I’ll take care of it.
Fuck. I’m absolutely avoiding her, but let Rhonda know that I will call shortly. I give it ten minutes before dialing, and Mom picks up on the second ring with a huff, “I know you’re busy, but you need to make time for family.”
“Sorry, I’ve been swamped this week dealing with?—”
“Olivia.”
My heart leaps into my damn throat at hearing her name. “Not exactly. After the videos of her surfaced, Taylor and Vasileiou reached out to discuss an international summit here early next year. We’re announcing today.”
“Isaac,” she snaps, “she’s always been the one that got away. You’re not concocting this whole event just to see her again, are you?”
“It wasn’t my idea.”
“Sure it wasn’t.” Mom lets out a full laugh, and while it’s genuine, there’s also a hint of sadness in it. “You’re trying to get her back, aren’t you?”
I take a deep breath, blowing it out slowly. “Technically, yes, but this summit is important. If it just so happens that I get Olivia back, what’s the harm?”
“I raised you better than this! Women have to overcome so many hurdles in politics, and you could completely destroy her career.”
“I’d never do anything to hurt her,” I growl, then clear my throat. “I’m sorry to cut this short, but I have to get going. I’ll see you for Christmas.”
“All right,” Mom sighs.
“Love you.”
“I love you too.”
We hang up, and as I’m reviewing notes for potential legislation, my phone vibrates on my desk. I glance over, and as I’m about to leave it, I do a double take at the message preview.
Livy
It did indeed travel well. Thank you for lunch, but I thought we agreed to no gifts.
I should change her name, but so long as we keep our conversations innocent, there’s no reason to swap it out for a ridiculous pseudonym. But, to be safe, I remove her last name.
Lunch isn’t a gift, and it was technically for your Chief of Staff.
Semantics.
What are you doing for dinner tonight?
You are NOT buying me dinner!
Well, if you don’t want it to be a date, you can buy your own dinner, and I’ll buy mine. We’ll just so happen to be eating the same thing when you call me later.
You know I don’t call boys.
Grinning ear to ear like a fucking idiot, I sit back in my chair as I type out my reply.
Oh, you’ll definitely be calling me.
And why is that exactly?
I told you last night, you’ll see.
How does Italian sound?
Rewind, sir. I never agreed to dinner! And I’m not calling you.
