Total pages in book: 113
Estimated words: 108242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108242 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 541(@200wpm)___ 433(@250wpm)___ 361(@300wpm)
I am getting better.
And I’ve smudged every corner of this huge house. Maxim leaned against the wall, arms folded, curiosity and love in his gaze that tracked me walking from room to room waving out the negative energy with my smoky sage.
“What are you thinking about?” he asks, lifting his brows and piercing the last piece of turkey sausage before offering it up to me. I shake my head that I don’t want it, and he bites into it.
“This place. How much I love it here.” I hesitate and then confess. “Wondering how much longer we can hide out.”
“Hide?” He settles back against the pillows and threads our fingers together on the breakfast tray. “Is that what you think we’re doing?”
“You’re hiding me.” I squeeze his fingers until he meets my eyes. “And as much as I’ve loved it, needed it, I wonder how much longer it can last.”
“Don’t let Jin Lei hear you say that. She loves it here.”
Jin Lei stays in a guest house about a mile away. We see her when she comes once or twice a week to meet with Maxim, giving him papers to sign, updating him on the things he can do from here. I’ve never known him to stay put this long.
“I love it here, too, but Kimba called yesterday.” I run my fingers through his hair, the longest I’ve seen it in a long time. “She’s fielded several calls from candidates asking us to run their campaigns.”
“Isn’t it a bit late to still be assembling a team?”
“It’s only April. Still ten months before Iowa. Plenty of time if you have a foundation.”
He stiffens and flicks a narrow glance up at me. “You’re considering it.”
It sounds like an accusation, and I sigh, bracing for our first argument in three weeks. “How can I not? It’s my job, Doc. It’s not just me. Kimba’s my business partner. I can’t ask her to sit idle while I do whatever we’re doing.”
“Whatever we’re doing.” He huffs a truncated laugh, tosses the down comforter back, and climbs out of bed. “I’m sorry you’re getting bored with ‘whatever we’re doing.’”
“You know I’m not bored, but some of the candidates Kimba mentioned might have a shot if we help them, and Senator Middleton’s position grows stronger every day. He’s the front-runner for the Republicans. If there’s anything I can do to keep that mongrel thief out of the Oval, I have to try.”
Maxim nods but turns his back to me. The sleeping pants cling to the muscled curves of his ass and long legs. He links his fingers behind his head, burying them in the dark strands of his hair. The wide plateau of his back tightens with the movement but also with new tension.
He strides out to the balcony off the bedroom. Diaphanous curtains billow back and forth, in and out with the breeze. I slip a heavy silk robe over my nightgown and grab his Berkeley hoodie from the bench at the foot of our bed.
Our bed. Our place. Our life here.
It’s the first time we’ve ever been in the same place this long, and it does feel like we actually share a life. I don’t want it to end, but we can’t hunker down here forever just in case Gregory Keene decides he wants to try something.
“Hey.” I walk up beside him on the balcony and proffer the sweatshirt. “It’s cool out here.”
He grunts but accepts the hoodie and slides it over his head. It rumples his hair even more, and wearing the Berkeley sweatshirt, he looks so unlike the businessman the world knows. He looks more like he did the day we met when he was still a master’s student.
“You’re mad?” I ask after a few moments of silence.
Exasperation edges his sigh. “What did Kimba say?” His eyes narrow on my twitching lips. “Oh, God. Do I even want to know?”
My best friend has a way of making even the darkest times a tad brighter. “She said she knows we’re in mourning and having lots of grief sex.”
“Wow. That’s appropriate.”
“But she asked when I’ll be emerging from what she calls the ‘cry hump’ stage of grief.”
“Cry hump?” He chokes a little on his chuckle. “Like—”
“Like dry hump, yeah, but with tears, according to her definition.” I pause. “When did you last speak to Millie?”
He sighs heavily, his shoulders drooping a little like they’re carrying Millie’s grief. I know in some ways they are and he does.
“A few days ago, briefly. I could tell she didn’t want to talk. She and the twins are staying with her parents in Connecticut. I told her I’d come see them soon.”
He leans his elbows on the rail and scans the horizon, rolled out like a vibrant mural splattered with teal, chartreuse, forest green, and turquoise—a painter’s dream. We’ve learned each other differently, deeper here, and I understand his reluctance to leave it. Beyond this ranch, there are danger and cynicism and the demands of a crumbling world. Here, he’s my only focus, and I’m his.