Chapter Nineteen
We clean up and Ward leaves first after carefully peeking to make sure the hallway’s clear.
I lock the door after him and slump onto the sofa, my mind scrambled.
Did that…justhappen?
The sticky note in my pocket with Ward’s private cell number scribbled on it in achingly familiar handwriting says yes, it did.
Before I do anything else, I add his number to my phone and use his first two initials instead of his full name in my contacts.
I’m pretty sure I’m in shock because nothing that I thought would happen if I ever again stood in front of Ward…happened.
Like giving him a piece of my fucking mind.
Punching him.
Kicking his ass.
Turns out his tears are still my kryptonite, even this many years later.
I glance at my schedule and shoot a text to my chief of staff to move a couple of things around for me without explanation why. Then I race downstairs and outside to hail a cab.
Ten minutes later, I’ve stopped by an ATM before going to a nearby drugstore and purchasing a few things, including a couple of quickie snacks I can eat on the run.
I hail another cab, return to the Capitol, head to the hideaway, lock everything in my desk except the snacks, and then return to my office to pick up the threads of what was already a nutty day.
Then I proceed to stumble through the rest of my afternoon while trying to pretend to be a functioning and competent lawmaker. When I report to the Senate Chamber again, I can’t help staring at Ward from my desk across the room. Every time I glance his way, I’m perfectly aware of him staring back at me.
That’s what tells me this is real and happened and not some whacked-out dream.
Not a nightmare.
Except…guilt’s already eating at me.
Daniel.
What thehellam I going to tell him?
Nothing. I cannot tell himanythingright now, because hall-pass fuck or not, I need to figure out a way to insulate us from Ward’s father.
If that’s even possible.
A lot more research needs to happen before I plan my next step. For now, I need time with Ward if I want to keep my sanity intact.
I need to talk to him.
I need…answers.
Keeping it below the level of my desk, I pull out my personal cell and text Daniel.
Late meeting added, sorry. Will be late.
He responds with a thumbs-up emoji and a heart, his usual response.
I should feel engulfed by far more guilt than I’m currently swamped by.
Shouldn’t I?
