Page 63 of Run to Me

I’m a master of self-control because I don’t remove the pencil from behind my ear and stab my friend with it. Trevor’s ghost smirk appears as if he can read my violent thoughts. Clementine changes the subject and saves his life, but it’s not a welcome change.

“Javi says you’re thinking about running for mayor,” she says, addressing me.

The gentleness in her tone suggests Javi isn’t supportive of the idea. Rather, he’s concerned. Regardless of his opinion on the matter, I slide a scathing look his way. Mentioning my potential candidacy to anyone feeds the rumor mill. The more people become convinced I’m the future mayor of Walford, the more I’m pressured to step into the role.

“I haven’t decided yet,” I say, offering my standard response. Since I’m among friends, I also confess, “I don’t think politics is for me.”

Unable to read the room or my tanking mood, Trevor argues, “It’s more leadership than politics, and you’re a natural leader. It’s the perfect job for you.”

Perfect.

Fending off the stress the word conjures, I focus on Parker and Astrid as they run toward us. I imagine my and Maisy’s curly-headed kids trailing behind them, trying to keep up.

Parker stops in front of Clementine and says, “Astrid’s mom, I have a question.”

With Clementine’s attention diverted, I respond to Trevor. “I know what my perfect looks like, Trev. And it doesn’t come with the title of mayor.”

The only titles I want listed before or after my name are the ones linking me to a certain woman.

Maisy’s husband.

Father of Maisy’s children.

Maisy’s home.

21

MAISY

Jensen stares at me throughout Tatum and Jake’s sunrise wedding ceremony. He looks at the bride once and whispers something to Jake, then his gaze drifts back to me. Even while having our pictures taken afterward, he tracks my every move.

Yes, he looks delicious in a grey suit with a pink tie that matches my dress, but I have to pretend he doesn’t affect me. Give him an inch; he takes the whole circumference of the globe.

Tatum eyes me as I pour another mimosa. She thinks I drink too much when I’m in Walford, which was true the handful of times I visited her after she first returned. Back then, I needed to deal with the stress of being in this town. Since the mugging, however, I’m more diligent about how much alcohol I consume and where. At home or with close friends, I’ll relax and let my guard down, knowing I’m safe. Anywhere else, I limit my drink count to two.

Sipping from the champagne flute, I wander toward the table for the bride and groom on the back porch. As best man and maid of honor, Jensen and I have seats on either side of Jake and Tatum. They’ve asked us to give speeches, which I’m dreading. I hate public speaking and get jittery just thinking about it. The mimosas help.

“Can I talk to you inside?”

Heat radiating from Jensen’s body pulses against my back. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, secretly inhaling the rich blend of cedar and nutmeg from his cologne. To anyone watching, his presence irritates me. In truth, my heart pounds, and my belly flutters.

“Whatever you have to say, you can say it here.” I don’t face him, afraid he’ll see the flush rising in my cheeks. When he touches my hip, my eyes dart to the right to make sure no one is, in fact, watching us.

He steps closer, pressing against me, and whispers, “Get your ass in the house, birdie. Down the hall. Last door on the right. Now.”

“We have to give our speeches soon,” I argue, but the quick rise and fall of my chest tells a different story. His dominance turns me on, and my pathetic body also says get your ass in the house.

He squeezes my hip. “Now.”

I huff, feigning annoyance, and storm inside. I appear to be running away from him, but we both know I’m running toward whatever he’s offering.

Once I’m in the bathroom he directed me toward, I study my reflection in the mirror and wait. The image looking back at me is not me. She’s wanton, desperate, and submissive to her secret desires. This woman makes me angry, and I channel that anger, turning it on Jensen the second he sneaks through the door and locks it.

“What do you want?” I cross my arms over my chest, closing myself off to him.

He crowds me against the vanity and drags a finger along the neckline of my dress, across the swell of my left breast. “This dress is hideous. You would never wear something like this.”

“I’ll wear whatever makes Tate happy. It’s her wedding.”