PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Shapeshifter Romance: The Vampire's Stolen Bride (BBW Fantasy Alpha Male Romance Books) (New Adult Vampire Fun Mature Young Adult Billionaire Steamy Love and Romance Novella)

by Sophia Hunter

  THE END

  Hot Night with the Congressman

  Hot Night with the Congressman

  Chapter 1

  “Will you be giving a speech tonight at the PRPC event? Chairwoman Harris would like to know so that she can make the necessary adjustments to a presentation they’d like to do, if need be.”

  “I’m not going.”

  “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  “But sir, they’re expecting you, and I already confirmed.”

  “Chantelle, I said no.”

  I’ve just about had it with his last-minute decisions—ones that I always have to vouch for. It’s as if he doesn’t care about his reputation at all, as if he’s oblivious to what people are saying about him.

  “Big mistake,” I remark, setting a reminder on my phone to have Bryn, his campaign manager cancel before the end of the day. No matter how many times I tell her to stop giving out his business office number, I still receive calls daily from people who should be either contacting his campaign headquarters or the congressional office in Tallahassee—not the investment firm.

  “Wait, what was that?” he inquires, looking up from his computer screen. I’d forgotten that I even said anything.

  “Sir, if I’m not overstepping my bounds, I think you’re making a huge mistake by not at least making an appearance tonight.”

  He is fixed on his computer monitor. I swallow my pride. The past few months have just been awkward. Press has not been so kind to him, and his opponent is leading by five percentage points in early polling. I’m not on his campaign staff, but I’ve managed his firm for years as his office assistant. He needs to hear an honest perspective from someone outside of the campaign—from someone other than his re-election staff.

  “Thank you for your suggestion, but I have a Field Director already. I think we’re going about my itinerary in the most meaningful, productive way.”

  I hesitate to walk away. There’s too much at stake here: his incumbency, the future of this company, my inability to continue working for a person who has done little to demonstrate anything but his propensity toward throwing money and influence around to solve problems.

  For about two weeks now, he’s been highly criticized in the press as being quite loyal to neighborhoods that award key projects to contracting businesses he invests in. Many of these communities are predominantly African-American—including Parramore, the area where I grew up, and the home of the neighborhood council expecting him at their function tonight. It’s bad enough that Orlando Life and Times Journal recently described him as being a billionaire pickpocket. The suspicion is that he’s buying votes by providing opportunity for certain communities. The Central Florida Monthly, an offbeat, widely-distributed paper in the downtown area, recently featured him on their cover, photoshopped with a superhero cape under the headline: “David. E. Orange: The Opportunist.”

  Yes, he’s invested heavily in gentrifying low-income areas of Central Florida, but I’ve followed his career for years. I wrote my graduating thesis on how his firm, Orange Investments, has actually single-handedly brought more investment opportunities the city. Because of his firm, other industries are seeking out Orlando because unemployment rates have steadily declined. Most people here are now thriving because of Congressman Orange’s belief in making every citizen of his district a working citizen. Employed people fuel the economy. He’s actually used his powers for good.

  “Is there something else I can help you with?”

  I realize I’ve been standing in his office a beat too long, and I figured I’d better say something now or never. “This event may only be a twenty-dollar-per-plate dinner, but this group makes up almost twenty percent of your district’s base. No, these aren’t the biggest checks being written, but you need every single one of their votes. The last thing you want to do is stiff them because you don’t think they’re rich enough.”

  There, I said it.

  He doesn’t budge.

  “I’ve got prior commitments I can’t get out of, Chantelle.” When he doesn’t look up at me, I know the conversation is over.

  “Very well. I’ll let them know.”

  “No, I’ll call when I’m finished here. The least I can do is extend a personal thank-you to Chairwoman Harris for all of her hard work and support.”

  I smile and nod politely even though I’m angry and disappointed with him. He’s grown so cold and impersonal recently. He can’t stiff this fundraiser tonight. It would be political suicide.

  I close his door quietly behind me. Irritated that after all of these years, the rumors might be true. From his track record, I’d think he’d see the importance in not neglecting a city that’s almost one hundred percent on his side.

  After hearing his lame-ass excuse for not going today, I’m beginning to wonder how much truth there may be in Orange being an opportunist, exclusively interested in his personal gain.

  I remember when I first walked in his door for my interview. He struck me as being a lot better-looking in person than I’d seen in publications. Tall, sturdy in his build, but not as intimidating as I imagined he’d be. He seemed very interested in what I had to say. I told him that I’d followed his career, and that he was the reason I decided to study political science at University of Central Florida. He asked what my career goals were. I told him I wasn’t sure, but that I’d make a great assistant because of my critical eye for detail, impeccable organization skills, and reliable transportation.

  He chuckled, asked, “Reliable transportation?” I said I know how important it is to have an assistant who is self-sufficient, prompt, and available when needed. That my mother and father said the most important thing a person can be to the community around them, their family, and friends, is reliable. He closes by saying he’s fascinated that I’m choosing to seek assistant jobs when my background alludes to my interest in politics. I explained to him honestly that I found the science of politics insulting to everyday people, but still believed in the influence a good person can have by being a light to anyone around them. I explained that I was way more comfortable with utilizing my skills to support more grassroots or organizing efforts in the form of office support, as opposed to winning at the game of politics.

  “So you’re shy,” I remember him saying perceptively. Reading me perfectly. I gathered that I’d amused him, and that hoped I didn’t make an ass of myself. So I just about fainted when I’d gotten back to my car to see I had two missed calls from him. The voice message he left in a very low, rumbly tone said that he wanted to personally call me to let me know that the position was mine if I wanted it, and that he was hoping to catch me before I left to see how soon I could start.

  Chapter 2

  “Chantelle, I’d like to see you in my office.”

  For the most part, the day has been normal and predictable: proofreading his email drafts, picking up lunch, syncing his city calendar with both his campaign and personal itineraries.

  “You’re going to the Parramore event.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re going to the Parramore event, and I’m going to meet you there.”

  “Are you asking me?”

  “I’m mandatorily insinuating.”

  “I hope you’re remembering that I can’t work a campaign event. That’s unethical.”

  “You’ll be my plus-one then. I need someone there with me since all of my other staff is busy. Bryn’s with the phone bank, Troy’s with the Rosen Plaza dinner, I’ve got some volunteer sign-up sheets and chum that may need handing out…” he doesn’t complete his sentence, and I can tell by the stern look he gives me that he won’t be—that I really have no choice in the matter.

  Great.

  “Why don’t I just call myself a volunteer? I can just go as myself supporting your re-election. I am voting for you, you know.”

  His mouth twitches. I’ve amused him.

  “Don’t give me that look. You know where I stand.”

 
; “It’s just nice to hear it from you. I was beginning to worry that you were mad at me.”

  “It’s that obvious?” I joke, kind of.

  “Go. Get out of here. I have to make a cameo at the other fundraiser first, but I will see you there.”

  And here he goes again with the stare.

  “I will be there.”

  “Good.”

  Chapter 3

  When I get to my car, I head straight for Macy’s at the Millennia Mall. It’s the only budget-friendly store near my apartment that has a moderate selection of fashionably relevant attire available in my size. It still baffles me that designers think every plus-sized woman is looking for mom jeans and grandmother-of-the-bride dresses.

  My cell phone chimes. I see the Congressman’s image flash up on the screen. I’m used to him contacting me throughout the day, but never when I’m off the clock. There must be some emergency.

  I pull into the first gas station I get to and park to see what’s going on.

  Congressman Dave – What is the attire for this evening?

  Me – Semi-formal.

  Congressman Dave – What will you be wearing?

  Me – Not sure. Headed to Macy’s now.

  Congressman Dave – Macy’s?

  Me – Yes.

  Congressman Dave – Go to Neiman’s

  Me – Can’t

  My phone rings before I can reply, it’s him.

  “Sir?”

  “You can’t go to Macy’s.”

  “I can, and I kind of have to.”

  “If you’re going to be my plus-one I want you looking your best. There may be press there.”

  “I’m not your plus-one this evening, I’m your volunteer, remember?”

  There’s silence on the other end and… what is that, a growl?

  “Humor me, Chantelle.”

  “Need I remind you I’m making an assistant’s wage?”

  “That’s why I’m calling my stylist and personal shopper now.”

  “Honestly, sir, this really isn’t necessary.”

  “Go to Neiman’s. When you get there, ask for Genoa on the second floor. Whatever you find, tell her to put it on my account.”

  “But—“

  “Thank you. I’ll see you at eight.”

  My phone does the disconnect chime. Did he really just insist by hanging up on me? I have no idea what’s in the water he’s been drinking today, but I’m not appreciating his tone with me one bit. I’m doing this tonight as a favor—nothing more, nothing less. He’s paying for it, so fine. I’m sure it’s a write-off anyway.

  Neiman Marcus is shiny as hell, and smells like money that I don’t have. The people shopping there seem surprisingly unaffected by a place this pristine. I, on the other hand, am intimidated by the orderly appearance of the display cases alone. I stop at this super cute stiletto in the shoe department. My blood pressure rising as I flip it over to find a four-digit dollar amount. I have the burden of setting the shoe back down as if I’m not interested, a look I have no idea how to pull off when the real issue is that I can’t afford it.

  “May I help you find something?” A tall woman with an angular bob pops into view. Where did she come from?

  “Um, no. Well yes, I’m looking for—oh wait, hold on.” The woman is still as I dig to the bottom of my tote for my cell. I need to scroll back through my texts for the right name, “Genoa. I’m here to see, Genoa.”

  “Genoa?” the woman repeats back in a tone reserved for five-year olds looking for their mommy.

  “Yes.” I say, “A personal shopper I believe?”

  “Ooh, you mean Genoa.”

  “Yes.” That’s what I said the first time! What’s there to correct?

  I smile politely in place of an eye roll. She proceeds to give me directions and tells me that I need to have an appointment to see a personal shopper. I smile and nod as if I’m learning all of this for the first time. Why would I tell her I’m there to meet someone if I wasn’t? Sometimes people just aren’t worth the added effort. I thank her for her help, ignoring the assessment she keeps giving me with her eyes.

  ****

  “You must be Chantelle.” A small, thin, fragile-looking woman is waiting for me as I push through the glass double doors leading to minimal reception area. She gives me a hug as if we’ve known each other for years, a far cry from the stoic woman who greeted me earlier. “Dave told me to take very special care of you.”

  “Cool, I’m excited.”

  “How long have you two been dating?”

  “Oh we’re not together,” I inform quickly.

  “Oh?” She seems confused, “Well he called you his plus-one. Said you were a very exceptional woman in need of something for tonight’s occasion.”

  This is starting to feel weird. I hope he’s not looking at me as some charity case.

  “So how does this all work?” I ask, ignoring the date-like implications. He can’t seem to accept that I’m going as a volunteer.

  “Well, right around here, I’ve pulled some really beautiful gowns. Dave told me you were probably a size twelve—“

  “Twelve?” Does he really think I’m a size twelve?

  The woman reads my grimace, “Is that not correct?”

  “Far from it. I’m actually an eighteen.”

  “Oh,” the woman says as if to feel shock, or pity. “Then what I’ll do is bring a few styles for you to try. See what you feel looks best for your—what compliments your figure.”

  She finds a way to re-work her almost unfortunate choice of words. I’m glad she cleaned it up because I’m about two-seconds from walking out of here if this whole ordeal gets any weirder.

  “Do you have anything in a size eighteen?”

  “Um, I think we have a few things.” Her face grows worried. Why am I not surprised that the selection may be limited? I should have just gone to damn Macy’s where I know I can find something I love, and shop on my own, in peace.

  She leaves me to try on dress that leaves little to be desired. She says she may be running out of ideas.

  I take advantage of the alone time to send the congressman a text:

  Me – This isn’t another one of your charitable contributions is it?

  Congressman Dave – What are you talking about?

  Me – Why are you doing this?

  Congressman Dave – Doing what? Where are you?

  Me – Neiman’s, feeling like an idiot.

  Congressman Dave – Is Genoa not there?

  Me – She’s here, but... I don’t know.

  Congressman Dave – Don’t move.

  What the fuck? Don’t move? I look around the fitting room. I hear feet hurry over toward the ringing phone I hear outside.

  “Un-huh… Yes... No, sir... Of course, sir… Absolutely, we will find something.”

  Oh lord, that was him. I’m amused that he’s got this place wrapped around his finger like that.

  I wonder what he said? Whatever it was, Genoa is practically throwing garments my way. In fact, this purple one isn’t so bad.

  Chapter 4

  Fortunately, my apartment is just a few blocks from the mall. As uncomfortable as the scenario was, I managed to find something I actually liked relatively quickly. I don’t have to be at the Parramore Neighborhood Center for another hour, and even though Congressman Orange is meeting me at eight, I’d still like to get there at least an hour early to assess the environment: see who’s there, if there’s any press, get a feel for how long we’ll really need to stay once he’s shown his face. Tickets for the event were sold in advance, so Bryn should have already collected the contribution. All the congressman literally has to do is show up, demonstrate how honored he is to receive their financial support, eat, then leave.

  I hang my dress up, wondering what on Earth I can do with my hair. I love wearing my kinky twists down, but I’m thinking with an off-the-shoulder dress, an up-do will be just the right finishing touch.

  On my way to the car, I
remember a pink rose flower pin I picked up at a thrift store. Rummaging through my tote, I fish the accessory from my purse and attach it to the base of my twisty bun.

  ****

  “Lord have mercy, Chantelle. Look at you!” Chairwoman Harris makes a beeline over to me. “All grown up and stuff. Girl, come here. I’m just so proud of you!” She snatches me into a huge bear hug.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Harris,” I say, gathering myself. “What’s it been, almost five, six years?” She fills me in on people in the neighborhood. Most of them have either moved away, passed, or gotten locked up. I fill her in on some details with me, a Cliff’s Notes version of my gig at Orange Investments, the handful of people I’ve run into, told her how my parents are enjoying retired life in Sarasota.

  She tells me not to be a stranger, not to forget where I came from. The statement jolts me for a second, in it’s simplicity, and it’s reminded me of just how different my world is from before.

  Miss Harris’s eyes widen with sincere delight. I’m happy she’s happy to see me, but she looks as if I’ve just performed a small miracle.

  “Chairwoman Harris?”

  “You look beautiful, tonight,” I hear a deep familiar voice say closely behind me. I whip around, and nearly faint at the unfamiliar sight of him looking… dapper? Maybe it’s the dim lighting, or how tired I am from this long ass day. Whatever it is, he looks very different, and he has literally rendered me speechless.

  “Chairwoman Harris, a pleasure as always.” He places one hand on my shoulder, reaches around with the other to shake her hand. Is he wearing cologne?

  “Are you wearing cologne?” I ask him after Miss Harris leaves us to go prepare for the council’s presentation.

  “I am,” he confirms.

  “I think we’re a little overdressed.”

  He chuckles, “A little?”

  We scan the room. It’s apparent that semi-formal ranges everywhere from jeans with a polo shirt, to couples in their Sunday’s best, to one woman (bless her heart) in an all out, ready-for-the-red-carpet evening gown.