Tyson turns back toward the screen and scrolls. “She says you grabbed her ass as this photo was being taken.”
“Bullshit.”
“I know.”
I look over his shoulder, narrowing my eyes to try to see the photo better. “Can you see where my hands are? I always have them at my sides or on people’s upper backs for photos.”
Tyson squints. “I don’t think so. Everyone’s standing so close.”
I push the home button on his phone, making the image disappear. “Take the day off, Tyson.”
“Withthisbreaking?”
“Yep. In this line of work, there’s always something. You have to learn to just turn it off sometimes.”
“I don’t know how I can possibly do that,” he mutters.
I head for the door to step off the campaign bus. “Go have a tryst, Tyson. It’ll do you a world of good.”
I walk down the bus stairs into the midmorning sunshine. Despite the shitty press coverage I’m getting right now, I’m feeling good. Chill. Having Reagan here for a few days relaxed me in every way.
A selfish part of me wishes she were still here, but I know she needs to be with her mom right now. Her mom hasn’t dated since getting screwed over by her douche ex-husband, Stan Preston. She bought a quiet little beach house, and she says she’s happy alone there. Reagan worries about her, though.
I’m too distracted by my hunger to focus on much else, so I walk over to a local diner on the main drag of the small northern Illinois town we’re in.
As soon as I walk in, the smells of cooking bacon and syrup make my stomach rumble. The stools at the counter are lined with older men in worn ball caps, and others are holding court at tables in the restaurant.
I lean against the counter until a waitress meets my gaze and asks, “What can I getcha, hon?”
“I’m starving. What do you recommend?”
“The farmer’s breakfast is popular. Three strips of bacon, three eggs, two sausage links, and two pieces of toast.”
“Perfect. With coffee, please.”
“How you want those eggs?”
“Over medium.”
“Toast?”
“Wheat, please.”
She scrawls the order onto her pad, and I tell her I’ll find a seat in a little bit. I can’t pass up a chance to meet some voters while I wait.
I gravitate toward a table full of guys waiting on their orders, because one of them is wearing a hat that says “Vietnam Veteran.” There’s a tug at my heart as I wonder what he saw and did back then.
“Sir?” I approach him as he sits in silence.
“Yeah?”
I offer him my hand to shake. “I just wanted to say thank you for your service.”
His brown eyes warm as he shakes my hand. “It was my honor.” He eyes the ink on my forearms. “Did you serve?”
“Yes, sir. I’m a Marine.”
He nods. “You look familiar, son. But you’re not from around here.”
