryn flanked his left, a plastic, pleased smile adorning her face. She nodded and clapped as the crowd roared from the excitement of their candidate’s unexpected victory.

  “Friends, I just want to take a moment to thank all the wonderful voters of New Hampshire…”

  Patrick descended into his speech. For the next fifteen minutes, he held the voters, the volunteers, the campaign staff, the media, Kathryn, and myself at attention. He moved from thanking the audience to regaling them, painting a hopeful picture of the country that he intermittently wove with one-liners and jokes. I monitored the room, pleased that all three of the major cable stations were carrying his speech live. Up until that night, we’d operated on a shoestring budget, self-financed by Patrick’s savings and generous, in-kind donations from Kathryn’s endless blank checkbook.

  After that speech, things would be different.

  “And in closing, I just want to say that tonight proves just how much anything can happen through hard work and perseverance. This is about you, the voter. We don’t have to accept the status quo in America. We don’t have to settle. We can dream, and here in Burlington, those dreams have come true.”

  The crowded stirred, and shouts of “Patrick, Patrick, Patrick!” echoed through the conference room as his exit music played. Patrick kissed Kathryn on the cheek again and walked away from the podium. As the two came closer to me and the other staffers, Patrick paused to shake hands and pose for photos with some of New Hampshire’s most ardent voters. His smile could have come from central casting for politicians, and anyone could see how much the crowd loved him.

  Patrick Blanco had them all whipped to a frenzy.

  “Thanks for your vote,” he said to a woman next to me as she snapped a selfie on her phone. “And I look forward to your support in November.” She agreed, and he rejoined Kathryn a few steps ahead of me. He said something in her ear, then turned around.

  “Alex,” he said. “I forgot to give you this earlier.” He held out his hand but kept moving through the crowd. I followed and took the small slip of folded paper. “Make sure you read that before you turn in for the night, okay? It’s important.”

  “Right away, sir.” I always addressed him this way in public. Patrick wanted to keep up formalities in front of voters and the media at all times. “Consider it done.”

  He nodded, still walking. We were about ten feet from a bank of elevators. One stood open, the “up” arrow lit on the wall next to it. “Excellent. And I look forward to your comments.”

  Patrick strode into the elevator with Kathryn, turned to face some of the supporters who had followed him out of the conference room, and waved as the door closed. Just like that, what might have been the biggest night of our political lives was over.

  Ended. Finished. The past.

  A half hour later, exhausted and ensconced inside my own hotel room, I flipped my black, high-heeled loafers off my feet and fell onto the bed. I lay there for a few moments before remembering the piece of paper from Patrick, which I’d tucked into the hip pocket of my woolen dress.

  What could be so urgent and important? I slid the folded square from my pocket and opened it.

  My room. 12:30. We need to talk.

  When he opened his hotel room door, Patrick wore a pair of black sweatpants and a tight white t-shirt that did nothing to hide the muscles in his stomach or the definition in his arms. He narrowed his eyes at me. “So, you decided to come.”

  I nodded.

  “And you changed.”

  “Looks like you did, too.” I glanced at my maroon wrap cardigan, black yoga pants, and black slippers.

  “It’s almost twelve forty Alex,” he murmured. “I thought you weren’t coming.”

  “Well, I…” I struggled to find the right words. Was this a business meeting? A strategy session? What was this? I held up the note. “We need to talk? Really? If this is—”

  He grinned. “Why don’t you come inside?”

  I hesitated.

  “Kathryn’s not here. She went to the hotel gym. She’s obsessed with getting 15,000 steps every day on her Fitbit,” he said. “So, it’s just us.”

  Patrick led me into his room for the second time that night, and motioned for me to sit down in the chair across from the couch. He sat across from me, propped his elbow on the armrest, and rested his temple on his broad hand. Neither of us spoke until I opened my ever-present steno pad, already halfway filled with notes and reminders about our plans for the next few weeks of campaigning.

  “You don’t need that,” he said. “This isn’t a business meeting. Well, not in the way that you might think.”

  I frowned. “What?”

  Patrick’s deep, throaty laugh filled the room. “Did you think I wanted to sleep with you?”

  I shrugged and my cheeks grew hot.

  “I know I’m a politician, but I’m not that kind of politician.” He gestured to the notebook. “And seriously, you can put that away.”

  “Fine.” I closed the notepad and put it on the coffee table. “You had a reason for asking me to come here tonight.” I gestured with my left hand. “So what is it?”

  He studied me. “What made you get into poli
tics, Alex?”

  “I told you that night at Old Ebbit. I love a challenge, and there’s nothing more challenging than winning an election. Especially a presidential election.”

  “Don’t feed me a line of bullshit from a job interview. Tell me the truth.”

  “I like a fight.” I paused to think about it. “And in politics, you have to fight every day. Hard.”

  “How hard?”

  “Very hard.”

  Patrick stared at my mouth for a beat. Instinctively, I sucked in my bottom lip and chewed on it.

  One side of his mouth lifted. “And that’s exactly why I hired you,” he said. “You know, when you get too into this line of work, you want it all to be about public service, but it can’t always be that way. I quickly realized during my campaign for Senate that everything I had to do, every move I made, needed to be calculated. If I made the right moves, and if I played chess, I’d make it to the next level.”

  “You can’t get anything done if you’re not in office,” I said.

  “Exactly.” Patrick took a drink from the open Diet Coke on the end table next to the couch. “But lately, that’s something I have to keep reminding myself about.” His eyes focused on my mouth once again.

  “Why is that?” I managed.

  “Because that mantra, that idea, that…effort…has crept into everything I do.” A tighter smile crossed his face. “And in ways I haven’t expected.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Patrick shifted his weight, placed his elbows on his knees, and studied the geometric pattern on the carpet for a breath. When he looked back at me again, the expression in his eyes had changed. “I’m talking about Kathryn.”

  My stomach dropped at the sound of her name. Right. Of course. Kathryn. Always Kathryn Van der Loon.

  “What do you need me to take care of for you?” Energy coiled hot in my stomach, but I suppressed it.

  “No, don’t jump to conclusions.” He put down the Diet Coke and lifted his hand. “This isn’t going where you think it is.”

  I swallowed. “Meaning?”