“Senator Brandt isn’t like that.”
“You don’t know what she’s like. You’ve known her a week.”
He wasn’t wrong. That was the frustrating thing—he wasn’t wrong, and June couldn’t argue with him, because she didn’t know Melissa Brandt at all. She knew that Senator Brandt took her coffee black and worked late into the night and left impersonal notes instead of saying goodbye in person. She knew Senator Brandt always wore silk blouses and tailored trousers, that her bookshelves held policy briefs instead of novels, that she moved through her own house like a guest who wasn’t sure she was welcome.
But she didn’t know why. She didn’t know anything about the woman underneath all that polished composure.
“I’ll be careful,” June said. “I promise.”
Gary held her gaze through the screen for a long moment, then nodded. “That’s all I’m asking.”
“We should let you get back to it,” Laura said, her voice warm. “Give that little girl a hug from us. And call more often! I want to hear everything.”
“I’ll try, Mom.”
“Love you, sweetheart.”
“Love you too. Both of you.”
The call ended, and June sat at the kitchen island in the sudden silence, her father’s words still echoing in her head.
I’m just saying be careful, Junebug.
She thought about the way Senator Brandt had looked at her that first day, cool and assessing. The way she said “Miss Hollis” with careful formality, keeping the distance between them measured and precise—not that June could expect anything else, but it was worse with how Senator Brandt was the same way with her own daughter.
Maybe her father was right. Maybe this was just a job, just a paycheck, just a stepping stone to whatever came next. Maybe she shouldn’t let herself get attached to this quiet little girl or this beautiful, cold house.
But before she could spiral further, Lila appeared in the kitchen doorway, holding the bag of rainbow sprinkles.
“Can we make something with these now?” she asked. “You said we could.”
June smiled despite herself. “Yeah. Let’s see what we can come up with.”
Senator Brandt got home at six-fifteen, fifteen minutes later than her note had promised.
The evening light had softened to gold, slanting through the windows and casting long shadows across the kitchen floor, and through the open window, the smell of someone’s barbecuemixed with the casserole June was pulling out of the oven. It was just chicken and rice, nothing fancy, but warm and filling. She’d set the table with the everyday plates, and the sunflowers glowed in the evening light, and for the first time all week, the kitchen looked lived in.
“Something smells good.” Senator Brandt appeared in the doorway, still in her work clothes—a navy blazer over a cream blouse, her hair pinned up in its usual elegant twist. She looked tired, but her expression shifted when she saw the table. “You cooked.”
“I’ve been cooking all week. You just haven’t been home to eat it.”
The words came out sharper than June intended, and she saw the senator’s shoulders stiffen almost imperceptibly.
Nice one. Criticize your boss on her first night home at a reasonable hour.
“I mean—there’s plenty,” June amended. “If you’re hungry. Lila and I were just about to sit down. We were waiting for you.”
Senator Brandt hesitated, and June could see her weighing the options—retreat to her office with a plate, maintain the professional distance she’d been keeping all week, or sit down at her own kitchen table and eat dinner with her daughter and the hired help.
“Lila’s washing her hands,” June added. “She helped me make cookies this afternoon. She’s very precise with measurements.”
“Cookies?”
“Lemon cookies with sprinkles. For dessert. If that’s okay.”
Senator Brandt’s gaze moved to the counter, where the cookies were resting on a plate—slightly lopsided, unevenly frosted, covered in a chaotic explosion of rainbow sprinkles that Lila had applied with increasing enthusiasm.
“She made those?”
