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Tell me what you want, Ace.
“I did connect better with Scott Filmore, but it’s only been phone calls. I’m sure tonight will be lovely.” She hums. “No. Scott’s not firm on the date he’s returning.”
That entire admission has my teeth grinding, fists clenching. I glance out the window for a beat to steady myself until I’m confident my face is impassive.
She heaves a silent breath, her posture ramrod straight. “I think we’re nearly there. Are you and Dad having a nice trip?” She listens for a couple of minutes, murmuring acknowledgments until finally extending a suggestion. “Perhaps next year, I can join you for a week.”
Rex veers into the hotel parking lot, signaling to Celeste to wrap it up.
“I need to go, Mom. I’ll call tomorrow for Ben’s birthday. I love you.” She pauses once more. “I will. Promise. Give Dad a hug for me. Good night.”
She tucks her phone inside her clutch and closes her eyes on a cleansing inhale as we glide up to the entrance. But as I help her out of the car, her carefully curated mask is reinstated. The epitome of equanimity.
Guiding her inside, I resist the urge to rest my hand on the small of her back. That may be how we guard Ivy, but it won’t fly for Celeste’s detail. Coming here was asinine. I’m not nearly as collected or unflappable as her. But wise or not, I have a feeling I’m never letting Celeste out of my sight again.
No idea what that means. I’m not really a commitment guy. Although as Wells has told us time and again, casual hookups are fine, but casual relationships are a no-go. It puts everyone at risk, so it’s forbidden. KORT vets anyone who could be exposed to the inner workings of their business, and once that happens, they don’t leave. Not unless they’re traveling six feet under.
Fidelity is demanded. It’s a code. They don’t even tolerate cheating on the male’s part—an odd rule in an organization like this. But since they’re based on Knights of the Round Table, they attempt to adopt some moral codes of conduct. Although, like King Arthur’s kingdom, that’s fallible and flimsy. But the point is, it’s there. And the instant a romantic partnership blooms, a lifetime of loyalty to one another and the organization is expected—not something to mess around with. It straps an anvil to any potential relationship.
Celeste falls a bit outside those parameters though. She’s already mixed up in this life because of her father, so they’ve essentially vetted her as an individual even if it isn’t on the same level of scrutiny our team is required to have. That would probably afford the two of us more time to figure this out if it wasn’t for her family’s political aspirations.
I insisted on the position of watching Celeste from a shadowed corner while her security guys man the doors. Upon arrival, I slipped a hundred-dollar bill into a waiter’s hand to switch out the centerpiece on Celeste’s table with an arrangement I snagged from another. Mine had a bug planted in it so I can listen in. That wasn’t included in Rex’s safeguards, but I do things my own way.
Dustin is a bit of a dud. Focused. Self-important. As boring as watching paint dry. And condescending as fuck. It pisses me off on Celeste’s behalf, but there’s no way this guy is competition.
When dessert is delivered, Dustin plunges their conversation into the deep end. “Let’s be straight. We both know what this is. In two short years, I’ll be running for Congress. And my district in Arizona holds a large Latino population. Even with my family legacy, I need some help in that area.”
“Okay,” Celeste says, voice wary. “How so?”
He points to her. “That’s where you come in.”
She scoffs, albeit in the politest way possible. “I am proud of my heritage, Dustin. My bloodline is derived from various parts of the globe. My paternal grandfather, whom you know, Nathaniel Carver, is as white as they come. And his wife, my grandmother, is Greek. My maternal grandfather was Italian, and my maternal grandmother was Venezuelan, which of course, extends to me. But not in the way of securing your minority vote. My mother wasn’t even raised in the culture and—”
“No one needs to know the percentage. You look the part,” he argues.
Motherfucker.
She blows out a slow breath, rage bubbling beneath that gorgeous composure. “That would be a vast misrepresentation of who I am for many reasons. Firstly, I have not experienced the particular issues of that population. Far from it.”
He groans. “Look, Celeste. You aren’t the only candidate for this position. We both know how these marriages work. It’s a merger of qualifications. In terms of education, your credentials are sorely lacking compared to others. No law degree or even aspiration for graduate school. And while you are certainly the prettiest, it was the minority angle that set you ahead.”
I’m about thirty seconds from ending this asshole.
“I might not hold those higher degrees, but I do have passion for and understanding of serious issues that affect your constituents. Better access to treatment for lower-income drug addicts. Providing shoes for impoverished kids, as that is often the basic need sacrificed first, which can lead to far greater health issues. More thorough screening of foster parents. Removing barriers in the health-care system, like the exorbitant cost of medication. To name a few.”
Fuck me. This girl gets better every day.
“Noble, but my team has been clear that diversity is our priority,” he asserts.
She flashes a sardonic grin. “Choosing a Carver would be settling then, Mr. Barclay. Surely, you can find a wifely candidate who carries a more ethnic name.”
He sighs, lips twisted in thought. “That’s a valid point. Maybe one with a better education too.”
And I’m moving in. Reminding myself this is a public restaurant because there’s only one thought in my head. No one will ever fuck with her again and breathe another breath.
Celeste Carver is mine.
CELESTE
