“Okay, fine. I’m sulking,” I sigh, curled up on the couch. “But I can’t talk about it.”
“Whatcha mean you can’t talk to me about it?”
“It’s not you.” I break off another chocolate square from the Swiss almond bar I’ve almost demolished. “You’re my Day One. I want to tell you everything, but I can’t. I signed an NDA that represents a promise to him.”
“The Gentle Giant?”
I nod, the chocolate melting on my tongue. “It’s a whole clusterfuck.”
“Girl, why?” Her voice softens. “I’m not gonna tell anyone.”
“I know. But it feels wrong without his permission.”
“You look about ready to bust,” she says, reading the tension in my body.
“I am.” I snap off another square. “You warned me, but I didn’t listen. You said I wouldn’t be able to separate my kitty from my head. I thought I could have a fun night and be done.”
“Oh, girrrl.” The way she elongates the word sounds as pitiful as I feel.
“I wasn’t looking for anything,” I say in my defense. “Good food, good company, and straight-up sex—that’s it. But he was… unexpected. Not like these trifling men out here. He was smart, caring, funny, sweet… generous in bed and emotionally available. I haven’t come across that before. We really talked. Really vibed.”
Her brow knits. “You fell for him?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Not exactly. But I could. That’s the problem. There’s something there. And he said it’s the same for him.”
“You spoke to him after the hotel?”
“Yeah.” But I leave out the fact that I saw him.
“Okay, so if it’s mutual, what’s the issue?”
“That’s the part I can’t explain without telling you who he is. But being together just isn’t possible.” Opposite sides. Competing visions. “We agreed to leave it at that one night and move on. It’s better that way.”
“Damn.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Damn. ”
The day after my announcement, the office is buzzing when I arrive. My assistant, Natalia, who we call the task tyrant, looks frazzled.
“The phone’s been going crazy,” she explains. “Calls of congratulations, requests for meetings, volunteers offering to help.” She holds up a finger to take another call. “I’ll be sure to pass it along. Thank you for calling. That was Mrs. Whitmore.”
My twelfth-grade Civics teacher, my favorite class, next to Social Studies. “Thanks for holding it down,” I say. “Anika is setting up the campaign office. Please send all volunteers to her, and share my calendar. I’ll get this off your plate by next week. Can you hang in there until then?”
“For sure.” She smiles.
“You’re the best. Seriously. Thank you.”
“I want you to win.” Her brown eyes gleam. “Not just because you’re a woman—though it would be cool if you were Bayside’s first—but because I think you’ll do a great job. So whatever you need, I’m here.”
I squeeze her shoulder, humbled by the support.
She hands me a stack of yellow message slips, which I take into my office with a second cup of coffee. Aware that I’m still officially on the clock for my day job for another two weeks, I spend the morning on tourism business, finalizing all the details for the annual summer festival, and working with Symone to make sure she’s up to speed. I use my lunch break to return campaign-related calls and emails, putting Mrs. Whitmore at the top of my list.
At one, I grab the chicken salad I brought from home, part of the meal prep I do every Sunday. I stretch my neck from side to side, feeling the previous night catching up. I function best on seven solid hours of sleep, and I’d barely scraped together fragments—my mind racing like it was stuck on a Formula One loop.
I can’t help thinking about DK. Of what that must be like for him every night. Needing meds or sleep aids just to quiet his brain.
I stop, catching myself.
