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Or he might not, either way. I really had no idea what I was doing.
I watched Christian barrel into the house by the side door, and I waved off Patrick when he tried to open my door. Picking up the papers I’d collected when I’d visited all of Christian’s teachers, I handed them to my brother.
“His syllabi,” I explained. “Find them online and download them to my phone, and then enter the important dates on my calendar as well as all of the teachers’ contact information,” I told him.
He nodded once. “Consider it done,” he said, flipping through the papers.
My brother was my campaign manager, having left his position at my company to handle my political interests full-time last spring. He also tried to do anything that made my life easier.
“Is this her?” he asked, stopping on one set of papers. “Easton Bradbury?”
Her? And then I remembered that Christian had mentioned her name about the phone battery.
Jay slipped the papers into his briefcase and started typing quickly on his phone.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Googling her,” he said matter-of-factly.
I breathed out a quiet laugh I was sure he didn’t hear. Thank goodness for my brother and his tech savviness. He researched everything and everyone, and I was better for it. But I didn’t require his interference when it came to my son.
I moved to get out but stopped when he spoke up.
“Twenty-three years old, summa cum laude from Loyola University —”
“I don’t care.” I cut him off, stepping out of the car.
But the truth was, I kind of did care. I liked my memory of her and hadn’t enjoyed a woman nearly as much since our night together, and we’d only talked. Her mystery made the attraction more fun, and I didn’t want that ruined.
Easton was a woman I’d wanted in my bed, but Ms. Bradbury was off-limits.
The lines were there, clear as day, and not to be breached. For the sake of my son and my career.
“How’s my week looking?” I changed the subject as I entered the large kitchen through the side door.
“You’re booked solid Monday through Wednesday between the office and meetings.” He slammed the door behind him and followed me through the kitchen and down the hallway, past the living room and media room.
“But Thursday and Friday are calm,” he went on, “and I confirmed your dinner this weekend with Miss McAuliffe. If you’re still up for it,” he added.
“Of course I am.” I pulled off my tie, entering my den and slipping off my jacket.
Tessa McAuliffe was uncomplicated and low-maintenance. She was beautiful, discreet, and good in bed, and while my brother had encouraged me to form a steady relationship with her – or anyone – to help my campaign, I simply wouldn’t be pushed into changing my life for a vote.
Getting into the Senate was important to me, but while I enjoyed Tessa’s company for what it was, I didn’t love her and didn’t have the time to try.
And surprisingly, she never gave the impression she wasn’t okay with that.
She was a producer and anchor for a local morning show, and from day one, there were never any misconceptions about what was expected from either of us. On occasion we met for dinner and then ended the evening in a hotel room. That was it.
Afterward, I’d call on her again when I felt the need. Or she’d call me. It never went beyond that.
I briefly contemplated seeking a serious relationship when I’d first started campaigning. Most voters wanted to see candidates representing good family values in their own homes – spouse and children – but I had been focused on work, and I refused to force my private life.
My son, my unmarried status, my thoughts about what it would be like to possibly have more children someday – once I’d proven I could parent the child I already had, of course – were private matters and no one else’s business. Why the hell did it matter when it came to my ability to serve?
“The kid ate dinner, right?” I asked him, rounding my desk and turning on my computer.
He unbuttoned his jacket and tossed his briefcase onto one of the two chairs on the other side of my desk.
“Yeah.” He nodded. “I had Patrick take him to Lebanon Café before the open house.”
Patrick was a fan of falafels and Christian seemed to love anything with hummus. It was the second time in the past week they’d eaten dinner together. I reminded myself to make sure I was home for supper tomorrow night, though. With the fucking impromptu meeting with my father earlier, I’d had Patrick drop Christian off at the open house, telling him I had a city planner’s meeting instead of that I was being grilled by my father.
At thirty-five, I still answered to him, and while as a son I hated it, I could appreciate it as a father. My dad had been a good parent. I only wished the apple hadn’t fallen so far from the tree.
“All right, let’s get to work.”
I poured myself a drink at the small bar against the wall, and Jay and I spent the next two hours condensing a list of meetings to be set up with the who’s who of political influence in the city. Unfortunately, campaigns fed off donations, and I’d insisted early on using my own money, because I hated asking anyone for anything.
After events and meetings were added to the calendar, I let Jay go home, and I stayed up refining my speech for the Knights of Columbus on Wednesday.
I rubbed the fine stubble on my jaw, wondering if Christian would like to come with me to one of these events. I couldn’t imagine he’d find it interesting, but it might be a way for him to see what I did and to spend time together.
