I need you at the rehearsal dinner on Thursday.
I closed my eyes and counted to three, blowing out a breath. When I opened them, I started typing again—and nearly dropped my phone when I realized Taylor was standing right behind me.
Shit. How long had he been there?
“Everything okay?” he asked, moving to my side and tipping his chin down to indicate the phone gripped tight in my hands.
“Yeah. Fine.” I flipped it face down on the countertop, feeling my face flush with guilt.
His eyes dropped to the phone, then flicked back up to my face, his brow lifting slightly. “You sure about that?”
I could have lied. Probably should have. I knew how he felt about Wyatt, though I didn’t blame him. But Taylor deserved honesty.
“I was talking to Wyatt.”
He let out a huff that communicated exactly what he thought about that.
“What does he want?”
“He’s trying to talk me into taking a meeting while I’m here.”
“What sort of meeting?”
“Do you know anything about Kendra Bancroft?”
“That’s the lady running for senate, right?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
He moved to the opposite counter and leaned against it, his arms crossed. “What does Wyatt have to do with meeting her?”
“The party chair reached out to me this morning. Turns out they contacted him first to see if he had any recommendations for a campaign strategist.”
His eyes narrowed, his fingers pressing into his biceps. “And you’re going to meet with them?”
I slid my laptop away and settled my forearms on the counter in front of me, my thumb running absently over a groove in the marble. “My initial reaction was to say no. When I’m on a campaign, I can get …” I rocked my head from side to side, trying to come up with a way to describe the single-minded focus that came over me without sounding like an absolute asshole, and realizing there really wasn't any way to cushion it. “Let's just say I have a tendency to develop tunnel vision. I basically have zero chill in these types of situations.”
“But?”
He knew there was a but. Of course he did.
“But I'm intrigued,” I admitted.
Taylor un-crossed his arms to shove his hands in the pockets of his sweatpants, his gaze flicking away. “How would that work with you heading back to D.C. soon?”
I wasn’t lying when I said I was intrigued. But the thing that had piqued my interest the most was that taking this job would mean staying here, in Maine.
“That's the thing. I’d have to stay in Portland. It wouldn’t work any other way."
“Holy shit.” Taylor’s eyes went wide, and then he was crossing the kitchen, moving to stand between my legs. He looped his arms around my neck. “We’d get more time together,” he said quietly.
“We would.”
Except ...
I knew myself well enough to see how it would likely play out: we’d make plans that I would have to cancel because of some crisis that would require my full, undivided attention. Then there’d be more cancellations after that. Eventually, Taylor would begin to resent me for choosing work over him. And I’d resent him for expecting me to be something I wasn’t. And then we’d fight, and we’d stop communicating, too stubborn to say what we actually needed from one another.
“How long?” he asked, breaking into my thoughts.
