“Yes, Ma’am.”
I know he wants to help me out of the car, because he’s my very good boy, but he obeys me.
I wait five minutes before I follow. When I get a look at George, I seriously consider canceling his event for this evening. Tonight, he’s speaking to a group of tech business people here in Nashville, and tomorrow he’s got an afternoon event in Memphis.
Which means flying.
And Declan and I are both going along for that one.
It’s not an overnight, but it means flying twice in one day and we won’t be able to Xanax him ahead of time.
Today, however, he looks like shit. He’s sitting at his desk and hunched over his laptop. He’s wearing a blazer but his collar’s unbuttoned and his tie is draped around his neck, untied. The dark circles under his eyes appear even worse today, and deep lines that had mostly been eased have returned to the corners of his eyes.
I don’t go to my office first. I close his door behind me, set my shit on his couch, and walk around behind his desk.
He glances up but doesn’t turn. “Good morning, Ms. Blaine.”
“Good morning, Governor.” With my index finger, I poke and then press against the front of his right shoulder, until he finally complies and sits back in his chair and turns to face me so I can fix his tie for him.
I’m careful not to look him in the eyes because I sense he’s close to breaking and that would finish him. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?” I softly say.
“Pot, meet Kettle,” he mutters.
I get him looking presentable. Then I take his glasses off and set them on his desk before I cup his head in my hands and force him to look up, at me.
He still won’t look me in the eyes.
Yes, I damn well know why—because he knows he’ll start crying.
We haven’t had this problem in months, since him and Declan got together.
“Declan’s riding with you to the event tonight. Then he can go home with you after the event. Where he belongs.”
He shakes his head.
“Yes, George. You aren’t sleeping—he told me that.”
“I wasn’t sleeping with him in bed with me. Why should both of us be miserable? His home is with you.”
“He thinks you don’t want him anymore.” Yes, that’s a low blow, and not exactly the truth, but I need to find a chink in that wall somewhere to gain leverage.
His blue gaze flicks to mine before immediately darting away. “I didn’t tell him that.”
“You threw him out.”
“I didn’t throw him out!”
“Really? Because he showed up in my kitchen last night sobbing his heart out and with his luggage in hand. Told me you didn’t want him anymore and kicked him out.”
He’s finally looking me in the eyes. “I didn’tsaythat!”
“You didn’t kick him out?”
“I—I mean, I sent him back to you.”
“So youdidkick him out.”
To be fair, if George was in a better frame of mind, he’d probably call me out on my misleading language instead of letting me suck him into this argument that has him not only on the defensive but beating a hasty retreat.
