Campaigning for Christopher (13 page)

Crazy making and fury inducing.

His phone rang, vibrating beside him on the couch, and Christopher grabbed it and pressed it to his ear. “Yeah?”

“Chris? It’s Cam.”

“What do you want?”

“Me? Oh, I’m good, little brother. Thanks for asking. How are you?”

Christopher blew out a long, annoyed breath and slid his laptop to the coffee table. “Sorry.”

“How you doing?”

“Fine. I don’t know. Kinda shitty.”

“Pres filled us in on what that bitch did to—”

“Don’t,” he said harshly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t call her names.”

“Wh—
what
?”

“I have to work with her.”

“More’s the pity.”

“You don’t know her, Cam.”

“Thank God. I don’t
want
to know her. Frankly, I’d like to kick her ass.”

On one hand, so would Christopher. But on the other?

“She’s trying to make it right.”

“Well, good for her. Give the bitch a medal.”

“Stop calling her that,” said Christopher, his free hand balling into a fist by his side.

“Relationships built under pressure don’t last, little brother,” said Cam, laughter thick in his voice.

“We’re not . . . fuck, Cam. We’re not
in
a relationship, douche.”

“You’re all but defending her honor,
douche
.”

Christopher sighed with annoyance because Cameron was right. But this was one of those weird situations in which Christopher felt like he had the right to call her a bitch, but he’d like to beat up anyone else who felt entitled to do the same.

“I have stuff to do. Are you just calling to give me shit?”

Cameron’s voice took on an edge. “Seriously, Chris, can you answer me?
Why
are you defending her?”

“Because . . .” He shook his head. “Like I said, she’s trying to make it right. She didn’t have to help me, but she is. And she’s not . . . I mean, she didn’t have any of the opportunities we had. She . . .” How could he explain to Cameron that she was grateful for having enough food to eat as a child? How could he express what it felt like to see her giving underprivileged children hope in Hunting Park? How could he describe how it felt when she flashed her black eyes at him, pushing back when he deserved it?

“She’s just trying to make a life for herself.” It sounded simple and stupid, but he really didn’t know how to make his brother understand the complex creature that was Julianne Crow.

“By destroying yours? Whatever, man,” said Cameron, his voice deflated and disappointed. “Listen, Pres and Elise are coming out for dinner tonight with Brooks and Skye. Meggie thought you might want to come too.”

Go out to the Five Sisters Vineyard? With his brothers? No and no. No, because he had no interest in revisiting the scene of Julianne’s deception and betrayal, and no, because he had no interest in hanging out with his happily paired-up siblings unless she was sitting beside him.

Wait, what? Oh, fuck no.

He winced, shaking his head. He was officially the most fucked-up person he knew.

“I think I’ll pass. I have a lot of work to do.”

There was a long pause before Cameron asked, “Should I be worried about you, Chris? You’ve always been the happy-go-lucky Winslow. You were Mr. Easy Breezy about winning this campaign up until last weekend. And suddenly this woman sabotages it, and now she’s posing as your fucking girlfriend, and you sound like complete shit. I mean it, Chris. You don’t sound like yourself at all.”

That’s because I’m not
, he thought.
Hurricane Jules blew into my life, and nothing’s been the same since.

“I’m fine, man. Just a lot of work to do and not a whole lot of time to get it done. Stress of the campaign and election. Give me a break, huh?”

“Yeah, okay.” He heard Cameron release a relieved breath. “Only four more weeks, Chris. You think you’ll win?”

“I don’t know,” Christopher answered honestly.

“Dad would have been really proud of you.”

He smiled, reaching up to rub the back of his neck. “Thanks, Cam.”

“Okay. I gotta go. Gotta help my woman get ready for dinner.”

“Pussy-whipped,” said Christopher, chuckling.

“It’ll be you someday, smart-ass,” said his older brother before hanging up.

Leaning back against the counter, his eyes flicked to the clock over his stove. Five o’clock.
Sixteen more hours until I see her again
, he thought automatically, despising the slight lift in his step as he headed back into the living room.

Checking the time, Julianne winced as she raced down the stairs of her walk-up, her high heels clacking loudly as she moved as fast as she could. She was supposed to be meeting Chris in front of the Penn Museum at the University of Pennsylvania at nine o’clock and it was ten of.

Hailing a cab, she slipped into the backseat, pushing earrings into her ears and twisting her hair into a lose chignon as the cab merged into traffic.

She looked through the windshield at the rush hour backup, huffing quietly and shaking her head. All weekend long she’d been counting down the minutes until she got to see him again, and now she was going to be late. “Great.”

A half hour earlier, as she was just finishing getting dressed, her phone rang, and, thinking it was Chris, she sprinted for it, fairly panting to hear his voice after four long days apart.

“Hello?”

“Julianne?”

Her shoulders sagged. It was Frances Watson.

“Yes.”

“Am I calling too early?”

“No, but I’m meeting Chris in a few—”

“Oh, then I won’t keep you! I just wanted to let you know that Alexis Bittar loved you. Your look is perfect for the fall/winter collection, and they want to book you for a shoot this Thursday and Friday in Central Park. You know, fall trees, colors on fire. Can you be there on Thursday?”

She smiled, clenching her hands together in victory. Securing the Alexis Bittar job meant that she wouldn’t have a problem paying her rent until after Christmas, and she wouldn’t have to waitress every weekend either. It delayed her move back to South Dakota too, which made her sigh in relief, since she’d all but promised herself to Chris until the election.

“Yes. I mean, I think so. I have appointments with Chris today and Wednesday, so I’m pretty sure I can get away.”

“I’m so glad he can spare you.” Frances breathed in and exhaled dramatically. “Now. Are you sitting down?”

“No.”

She chuckled indulgently. “Julianne, Skid City
absolutely
loved you! Not only do they want to create a whole makeup line for your unique complexion, but Julianne! They want you to be the 2016
face
of Skid City Cosmetics!”

“The face?” she repeated, her knees giving out a little and forcing her to sit on the arm of her chair so she wouldn’t squash Shappa. “Are you sure? The . . . the face?”

“Yes!” cried Frances. “Can you believe it? Julianne, this is . . . I mean, this is almost unheard of. My God, four months in the business and you get a product line and an exclusive endorsement. This is a game changer.”

Julianne’s heart raced as the implications of the opportunity started percolating in her head. Being the face of any cosmetics line meant she’d be in all its print ads, in-store ads, and commercials. She’d be launched from near poverty and obscurity to quasi-fame in an instant, and it would open hundreds of doors for her. It was a veritable ticket to success.

“Julianne?”

“Yes. I’m . . . I didn’t expect this.”

“You and me both.” Frances paused. “There’s something else, though. They’d need you to move to New York for a while, because you’ll be integral to the line, and they’ll want you to do some traveling and endorsement. With Chris in the picture, maybe in Washington, is that possible?”

“I’d have to live in New York?”

Frances sighed. “At least for a year, while the line was created and launched. Not that you couldn’t commute to DC, you know, on the weekends, or when you weren’t working.”

“Right,” she said softly, thinking that DC wasn’t actually in her future and wincing as she imagined the day that Christopher Winslow no longer required her help.

“I tell you what, it’s a lot to think about. Talk to Chris. See what he thinks.”

“Um, yeah. Okay. I will.”

“I’ll tell Skid City you need some time to think it over, okay?”

“Thank you, Frances.”

“I knew you’d make it big, Jules,” said Frances, laughing softly. “The first time I saw your face, I just knew it.”

After they hung up, Julianne sat perched on the arm of her chair for several minutes, thinking about the amazing opportunity before her. A line inspired by her? The face of Skid City? International travel, photo shoots, endorsements? It was success. It was massive, unanticipated success.

“Meow,” said Shappa, pawing at her hand.

And that’s all it took for her to snap out of her trance and realize she’d lost ten minutes talking to Frances and daydreaming about the new job. She raced around her apartment to finish getting ready, and now here she was, in the back of a cab, stuck in traffic, running late.

Putting Skid City out of her mind, she thought about her current, and most important, job for the next four weeks: being the charming girlfriend of Christopher Winslow and helping him win a congressional seat. To be of the most possible use, she’d used her free time over the weekend, when she wasn’t waitressing, to research Chris online.

The youngest son and second-youngest child of Olivia and Taylor Winslow, Chris had been raised in an opulent mansion in Haverford, a town just outside Philadelphia on the Main Line. Julianne’s jaw had dropped when she pulled up pictures of Westerly, a massive mansion with four white pillars that looked more like a hotel than a single-family home. It was the grandest house she’d ever seen and made her acutely aware of the comparison between his house and the six-hundred-and-forty-square-foot, second-hand trailer where she’d grown up, sharing the tiny space with five other people.

Westerly had also housed seven people until Mr. Winslow had died of a heart attack in 1997, leaving eleven-year-old Christopher and his four siblings without a father. Her heart ached for him when she read this news. While she’d also grown up without a father, she’d never known what it was to have one, so she didn’t feel the loss. Chris, on the other hand, must have suffered terribly.

His brothers were all successful athletes and businessmen, and Chris had worked with his brother Cameron up until a few months ago. Right around the time Julianne moved to Philly, Chris had decided to run for controller of Philadelphia, then changed his mind and made a bid for Congress instead. How strange that both of their life paths had suddenly veered so sharply into unknown territory in an effort to seek out their destinies. While learning the full scope of his wealth had made her feel disconnected from him, the fact that they were both chasing their dreams gave her a feeling of kinship to him, and that was the feeling she’d tried to hold on to until this morning.

Kinship. Belonging. Rapport.

“Miss? You said the Penn Museum, right?”

She’d been so distracted by her thoughts, she hadn’t been watching their progress, but she looked up to find the cab stopping in front of a high brick wall. Before she could open her purse or gather her thoughts, her door opened, and a hand appeared. Leaning her neck back to look up, her black eyes slammed into Christopher’s green ones, and she felt it like a jolt from a live wire: the attraction, the tension, the visceral relief to be near him again.

Placing her hand in his, she was jerked out of the cab as he threw a twenty-dollar bill into the front seat and yelled “Keep the change” to the driver. Without looking back at her or exchanging pleasantries, he dragged her up the steps and through a wrought iron gate, into a magnificent courtyard with a stunning fountain in the center.

She struggled to keep up, but her heel caught in a crack in the pavement and her bare foot landed on the cold concrete.

“Wait! Chris, stop!” she cried, wrenching her hand away. She turned and took three or four steps backward to retrieve the shoe. But as she pulled it from the crack, the heel broke off. “Oh God!”

Suddenly he was standing beside her. “You broke your shoe?”

“
You
broke my shoe!” she said, looking up at him in consternation. “Why were we running?”

“Because Professor Brainard is supposed to be welcoming us . . .” He took his phone out of his pocket and swiped the screen. “. . .
now
, to the new exhibit in the Native American Voices gallery on the second floor of the museum. And we’re here. Not there. Because you were late.”

“I’m sorry I was late,” she said softly, finally having a moment to look into his eyes and reacquaint herself with his handsome face. “You look tired.”

“It was a long weekend,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. He gestured to her broken shoe with his chin. “What should we do with that?”

Without thinking, she placed her hand on his shoulder to brace herself, bent her leg up, and reached behind to pull off her other shoe. “Break this one so they’re even.”

As she turned to face him, she realized how close they were standing. His mouth was only a few inches from hers, and his eyes dipped to her lips, staring at them for a moment before looking at the shoe dangling from her fingers.

“Break it?” he asked, looking back at her.

“Uh-huh,” she murmured, the air sucked out of her lungs from the hungry way he’d just gazed at her mouth.

Her hand slid from his shoulder, and she took a step back, aware that her cheeks were hot and probably red. He had this effect on her—she should have been used to it by now. There was so much unspoken between them: attraction, confusion, frustration, mistrust. It simmered just below the surface of every touch, every word, and though she longed to verbalize it all, it felt vast and scary, and some part of her knew that it was probably better left alone.

Chris turned and walked over to the low brick wall of the fountain, looking back at her as he raised the heel of his hand over the heel of her shoe. “You sure?”

She nodded. He dropped his hand, and the heel broke off.

“Here you go.”

From a distance of at least a foot, he held out the broken shoe. He didn’t come closer so she could grab his shoulder for support or smell the clean mint of his breath again. He kept his distance.

Taking the shoe, she slipped it onto her foot, then dropped the broken heels in a nearby trash can. Wearing flat shoes, she felt different—younger and more vulnerable, like she’d lost part of the costume that helped her to be Christopher’s girlfriend.

“I must look ridiculous,” she said, falling into step beside him as they walked up the stairs to the museum.

“You look beautiful,” he said softly. “I’m sorry I rushed you.”

At the top of the stairs, they paused, looking at each other. Without the extra three inches, she had to look up a little more than usual. Her eyes were level with his lips, which were pink and perfect, and had fused with hers so deliciously a week earlier.

“I’m sorry I was late,” she murmured, staring at the tan skin of his throat and wondering what he did outdoors in the summer to get such a deep and even tan on his pale skin, and what else he loved, and why fate had seen fit for them to meet but for her to never know the warmth of his eyes again.

“You’re here now,” he said, shrugging. “Ready?”

She nodded. “As I’ll ever be.”

***

Christopher had been waiting for her to arrive, pacing the pavement impatiently, worried that she might not show at all. But all his annoyance fled, replaced with anticipation and excitement, the moment the cab pulled up. His blood coursed like a hot slick of oil through his veins, and his whole body came alive like it was being fueled by her very arrival. But even then, he wasn’t prepared for the wallop to his solar plexus when she peeked up at him from the backseat of the cab, her brilliant dark eyes slamming into his after an absence that had felt much too long.

So what had he done to stave off the feelings of relief and attraction? He’d pulled her from the cab caveman style, barely looking at her again until he’d dragged her halfway across a garden and broken her shoe. What an ass. What a sophomoric ass.

“Should we hold hands?” she whispered as they stepped into the cool, dim light of the museum lobby.

Yes!

“I guess,” he answered, reaching for her fingers and lacing them with his until their palms were flush and his skin sang from the contact.

“I really am sorry I was late.”

“I’m sorry I broke your shoe,” he answered, walking them toward the elevator. “I owe you a pair of shoes.”

The mere idea of buying her some sexy, black, high-heeled shoes made his breath softly catch. Without dropping her hand, he reached forward and pressed the call button.

“You don’t owe me anything,” she said, looking up at him with a grim smile.

Maybe not. But I want . . . I want—

“How was New York?” he asked, anxious not to continue this train of thought.

“Great,” she said, her face lighting up. “
Really
great.”

“Yeah? You got the job?”

The elevator doors opened, and they walked into the small box, still holding hands, facing each other.

“Still some details to hammer out,” she said, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth for a second before letting it go. “But yes, it looks good. I have to go back on Thursday and Friday for a photo shoot.”

“Oh,” he said, feeling his face fall. He didn’t know why it bothered him that she was leaving Philly again. It shouldn’t have mattered to him. Trying to convince himself it didn’t, he searched her eyes for a moment before forcing a smile. “Good for you.”