Primary Season Read online

  “Of course you can, Patrick.”

  “That means a lot. And when this campaign is over, I—” I broke off and swallowed, trying to keep my mouth from going dry. “I hope…”

  “What?” One side of her red-lipsticked mouth turned upward, and she cocked her head. “You hope what?”

  “That things will be different. That they might be…more.”

  “More what?” She grinned.

  “More you…and me.” I gestured between us. “More of this.”

  Her eyes widened. “Meaning?”

  “Whatever you want it to mean.”

  Heather stood behind Alex, holding a stack of memos. When she said my name, both of us jumped. “Sorry to interrupt, but Alex, I really need to go over the rest of today’s schedule with you before we start.”

  Alex nodded at Heather, shot me a knowing look, and moved away. I didn’t have time to be disappointed because at about that time, a handful of Charleston’s most ardent Democrats filed into the room. I turned on my game face and greeted every one, making sure this felt like an informal breakfast with a neighbor and not a stilted, plastic, rehearsed campaign event. It came easily for me, and it was also how I’d won Ohio voters during my senate race. I held more small events than my opponent, and I concentrated on individual connections. Once the room filled up with coffee-drinking and donut-eating voters, I strode to the small podium for a question-and-answer session. By then, a few photographers and reporters from the local news had also arrived. Not bad for our first major event in the area.

  “Mr. Blanco has about fifteen minutes,” Alex said as she introduced me. “Feel free to ask him anything, but he is not taking official questions from the media.”

  A white-haired, balding man raised his hand, and Alex called on him. “Mr. Blanco,” he said in a gruff, skeptical voice. “You’re only thirty-eight years old. Barely old enough to have any kind of life experience. What makes you think you’ll be able to speak for someone like me?”

  I took a few steps toward him. “Well, sir, Mr…”

  “Harrison. James Harrison.”

  “Mr. Harrison, I don’t speak for you, and I don’t pretend to. That’s not the kind of candidate that I am. If you’re looking for someone who will pander to you, or promise to vote exactly the way that you want every single time, then I’m not right for you. Few people will admit that, but I will. Instead of being the candidate who makes false promises, I’m the candidate who will listen. I listen to people on many sides of an issue before I make a decision, and that’s what separates me from the rest of my opponents.”

  James Harrison seemed satisfied, or at least he didn’t press me further. Alex called on a woman in the back row who identified herself as Eula Ewing. As Alex repeated her name, I stole a glance at her and allowed myself to admire the soft curves of her body and the way her suede skirt hugged her hips. She was hot. No other word for it. Thank god we had moved on to South Carolina. Long woolen coats, puffer jackets, and snow boots did nothing for her. This woman should always be wearing tight pencil skirts and cocktail sheaths.

  “Mr. Blanco, what do you think of equal pay for women?” Eula asked.

  I turned my attention back to the voters. “I support it. Women make up more than fifty percent of the workforce, but they make less money than their male counterparts. Other nations have surpassed us on this issue, and it is time the United States catches up.”

  Eula nodded, along with a few others in the room. Good sign. I had more charm than the other candidates in the race, and I knew it. If people would listen to me, if they would give me a chance, I’d make it to the nomination, and I might even be able to do that without the assistance of Gordon Van der Loon.

  Truth be told, Gordon made me nervous. Something about the way he spoke told me that he expected to own me after the election. He lived life as if he considered himself to be King Midas incarnate. If only he hadn’t been my first major supporter in an election cycle expected to cost over a billion dollars.

  “Let me see here…” Alex shifted through a few more cards with voter information. “Nancy Schaffer? Are you here?”

  Nancy Schaffer raised her hand, and Alex instructed her to ask a question. “Mr. Blanco, you’re not married. Thirty-eight and no wife. It has been a long time since we’ve had an unmarried president and—”

  “Oh, no. I’m very much taken, Mrs. Schaffer.” I grinned at Nancy and a few people in the audience chuckled. “Off the market, and have been for a while.”

  On cue, I motioned to Kathryn and she glided through the room as everyone turned to look at her. The three local news photographers followed her with their video cameras, and a few shutters went off from the cameras of various print media who had decided to attend my rally. I had to hand it to her. Kathryn knew how to make lasting impressions. When she met me at the podium, I kissed her on the cheek.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, this is the gorgeous Kathryn Van der Loon. Perhaps you’ve read about her. Some of you might even know that we’re dating.” I placed a hand on Kathryn’s arm, an inch or so above her elbow. “But I don’t expect all of you to have kept up with my personal life. I must say that I’m humbled to have her by my side during this process.” I paused. “What is it they say? Behind every strong man is an even stronger woman.”

  Kathryn laughed and said a few words to the crowd after as a small round of applause broke out for her. As she spoke, I made eye contact with a few voters before finding Alex at the back the room. I couldn’t make out her expression. When Kathryn nodded at me again, I picked up with my next well-rehearsed line.

  “A few of you might recognize Kathryn from her stint as a hostess on the TV show Make Your Mark.” I stepped away from her and moved closer to the podium again. “Of course, I’m happy to say that she has left the allure of television to help out on my campaign. I couldn’t ask for someone to make a bigger sacrifice, but I am honored that she has.”

  Not exactly the truth.

  Make Your Mark had great ratings on Lifetime for the first two years that Ivanka Trump hosted it, but once Kathryn replaced her, the late-night talk show, geared to professional working women, lost half its audience. Kathryn lasted one season before she wound up back in New York City, floating around the Hamptons social scene in the summer and Palm Beach in the winter. I met her at a party her father threw on his estate the same weekend that I flew to South Florida looking for money and support.

  As Kathryn answered a few more questions of her own, I searched the room again, looking to see if any of this had worked. A few people seemed interested, and more clutched the buttons and bumper stickers as if they didn’t want to leave without them. Before long, we wrapped up the breakfast.

  One event down, five hundred to go. And that didn’t include the first national debate between myself and the other candidates for the nomination, none of whom seemed eager to drop out of the race after my surprise win.

  It was going to be a long campaign. Perfect. I had waited my whole life for a fight like this, and now I had it.

  That night around eleven fifteen, as I poured myself a drink from the minibar, I heard a knock on my hotel room door. When I opened it, I found Alex on the other side. She stepped backward in the hallway and sucked in a deep breath.

  “Sorry to bother you and Kathryn,” she said as her cheeks grew pink. “But we need to chat.”

  “That’s fine. You’re not bothering us. Besides, she’s already asleep in the other room,” I said, and glanced over my shoulder down the length of the suite. Kathryn’s door remained closed. Good. I turned back to Alex. “And I never go to bed this early.”

  “Well, I was thinking about something on the agenda for tomorrow, and I didn’t think it should wait until the morning.”

  “No problem,” I said, taking in the sight of her. “In fact, you’re just in time for a nightcap.” I held up the mini bottle of Maker’s Mark. “What do you say to a drink while we talk it over?”

  She hesitated, then shrugged. “All ri
ght.”

  “You like bourbon, don’t you?”

  “Sure do,” she said as she glided into the room, still wearing the black skirt and white oxford shirt from earlier. I shut the door behind us and focused on her round, tight ass as she walked to the couch on the far end of my suite.

  Damn.

  “How you do like it?” she said as she sat down. “Straight up or on the rocks?”

  “Straight up.” I grinned, took another bottle from the minibar, handed it to her and took a seat in the burgundy armchair across from the sofa. “Bottoms up.” I raised the bottle and she tipped her back to me. She downed the alcohol in a smooth shot, and I followed her lead.

  “Whew,” she said. “Not bad.”

  “You seem like you have some experience with this kind of thing.”

  She sank further into the couch. “You don’t get out of Tulane without learning how to drink.”

  “Of course, I remember now. You told me about Tulane that night at Old Ebbit.” I paused. “I’m trying to think what I know about that school. Hmm. The students named the mascot Pecker, didn’t they?”

  “Guilty as charged. Of course, they wouldn’t let us keep that name.” She sighed. “But Riptide the Pelican just doesn’t have the same…ring.”

  I laughed. “Did you like it there?”

  “I did. New Orleans is a whole different world compared to growing up in Omaha.”

  “Good old Omaha.”

  She frowned, but a smile pulled at her lips. “Don’t pretend you’ve ever been there. I know you haven’t. No one just ‘goes’ to Omaha because they feel like it…unless they’re playing in the baseball College World Series or trying to get Warren Buffet’s money.”

  “Think he’ll give me some?”

  She laughed.

  “It’s true, I’ve never been to Omaha.” I put the empty bottle on the coffee table. “But if we get through the next couple of rounds, I guess I will. We will.”

  “The breakfast was a good start, but I think your best moment was the town hall at the VFW in Mt. Pleasant. They were with you.”

  “I hope so.”

  “They better be, right? We aren’t working this hard just to drop out after South Carolina.”

  “Nope.” I raised an eyebrow. “But the attack ads have already started. They’re coming at me hard. Saw one from the NRA about my gun-control votes.”

  “We knew they’d spend. They want to dominate the voters. Scare them about you in case you’re the nominee. Everyone knows that.”

  “And is that why you’re here tonight? You wanted to talk strategy about the NRA?”

  She laughed once and looked away from me. “No. It’s not that.” Then her gaze met mine again. “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said this morning at the breakfast.”

  I leaned forward and placed my elbows on my knees. “Which part?”

  “The part about after the campaign.”

  “Oh. That part.”

  She drew in a deep breath. “What did you mean when you said you wanted more?”

  “What did you think I meant?”

  She hesitated.

  “Kathryn and I agreed to take this through the general and end it a few weeks after the inauguration.” I glanced at the bedroom door. Still closed. “She wants to become ambassador to Canada, and she’ll make a good one. We’ll end our ‘relationship’ amicably, and as friends. I’ll cite the demands of the presidency, and the hard work I’m doing for the American people. No dirty laundry. No nasty comments. No interviews. A few weeks later, of course, I’ll put her up for the position.” I folded my hands and studied Alex. “And then, I’ll be free.”

  “Free,” Alex echoed.

  “For the first time in months.”

  “And where will I be in all of this?”

  I settled further into the chair. “At my side, of course. On my staff. Working next to me. And…” I paused. “Whatever you might want after that.”

  Neither of us spoke for a long moment.

  “Just give me a chance,” I whispered. “Give us a chance. Please.”

  “I need time to think.” She stood and moved toward the door.

  I followed. “I’m saying I like you.”

  She turned back to me. “I like you, too.”

  I stepped closer to her. “And I told you this because…” My eyes searched her face. “I think there is something going on here. Between us. Something more than friendship.” I took another step; she backed up and leaned against the entryway. “Don’t deny it. There is. I know there is.”

  In months of working together, Alex had never been this close to me, and it made me aware of the small details about her. She smelled like mint mixed with floral perfume. Her chest heaved as she gulped for air. She had a small scar above her eyebrow, and three moles in a small line on the side of her neck. A few wayward strands of dark hair had slipped from her loose ponytail, and the flicks of yellow in her green eyes beckoned.

  “Don’t try to push it away,” I said. “I know you feel it, too.” My breathing grew heavier. “You wouldn’t be here tonight if you didn’t.”

  “But I…”

  “Give in, Alex. Don’t think. Just do it.”

  In one smooth motion, I lowered my mouth to hers. I pushed her lips apart with mine, and slid my tongue across hers as the kiss deepened and expanded. She opened up to my touch, and a small moan erupted in her throat, confirmation to both of us that she wanted this as much as I did.

  But then she pulled away, leaving me cold and empty. “It’s late.”

  “You’re right,” I said, defeated but knowing that she had a point.

  We stared at each other for another long moment. We were both panting.

  “Goodnight, Patrick,” she finally murmured.

  “Goodnight, Alex.”

  She opened the door to leave my room, then turned back to me. “Don’t drink too much more from the minibar, okay? We’ve got you booked for the morning show on WCHS tomorrow. We have to be there at seven thirty.”

  WCHS, the FOX affiliate for South Carolina’s Low Country, sat at the end of a nondescript cul-du-sac on the edge of town. The TV station had seen better days, and as an intern named Laura led us from the lobby to the studio, she apologized several times for the stained carpet, broken desks, peeling paint, and overall shabbiness of the place.

  “We have a brand-new set, though,” she said when Patrick, Kathryn, Doug, and I reached the newsroom. “Just built in the last six months.”

  A news assignment manager named Robert backed up her claim as he led us from the newsroom to the set. When the morning show faded to a commercial break, a blonde woman with a teased bob and a bright-blue blazer walked off the set and introduced herself as Olivia Knight, the main anchor for the morning show.

  “We’re so happy to have both of you here today,” she told Patrick and Kathryn. “We’ll be doing the interview in about fifteen minutes on our soft set.” She pointed to three chairs arranged in front of some green plants and a superimposed background featuring the Charleston skyline. “I just hate to admit that we only have one microphone for Patrick.”

  “That’s quite all right,” Kathryn said. “I know how it is, having worked in TV myself.”

  “I read that,” Olivia said, but her attention wasn’t on Kathryn at all. Instead, she tossed Patrick an award-winning, pageant-ready smile. “And how does it feel to be in South Carolina after such a fantastic win in New Hampshire?”

  Patrick always had this kind of effect on women. Even me. Women liked Patrick Blanco as an overall rule, and even more so in person. Some people had it, and he always did.

  “It’s been an honor. I’ve had a great time.”

  A production assistant outfitted Patrick with the microphone, and when the time came for the interview, he and Kathryn sat across from Olivia with plastic grins affixed to their faces. He answered Olivia’s easy, simple questions, and she didn’t try to hide her attraction to him.

  I took photos for
Instagram, Facebook, Snapchat, and Twitter, but that didn’t stop me from thinking about my own growing attraction to my boss. I liked Patrick Blanco. A lot. Enough to kiss him. Enough to blur the line between boss and employee.

  And enough for it to sting as I watched him take Kathryn’s hand during the interview and heap praise upon her.

  “I don’t know what I’d do without her,” Patrick told Olivia, a near repeat of the line he’d given the voters at the campaign breakfast just a day before. “She’s my rock.”

  Kathryn demurred; I narrowed my eyes. For a “fake relationship” or an “arrangement,” the two of them could seem awfully cozy at times. Patrick had such an uncanny way of making everything seem so smooth.

  “Penny for your thoughts,” Doug said in a low voice next to me. “You don’t look happy.”

  I jumped. “What are you talking about? I’m fine.”

  “People can see your clenched jaw all the way in Chicago. You look pissed.”

  “I’m not.” I raised my iPhone and took another photo of the interview, even though the phone already had plenty. “Just focused.”

  Doug grunted, and his expression darkened. “Well, focus on this.”

  “What?”

  “You’re not going to like it, but it just came through on my phone.” Doug took his Blackberry out of his jacket pocket, clicked a few buttons, and showed me an email. “This.”

  I looked from the phone, to him, and back again. “Is this for real? No way.”

  He nodded. “It is. Believe it. Showed up right before we walked in here. I thought about waiting to tell you but—”

  “No, it can’t be.” I took the phone from Doug and read the email again. A hot flash pulsed through me, and I struggled to keep my voice low. “This has to be a joke.”

  Doug scoffed. “I sincerely doubt it is.”

  “This is a disaster,” I said, more to myself than to Doug.

  “You’re damn right it is,” Doug said.

  Exclusive, read the headline on DailyMail.com in bold letters. Patrick Blanco is the father of my child!