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I gape. "What are you doing?"
"Wearing your mark with pride, baby."
"B-but, that’ll only raise speculation."
"I can live with it, if you can."
His gaze lowers to my chest. I glance down to find there’s what can only be described as a twin reddening mark on the slope of my left breast. "Oh, hell." I glare at him. "You did that on purpose."
"No, you did this on purpose." He points to what now clearly looks like a hickey on his throat.
I reach up, pull out the pins from my hair, and the strands flow about my shoulders. I pull a couple down over my breasts. Hopefully, that will help deflect from the mark.
"Smart." He inclines his head. "You think on your feet, Councilor. A true PR pro."
"And you, sir, live dangerously. You need to be more careful, or your campaign will be over before it starts."
"Will it?" He smirks.
A-n-d there’s that confidence I love and hate, and goddamn, I’m beginning to fear is going to be my downfall. There’s something so seductive about a man who knows what he wants and who doesn’t hesitate to go after it. In this case, it’s me he’s set his sights on, and the sinking sensation in my stomach tells me he’s close to getting what he wants. Somehow, though, it doesn’t feel like it’s a loss for me, or a game between us, anymore. It’s turned into so much more, without my even realizing it.
"You okay?" He reaches over and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear.
"I will be."
He holds my gaze, nods. The limo comes to a stop. He glances to the window, through which I can make out the shapes of the paparazzi lined up on either side of the red carpet.
"You ready?"
* * *
As it turned out, I needn’t have worried about the paps because, apparently, being seen together and out in the open means they accepted his answer that I was there with him as his work colleague. This, despite the fact that when we left the hospital together, they instantly speculated that we were together 'together'. But now that we were formally attending an event together, we didn’t have anything to hide, did we? The media truly is a fickle creature. You never can predict how they’ll behave.
When they asked me why I was with him, I replied with, "You know me, guys. I’m the PR consultant, and he’s my client, and I’m here simply to make sure Mr. Whittington gets a great start to the campaign."
After which, I stepped aside, despite Hunter indicating I should stay with him. I left him to the mercy of the cameras and reporters—he’s good at talking his way out of any situation, politician that he is. Plus, he deserved to be sacrificed to the wolves for a little longer, after that stunt he pulled in the limo. Luckily, the collar of his shirt was high enough to cover the hickey I gave him, and if anything, not wearing a bowtie added to his rakish appeal.
And no one noticed the love-bite on my cleavage. If they had, I know for a fact, I wouldn’t have gotten away with an easy explanation. I can moan about it as much as I want, but the fact is, the media, and the public, still view and judge women with a different lens than it does the men. The double-standard persists.
All I can do is try my best to correct the status quo and hope my daughters will have an easier time.
My footsteps slow and I almost stumble before I catch myself. My daughters. Did I just think about 'my daughters'? Why am I thinking about 'my daughters?' I’ve never thought about having a child or getting pregnant. Now I’m suddenly thinking of having offspring, and in plural? My head spins.
I manage to keep my wits about me as I check my phone at the entrance. That’s right, the event is a phone-free zone. Given the profiles of the attendees, the organizers insisted this was the only way to allow guests to relax, and apparently, they wanted to maintain secrecy around the silent auction that came at the end of the event.
I head inside the massive ballroom. It’s a beautiful room, but I barely manage a glance at the frescoes which decorate the ceiling. Instead, I glance around for a place to sit down for a bit, catch my breath, and get something to eat, perhaps. A waiter passes by with canapés. I beckon him over, relieve him of a few of them and—whoever is watching be damned— scarf down the hors d'oeuvres.
They’re as insubstantial as party canapés are reputed to be. Why is it that the booze at such gatherings is top-notch, but when it comes to the food, the portions are miniscule? I glance around for another waiter to flag down, when a plate piled high with food—the non canapé variety, i.e. the real stuff—is thrust in front of me. "Looking for this?"
I follow the arm attached to the plate and turn to find familiar features beaming at me.
"Isla!" I exclaim.
"You seem starved," she says and grins at me.
I lean around the plate and hug her. "I missed you, babe." We’ve been talking via FaceTime a lot, but nothing beats seeing your friends in person. With Isla in Italy and Solene’s career taking off, and the rest of the Sisterhood of the Seven—which is what the wives and girlfriends of the Seven call themselves—either pregnant or having given birth recently, as in the case of Karma and Summer, I didn’t realize how lonely I had been. Tears prick the backs of my eyes, and I blink them away. How strange. First I think of my own kids for the first time in my life, then I get emotional when I see Isla. Things are getting weird.
"I missed you, too." Isla pats my shoulder.
