Page 11 of See You Next Tuesday

The official victory party in some Hilton ballroom was long over, and the staff had stumbled the few blocks over to Char Bar, a beloved dive with exposed brick walls and deadly Long Island iced teas. It was an excellent night, and everyone was having an excellent time—especially Gabe.

Gabe and Dawn had made their way out to Char Bar’s back deck, which was mostly empty because everyone respected the owners enough to keep the noise down after midnight—and it was freezing cold besides. Dawn’s face was flushed pink, and her body felt warm and soft as Gabe’s hands roved under her peacoat.

“So, what do you think?” he asked Dawn. “You gonna work for Salditch in DC?”

“If she asks me, yeah. I think so.” A slow smile spread across Dawn’s face. “Congressional communications director—not a bad title, right?”

“It suits you.” He leaned down to kiss the spot she liked, between her jaw and her ear. She gripped his jacket and pulled him closer.

“What about you?” she asked. “I know DC’s not your thing, but I bet you could run a district office here if you wanted.”

“Nah.” Gabe cocked his head. “I want to get on a presidential next year, so I’ll figure out something temporary until then. Maybe go somewhere warm for the winter.”

“Speaking of.” Dawn shivered against the cold. “Inside for one more drink, then my place?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ma’am? Really?”

“Would you prefer mistress? Director? Commandant?”

Dawn laughed as they walked inside, then went to the bar to get them a couple of whiskeys. Everyone was drunk and happy, hugging and singing along to Journey on the jukebox. Gabe felt a twinge of sadness, watching them all, knowing he wouldn’t be back on a campaign for months. He understood this made him borderline psychotic—and it’s not that he wasn’t looking forward to a vacation, maybe convince some of his college buddies to spend a week in Costa Rica—but when he wasn’t working, he needed a place to physically be. Maybe he’d stay in Costa Rica until another job came up, get some cheap spot on the beach. Despite growing up in Los Angeles, he’d never actually learned to surf.

Gabe scanned the crowd of happy faces until he noticed Anya sitting alone in a booth, nursing a beer, looking like her cat just died. He strode over and slid onto the seat across from hers.

“I don’t know if you’ve heard, but we actually won tonight.”

She looked up, surprised, then smiled. It was a genuine smile, but there was still something mournful about it. “I know. Congratulations.”

Her hair was back in its usual bun, but it was messy as hell after a long day of stress followed by a long night of drinking. Little ringlets fell around her face, and her big brown eyes looked especially pretty in the bar’s dim amber light.

“Congratulations to you too.” He clinked his nearly empty beer bottle against hers.

Anya eyed him warily. “Are you admitting I was actually helpful?”

Gabe frowned at her sour tone. Everyone he had ever met had liked him instantly—why did this girl insist on hating him?

“What are you talking about?”

“Come on, it’s been obvious since I got here that you can’t stand me.” She sat up straighter, brushed her hair out of her face. “You don’t care if my ideas are good, you think I’m a suit from DC who has no business on a real campaign.”

“What?” Gabe’s face warmed. He felt nervous, like he might start laughing. “I don’t think that. What do you mean?”

“If you say so,” Anya muttered, then took another swig of beer.

“I mean, yeah, you know.” Gabe stumbled over his words. He was so uncomfortable, he had to say something. “I poke fun, you dress like you get a staff discount at Ann Taylor—”

“Oh my god, shut up!” Anya laughed and slapped his hand—the shock and sting of it sent a jolt through his whole body. “I’m the youngest woman in every meeting I walk into, and like three inches tall besides. It’s hard enough to get people to take me seriously without dressing like a teenager.”

“You’re not young,” Gabe objected. “You were born on the exact same day I was.”

Anya’s eyes went wide. “You remember me?”

Shit.

“Sure. We met one time, right?” He tried to keep his tone casual. “In New Hampshire?”

“Give me a break, you know exactly where we met.” She rolled her eyes. “And you’ve been acting like I’m a neophyte, some interloper in a cheap pantsuit.”