by Lexi Ryan
“Connor,” I say with a nod. I force a smile for the benefit of everyone in the room, but we’re all faking it here. The only one this isn’t awkward for is my father, and that’s because he’s clueless.
“Thanks for coming over to talk with us on your lunch break,” Dad says. “Connor, would you join Sam and me in my office?” He ushers us back and closes his office door behind us before taking his spot behind his desk.
Connor takes his spot in one of the leather-upholstered chairs opposite Dad, then motions to me. “Have a seat.”
My stomach cramps. I don’t know exactly why my father called me here today, but I have a pretty good guess. I resent that Connor is going to be part of this conversation. Plastering on my polite smile, I lower myself into the damn chair.
“We’ve come to an agreement with Asia,” Connor begins carefully. He avoids my eyes. Pussy. “We don’t anticipate she’ll be a problem.”
“Good,” I manage, dislodging the word from where it wanted to stick in my throat. Connor is my sister’s husband. He used to be my friend. No matter what I may think of him and his piss-poor choices, no matter how unworthy I think he is of Della, he’s not the enemy. “Thank you.”
My father gives Connor an approving nod, and Connor clears his throat before continuing. “On the off chance that she decides to come forward anyway, we’d like to take some proactive measures to protect you.”
“Protect me? I don’t need protecting from Asia. She’s a lying, manipulative—”
Dad holds up a hand to stop me. “Exactly. And the image you maintain will make her lies all the easier for the public to swallow.”
“What image do I maintain? I’m not the politician. I don’t have an image.”
“Everyone has an image,” Connor says. “And yours is that of the consummate playboy.”
Well, fuck. “My love life is irrelevant to my father’s campaign.”
“Should be, maybe,” Connor says. “But you know as well as I do that the press is going to be watching your every move, and with the primaries coming up in May, we can’t afford to have a wild card like Asia and whoever else you might have an unsavory history with. We can’t let her run loose without hedging our bets a little.”
I curl my fingers around the chair arms, since I can’t strangle the father of my unborn niece. “You think I have a long line of strippers who aborted my children against my wishes? Is that what you’re suggesting?”
Connor drops his gaze to his notes, and my father sighs audibly. “Drop the victim act, Sam. We’re not suggesting you get married or anything so dramatic.”
I inhale slowly. Exhale. I fucking hate this. “What are you suggesting, exactly?” I shift my gaze to my brother-in-law. “Connor?”
To his credit, he meets my gaze. Fucker still insists he did nothing wrong. “A steady girlfriend. Find a girl, woo her, play nice, and otherwise keep your dick in your pants until we get your father into office next November.”
“Governor Guy’s daughter is still single,” Dad says.
Right. For half my life, Dad has been trying to hook me up with Sabrina Guy, and I’m so profoundly uninterested in the sweet, soft-spoken thing that I could fall asleep just thinking about her. Never mind the other reason I couldn’t bring myself to date her, but Dad doesn’t know about that, and I won’t be the one to tell him.
“Connor,” my father continues, with his polite smile, “may my son and I have the room, please?”
“Of course.” Connor gathers his things and stands, nodding at me before he leaves me with my father.
“I understand that I’m asking a lot of you,” Dad says when we’re alone. “But you have to understand that I’m not just trying to protect my campaign. I’m trying to protect you, and I apologize that it’s necessary.”
I take a breath. “This isn’t just a ploy to get me to settle down?”
Dad smiles ruefully. “I can’t say I’d object to that. You’re my son, so of course I’d like to see you settle down and find someone who makes you as happy as your mother makes me.” He leans back in his chair and crosses his legs. “I know that has to happen on your own terms.”
“You just want me to date someone. Regularly. No photo ops or grand gestures for the media to coo over.”
“Not unless you want to make them.”
Shit. I think he’s right. Honestly, it’s not much of him to ask of his oldest son. “Does it have to be Sabrina?”
He cocks his head. “You’ve always objected to her. Do you mind sharing why?”
Fuck yes, I mind sharing. “Does it really matter? I’m not interested.”
My father nods, accepting that. For the moment, at least. “Okay, so it doesn’t have to be Sabrina, but no strippers. Understood?”
I stand. I am so over this meeting. “Understood,” I mutter, heading for the door.
Lizzy’s working at her laptop in the conference room, and something in my chest snags at the sight of her. Her hair’s pulled into a messy knot at the top of her head, and she chews on the end of her pen as she considers something.
“See you tomorrow?” I ask.
She jumps and her eyes go big. “What?”
“At Hanna and Nate’s wedding?”
“Oh. Yeah. Yeah, of course. It’ll be good to . . . have you there.” Her smile is the least believable thing I’ve seen all day, and I’m immediately suspicious. Is she hiding something? Was I wrong when I told Della there was nothing to worry about? Have Liz and Connor rekindled something since she started working here? It’s not like Della’s in a position to take care of Connor’s . . . needs.
Fuck. Nothing good down that road. I return her fake smile with my own.
I need to go back to the bank, where I can drown out the sound of my jealous thoughts with numbers and memos until my eyeballs ache, but I can’t seem to take my eyes off Liz.
It’s one thing to want to protect my sister from the likes of Connor. It’s quite another to make myself crazy with jealousy concerning Liz. She’s not mine. Never has been, never will be.
* * *
Sam
Eight Months Before . . .
“Your girlfriend is here,” I warn as I knock on the door to Connor’s apartment.
“Get out of my way,” my sister says. She shoves me, and I back up as she punches her key in the lock and pushes the door open. We both draw in a breath at what we see on the other side.
“Fucking bastard,” I breathe. Connor’s sleeping on the living room floor in a tangle of sheets and blankets, a woman in his arms.
“You cheating scum,” Della cries. “How could you?”
Connor jumps up and scrambles for his pants. “Della, what are you doing here?”
“I came to see my boyfriend.”
That’s the moment the girl in his bed rolls over, and I see who spent the night with Connor. She pulls the sheet under her arms and sits up, groggy and beautiful as all hell with those blond curls messy around her sleepy features.
“Good morning, Liz,” I say. For my sister’s sake, I pretend I’m not the one who has been betrayed here. I pretend I’m not the one who’s dying inside at seeing them naked together.
Liz blinks at Della. “Della? What are you doing here?”
Della lunges for her, and I wrap my arms around her waist to stop her. “You fucking slut. You fucking bitch cunt slut.”
“Della,” Connor says. “I’m sorry, I thought—”
“I’m pregnant, Connor. I’m pregnant, and you’re fucking another girl.”
I tear my gaze away from Liz—seeing her like this hurts too much, anyway—and turn my anger on Connor. “You got my sister pregnant?” I let my disappointment in Liz fuel my brotherly protective instinct. “You’re a piece of shit.”
“You’re pregnant?” Connor’s face goes pale and he bends at the waist, as if someone just sucker-punched him. I’d like to be next.
Liz hops up and tries to take the sheet with her, but it snags under the corner of the couch, exposing h
alf her body. I look away. This isn’t how I imagined I’d see her naked again. Fresh out of Connor’s arms. My heartbroken sister calling her names. She yanks at it as she turns to each of us in confusion. “Connor? I thought you said . . .” Finally the sheet breaks free, and she stumbles back.
“How do you sleep at night?” Della asks her. “Are you really so selfish that you don’t see what you’re doing?”
“Liz,” Connor says, “could you please go? We’ll talk later.”
Liz gapes at him, but then she wraps the sheet tightly under her arms and leaves the room without another word.
“You too, Sam,” Connor says, apology in his eyes. “I need a minute with Della.”
Della runs to him and falls sobbing into his arms, and I back out of the apartment and head to my car, mind spinning, angry at the world. A few seconds later, Liz joins me in the hall, still wrapped in that sheet, her clothes wadded under her arm. She closes the door, then sinks to the floor, curling into herself as if she’s trying to disappear. She’s drawing in choppy breaths, and she looks small and vulnerable.
The last thing I want right now is to feel sorry for her, and when the sympathy surges up, I stomp it back down.
“What just happened?” she whispers.
“What did you expect? That he’d send his girlfriend away for the cheap fuck?”
Anger contorts her features, washing away the vulnerability. “Don’t put this on me. I didn’t do anything wrong.”
“How do you figure?”
“They were over. He was moving on.”
“They were broken up? Officially? He told you that?”
Red creeps up her cheeks as shame takes its rightful place in this conversation. “I thought . . . It seemed like . . .”
“You’re better than this.” Then, because I can’t look at her anymore, I walk away.
Chapter Six
Liz
Riverrat69: Have you thought about it?
The words make my heart triple its pace. Last night, River asked me to meet him. I think I reread the message at least fifteen times, simultaneously hoping it said what I thought and praying I’d misread it.
On the one hand, after fourteen months of abstinence, I am so fucking game for meeting my anonymous friend, for doing all the wicked things he’s described.
I’ve been good—so good and so patient and so abstinent while searching for my something real. But this weekend my twin sister is getting married, and not only am I single, I’m sex deprived. In a nutshell, my plan isn’t working for shit.
Letting this anonymous stranger end my dry spell seems like the best possible coping mechanism for dealing with my loneliness. Only, I’m afraid—or is it hopeful?—this isn’t so anonymous. And I know I wouldn’t be tempted in the slightest if I didn’t hear River’s words in Sam’s voice.
On the other hand, if River really is Sam, I don’t know how he’s going to react when he finds out he’s been talking to the one woman in this world he detests. Have I thought about his invitation to meet him?
Tink24: I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t.
A lot. I’ve thought about it more than I want to admit. I’m not a dumb girl. My mom taught me never to take candy from strangers, and my big sister taught me never to take an unopened drink from a man in a bar. I’m pretty sure meeting a stranger for hot, anonymous sex falls firmly in the same category. I want to meet him. I want to end the secrecy. But I shouldn’t.
Riverrat69: I didn’t mean for it to go this far. You deserve better than what I’m offering, but if I let this end without meeting you . . . without touching you . . . God, I’m not sure I could forgive myself.
I never thought it would come to this either. Those early days we joked around about the concept of Something Real, and I’d tell him about the guys I’d meet from the other sites. River and I talked about nothing and everything. It didn’t start like this—the dirty talk, the rule-breaking pictures, the longing. That came with time. I never would have imagined we’d meet.
But what good could come of it? He doesn’t want the things I do, and if he’s Sam, learning I am Tink24 might make him walk away forever. The truth is, I’m afraid to lose River.
But I can’t deny that I want to meet him, either. I can’t deny that he makes butterflies dance in my stomach.
Tink24: And what exactly are you offering?
Riverrat69: Pleasure. As much or as little as you want.
Taking a deep breath, I carefully compose another reply.
Tink24: I want to, but it’s complicated.
Riverrat69: Nothing complicated about what I want to do to you.
Tink24: What if you’re not attracted to me?
Riverrat69: I swear to you, I’ve seen enough to know that won’t be a problem.
Tink24: I have a lot to think about. Can we talk tomorrow?
Riverrat69: Of course. Don’t do this if you’re not ready. I don’t want to pressure you.
Tink24: Good night, River.
Riverrat69: Sweet dreams.
* * *
Sam
“Is it true?” Shit. Della looks pissed—ready-to-cut-off-someone’s-balls pissed. “Daddy, is it true?”
Ryann rolls her eyes. “Watch out, Dad. She’s pulling out the big guns and Daddying you.”
My father wipes the corners of his mouth with his napkin. “What’s the problem, Della?”
“Is Liz Thompson working for you?”
“On a trial basis, yes.” He frowns. “Is there a problem?”
She looks at me, eyes pleading, then whispers, “I just don’t like her.” I wonder if she’d bring it up at all if Connor were here, but he’s off on some campaign errand for Dad tonight.
“Della,” Mom scolds, “don’t be ridiculous. You and Liz used to be great friends. Just because things didn’t work out with the daycare doesn’t mean she can’t work for your father.”
Della’s eyes are wide and wet, but she looks down at her plate to hide her tears. She doesn’t want them to know the truth about why she hates Liz so much. If my parents knew the truth, they never would have let her marry Connor.
“I will say I was surprised,” Mom says. “Liz doesn’t seem like the serious type. She comes off as a little too ditzy for politics.”
“She’s not ditzy.” I say it before I think, and Della glares at me. I shrug. “She’s not. Just because she’s a peppy blonde doesn’t mean she doesn’t have a brain.”
“He’s right,” Dad says. He puts another serving of salad on his plate. “I think people underestimate her. She has a lot to learn about campaign work, but she’s been helping Connor with my speech for the gala. I have to say, her early work has some real potential.”
I nod, satisfied that my dad is giving Liz a chance. I shouldn’t be. I shouldn’t want her anywhere near my family after what happened with Connor, but maybe what happened between them wasn’t as cut and dry as I wanted to believe.
Mom smiles at me. “Do I sense a romantic interest in the Thompson girl? You two would make a beautiful couple.”
“You should have seen the way they were dancing together at Cally and William’s wedding last year,” my little sister, Ryann, says. “Pretty sure you could have found the meaning of life easier than the space between their bodies.”
Della turns on me and scowls, and Mom says, “Really now?”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I shoot a warning look to Ryann. “We were just dancing.”
Della glares at me one more time for good measure. “I don’t feel well, Mom. I’m going to go lie down.”
“Of course, darling.” Mom smiles as Della hoists herself and her massive stomach up from her chair and leaves the room. “Maybe you should bring Liz to the gala fundraiser next week,” Mom says to me.
“What about Governor Guy’s daughter?” Dad asks. “I thought Sam could take her.”
I bow my head and mentally count to ten.
Dad turns to me. “I think she really likes you, and more importantly, Guy likes you.
”
Across from me, my little brother, Ian, smirks. “I’ll go with Sabrina if Sam doesn’t want to.”
“As if she’d want you,” Ryann says.
Ian makes a face. “Oh, and I suppose you have a date?”
“I don’t want a date. I’m a young, independent woman.”
“Code for can’t find a date,” Ian says.
Dad clears his throat, trying not to laugh, and Mom shakes her head. “You two cut it out.” She turns to me. “Sam, I think it would be lovely if you wanted to take Sabrina. You know how important their family is to ours. That said, if you’d rather take Liz, I’d support that too. If she’s working on the campaign now, it would probably be best if Liz came there anyway.”
“I’ll let you know.” I push out of my seat. “I’m going to check on Della.”
As I leave the dining room, I hear my mom saying, “I can’t believe how invested he is in this pregnancy. I think he’s finally ready to settle down.”
Their voices are fading as my father says, “That’s why I want him to give Sabrina a chance. She’s good for him, and it would finally join the Guy and Bradshaw families in a more official way.”
My father loves me. He loves all of us. But when your parent is a politician, your identity is never as simple as that of a beloved child. We’re props and collateral—something to be positioned to make him look better and bartered to better the family’s influence.
When I open the door to the nursery, Della’s sitting in the rocking chair in the corner, tears rolling down her cheeks, her hands on her belly.
“Del,” I whisper.
She offers me a wobbly smile. “I don’t want to hate her, you know. I know Connor chose me, he married me, but I’ll never know if he would have chosen me if it hadn’t been for the baby.”