“You didn’t tell him you were on a date?” Connor’s disapproving frown makes my drink swirl around my stomach like a sugary hurricane.
“He was over here for, like, less than a minute.” Short enough for me to suspect Connor didn’t wash his hands. I chug most of my tequila sunrise, the cocktail coating my tongue in a film—but it’s still not strong enough to make this date any better.
Connor glances back over his shoulder at Blondie, whose attention is no longer on us. Instead, he sets his beer glass on the bar and retreats to the bathroom.
“Anyway, where were we before we were so rudely interrupted?” Connor asks with annoyance still thick in his voice.
“I was asking about your plans for the rest of the summer,” I lie. “Perhaps arranging a golf weekend with you and our dads in the Hamptons?” That’s not even close to what we were talking about, but I need to steer this towards Dad’s bill.
“Ah, right.” Connor’s smile widens, and I’m not sure if it’s from the thought of golfing or of rubbing elbows with the President. He’s shaken my dad’s hand numerous times at public events, but never at something as intimately casual as a golf outing.
Because golf courses are where the sausage gets made, and sure, Dad doesn’t need Connor’s meat to add to themix, but he needs Connor’s dad—Representative Jerry McArthur—to push for this bill.
“I’ll have my girl set it up with our dads’ secretaries.” Hisgirl? Jesus, does he think this isMad Menor something? Someone please time-warp this guy’s mindset into the twenty-first century.
But something about that sounds… funny. And I giggle.
Connor arches a perfectly plucked eyebrow at me in confusion. “Are you alright?”
I wave my hand at him, like it’s fine. “Sorry, sometimes I get the giggles if I drink. I’ve always been a happy drunk.” Happy drunk? I’ve had two drinks. Maybe the bartendercanmake a strong drink.
My words make Connor’s smile meet his eyes—finally. “Well, in that case, I’ll get us another round.”
I giggle again as I chug the last of my cocktail. My tongue is a little numb, but I can still taste that fresh orange juice and tequila.
My head spins, like I stepped off a tilt-o-whirl at a charity carnival event. “Hey, Connor. Do you even like golf? I mean,likelike it. Not like it because everyone on the Hill plays it?”
Connor shakes his head with a laugh, flashing a perfectly sculpted smile that would give an orthodontist a boner.
“Daph, you must be buzzed.”
I know I’m nodding because everything’s bouncing up and down, but I don’t feel my head moving. Numbness coats my skin, my muscles relaxing like I’m half a bottle of tequila deep, and not two weak cocktails.
“Hold that thought.” I raise a finger in the air as I wobble out of the booth and stagger towards the hallway to get to the restroom.
All I need is a bit of cold water on my face and a finger down my throat to get whatever alcohol I can out of my system. It’s not ideal, but that should clear my head enough to finish this date.
Maybe I should order a plate of truffle fries or something so there’s food in my stomach to soak up the booze. Mom would be pissed if I had a plate of fries all to myself. Maybe that’s all the more reason to order them.
Slamming my hand to the hallway wall, I guide myself toward the bathroom doors.
“Daphne, was it?”
Stumbling in my Louboutin heels, I spin to face the rough voice of a man standing behind me. A sparkling pair of brown eyes glint at me.
Then Blondie shoves me into the men’s bathroom.
CHAPTER TWO
TRISTAN
Daphne Fox.The only living daughter of President Grover Fox. Scheduler for Senator Paul Furt.
My target for the evening.
Pressing my hand over her mouth, I guide her into the empty bathroom with the backpack I snuck in and hid near the kitchens slung over my shoulder. It took twenty damn minutes for her to finally need a bathroom break. I’ve been lingering while pretending to doomscroll on my phone when, really, I was keeping mental notes of who was going in and out of each bathroom.
And right now, the women’s bathroom is occupied.
