Page 102 of See You Next Tuesday

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The auditorium was buzzing with activity: lights, cameras, dozens of people adjusting the podiums and moderator seating and microphones onstage. It was all deeply exciting, but Gabe was only focused on finding one person, and his breath caught when he did. Anya was onstage chatting and laughing with a circle of people, some of whom Gabe recognized as operatives from the other campaigns. She was wearing wide black slacks with tall heels and a chunky black wrap sweater belted at her waist. Her hair was down in loose waves; he’d only ever seen her wear it that way at Chandelier Bar, back in Vegas. It sent a chill down his spine, remembering how badly he’d wanted her that night. Now, three years later, she was his.

“Hey, everyone.” Gabe locked eyes with Anya as he walked onstage. He watched her suck in a small breath at the sight of him, which made him wish they were literally anywhere without other people.

“Gabe, good, you’re here,” said a reedy woman from the Democratic National Committee named Carolyn—or maybe Cassandra? No, he was almost sure it was Carolyn. “We have a rule change to go over.”

“Rule change? This close to the debate?” Gabe frowned.

“It’s nothing substantive, just podium order,” Carolyn explained. “The Sessego campaign proposed a change, and seven of the other eight campaigns have ratified it.”

“This is the first I’m hearing of it.” Gabe shot Anya a look. She smiled knowingly.

“Instead of arranging candidate placement by polling data, we’ll do it alphabetically,” Carolyn said. “So tonight we’ll start with Adams on the left and end with Wheeler on the right, with each candidate moving one slot to the left at every subsequent debate. Make sense?”

“Absolutely not. We don’t agree to this.” Gabe’s ears felt warm, but he kept his voice even. He was keenly aware of the smug looks the other campaign representatives were giving him.

“A rule change only requires two-thirds of campaigns to adopt,” Carolyn said. “So I’m afraid it’s already done. Shall we start the walk-through? We’re four minutes behind schedule.”

The group started moving as Carolyn kept talking, and Gabe fell into line near the back of the pack, next to Anya.

“You orchestrated this?” he muttered.

“Come on, Gabe.” Her voice was silky. “Don’t tell me you have so little faith in your candidate you think his chances at the presidency hinge on his podium placement at a debate.”

Gabe was looking at Anya like he wanted to kill her, or like he wanted to shove her in a broom closet and have his way with her, or possibly both. The DNC woman was still droning on about microphone reception or some such nonsense, as if none of these candidates had ever been on television before, as if Anya and her boss weren’t flying to New York directly after the debate so Jo could appear on a special live edition of The Tonight Show. Anya wanted to keep talking with Gabe—or to kiss him, or do anything at all with him—but he refused even to look at her until the walk-through was over, when he took her by the elbow.

“Come with me,” he said gruffly. He steered them into a backstage hallway that was mostly empty, save for some people from the TV crew shuffling by with equipment.

“Are you angry?” she asked. Her back was against a wall, and he was leaning over her. He looked so good in his dark suit and white shirt; she wanted to rip them off of him.

“How’d you get the other campaigns to agree to this stunt?” Gabe gritted.

“The power of short-term thinking.” Anya shrugged. “Governor Liddy and Congressman Nathan are running second and third, and they were only too happy to be in the center of the stage tonight with your guy off to the side.”

“And you?” Gabe asked. “What’s in this for Sessego?”

“You don’t see it?” Anya gave him a proud little smile. “We’ll always be next to you. Every camera shot of Wheeler, Jo is right there reacting, showing contrast, setting her up as his natural opponent.”

Anya stretched her neck to look up at Gabe—and to get her lips as close to his as possible. Stop being angry and kiss me already.

“I hate how good you are at your job.” He took the edge of her sweater’s belt and wound it around his fingers. “Almost as much as I hate this sweater.”

“Oh, this?” Anya gave him a faux innocent look, big wide eyes and pouty lips. “You don’t like this?”

“I don’t like anything that gets between my hands and your skin.” He leaned closer to her. She could feel his breath on her neck.

“That’s too bad, because this is your birthday present.”

“The sweater?” He frowned in confusion.

“Not exactly. I guess you could say it’s the gift wrap.”

His eyes locked on hers. There was no question what he wanted now.

She took his hand and moved it under the sweater so he could feel the fabric beneath—the gray silk, the black beading, the corsetry that had been digging into her sides for hours, but it was beyond worth it to see the way he looked at her when he realized what she had on.

“Anya,” he growled, “did you wear that fucking bustier to a presidential debate?”