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His eyes met mine, the desperation in them enough to make me swallow audibly. “Let’s go, then.”
***
Samantha Macklen was curled up on Liam’s sofa when we got there. Across from her sat Ian, his jaw clenched.
“Liam, are you sure this is—” Ian began, standing protectively as I entered the room.
“Ashlyn and Sam have already met.” Liam’s voice left absolutely no room for any alternatives.
Ian gave me a hesitant smile and then moved past us to the kitchen. I dropped my bag, kicking off my flats to lean over the opposite end of the sofa. Liam dropped to sit between my arms, his eyes trained on his sister.
For the first time, I had permission and ability to stare at Liam’s closest sibling. Sam took after her brother, with thick dark hair, a honey-glowed skin that I envied, and the perfectly carved face that had graced every campaign brochure for her father since she was a child. Beautiful, sophisticated, and right now…a complete mess. Her hair was piled in a messy knot on her head, and tears had streaked her mascara. It looked like she’d stolen some clothes from Liam or Ian, and a pair of sky-high red heels were thrown—as if angrily—into the corner.
She looked a lot like I had the first time we crossed paths in the kitchen. But now I understood that there was far more to this woman than brunches and designer bags. She was the sensitive one, who Liam was trying to hard to shield from an awful truth.
I understood how significant image can be in a political family, but the way that Liam explained it sent fear curling through my body. Liam had explained in it a rush as his driver sped to his penthouse.
Samantha had picked their father up last night from a local bar, where he’d been drunk and belligerent. She’d tucked him into bed and come over to Liam’s the next morning while he and Ian had tried to manage the situation.
Right before my meeting with Liam, he’d gotten a frantic text from Sam. Somehow in the wake of all of this, a series of photos of less-than-flattering photos of Sam had made it out into the internet. Within the hour, Daniel Macklen had fired his daughter and made a public statement saying that Sam’s role on his campaign had been insignificant to begin with. Liam believed that it wasn’t the firing that hurt, but rather the complete denial of his daughter’s contributions to his mayoral campaign.
I’d looked up the photos on our way over. It was easy since every social media source I was following was blasting them front and center. In my opinion, I’d seen much, much worse. But that didn’t change how vicious the exchange must’ve been between Sam and her father.
Liam wanted to be here for his sister. I would be here for him. In the least, as his friend. My mouth twisted. Even in my head it sounded like a blatant lie.
“We seem to keep running into each other.” Samantha was direct, her gray eyes softer than her sibling’s. More charcoal than granite. And her posture, curled into itself, tugged at my heart. I knew that pose well.
“It seems like you liked my look from the other morning more than you let on.” I gestured to her cobbled-together ensemble.
The room went completely silent. Ian stared. I bit my lip. Humor was how my family dealt with trauma. But maybe I’d gotten too comfortable.
“Samantha I…” I stammered, awkwardly fluttering my hands toward her.
Then, incredibly, Liam’s sister leaned back on the couch, a lovely low laugh filling the space as she reacted to my joke. After a minute, she smiled back at me once again.
“It’s Ashlyn, right? It’s nice to see you again.”
“Same to you, Samantha, although I wish it were under better circumstances.” I offered what I hoped was my friendliest smile.
Samantha shifted on the sofa, making more room. “My friends call me Sam.”
I moved closer, unsure if she was luring me in for slaughter or salvation. “Are we going to be friends?”
“Do you like sangria?”
“What kind of monster doesn’t like sangria?”
Sam’s grin grew. “Then I think we are going to be excellent friends.”
I caught Liam watching me, a funny look on his face. I tilted my head, begging him to explain, but he quickly walked away down the hall to his room.
“Sam, can I get you anything?” Liam shouted over one shoulder.
“No, big brother. I’m going to be just fine. Just keep pouring.” Sam waved her empty glass toward Ian, who appeared like magic with a large glass pitcher of ruby red sangria and a glass for me. I grinned at him, holding mine out. “We’re Irish. We drink when we’re sad,” Sam whispered to me.
“From what I can tell, you’re sad a lot, then,” came the grumbling reply from Ian.
Sam grinned, swatting him playfully as she settled back against the plush sofa.
