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Fumi almost chokes on her toothbrush. She glares at me in the mirror before she spits into the sink, rinses her mouth out, and whirls on me.
“This has to stop, Gabriel.”
“What does?”
Obviously, I know she means me barging into her private spaces on the regular, which is something I’m very aware that I keep doing.
But what can I say? There’s something so…delightful…so primal and alluring about the beautiful way she gasps and startles when I do it that I find myself looking for new ways to shock her like that—if for no other reason that the darkness inside me relishes her fear and surprise when I do.
“This is my room.”
“It’s technically my?—”
“You know what the hell I mean,” Fumi snaps.
I clear my throat. “As I was saying, you’re not going to work today. We’re hosting a press luncheon.”
Fumi groans. I mean, it’s not exactly my idea of fun, either. But this is the game. Today’s luncheon essentially entails sitting down with reporters from different news outlets and giving them each “exclusive” soundbites. We’ll answer a few questions, smile for the cameras, probably not actually get to eat any lunch, and that’s it.
“Okay, but I have a fuckton to do at?—”
I arch a brow. Fumi inhales through clenched teeth.
“I have considerable commitments at Crown and Black,” she says. “You know, your law firm? Where I work?”
“Oh, good. I like it. Getting rid of all that angry vitriol now before we get in front of the cameras.”
She rolls her eyes.
“No, really, keep going. I’m going to go ahead and leave the room. But you just pretend I’m still here to listen, and feel free to imagine that I give a shit. My team will be in shortly to get you ready for the luncheon.”
I might catch a muttered “asshole” under her breath on my way out.
Ignoring her demands that I stop walking in on her, I step in a few times while Maddy and Chad are getting her ready. She does wear the damn outfit they’ve picked for her this time—a knee-length violet dress that bridges the gap between formal and chic and that apparently tested well with a focus group.
That’s what running for Governor apparently means: not being allowed to trust my own eyes to know the dress looks fucking amazing on her, but instead having to rely on the opinions of twenty strangers.
Great.
Bitching aside, she does look fucking fantastic in it. She looks perfect, actually. While the hair and makeup people are doing their thing with her in the living room of my townhouse, I can’t stop watching from the other room—watching, and drinking in how stunning she is. How poised, even if she’s got a poisonous tongue behind those perfect lips.
The luncheon is a whirlwind of interviews. Each news crew has commandeered one of the cubicles set up around the perimeter of the ballroom my team has booked at the Conrad Hotel. Fumi and I jump from one to the next, answering questions about my goals for office, how we met, and everything in between.
“Luncheon” is a bit of a misnomer, as it starts at one in the afternoon and goes until seven at night. At five, exhausted from four hours of media bullshit, Fumi and I join the crowd of media types, donors, volunteers, and others in the middle of the floor for a champagne toast. Alistair and Taylor even manage to sneak out of work to join, along with Tempest and Dante.
“I’ll admit it,” Alistair sighs, clinking his glass to mine. “You may actually pull this off.”
I roll my eyes as he grins at me.
“Gee, thanks.”
“Gabriel.”
I turn, smiling and dipping my chin as Mayor Vides approaches, flanked by her aides, advisors, and security detail.
“Paloma. Thank you so much for coming.”
She nods back, clinking her glass to mine. “Of course. Though…” She glances around. “I had hoped to meet your lovely fiancée that I’ve heard so much about.”
