The Choice

by Alice Ward

  I shook my head. “I want a fair fight. I don’t need this man to uncover dirt about my opponent so I can sling it back at him and humiliate him and his family. That’s bullshit. I’d rather lose the damn race.”

  He scoffed at me. “And you really think Blakely would do you the same courtesy?” He leaned forward, his palms flat on the surface of his desk. “I guarantee you he’s already digging around for ammunition of his own.”

  “Like hell he is,” I said flatly. Besides referring to me as “green” and “wet behind the ears” a few times to the Inquirer, Owen Blakely hadn’t said much about me at all.

  “Even so. Meeting. Next Thursday at nine sharp, at my residence,” he said, his eyes as hard as steel on me. “Now get the fuck out of my office.”

  Gladly. I reached for the door.

  “Cameron,” he said, and I knew the words were going to sting worse than any punch he could deliver. “Being soft isn’t going to do you any favors at this debate. You know, I’m not sure you’re man enough for this.”

  Truthfully, I wasn’t sure I wanted to be.

  I tried to skirt out before he could say more because I knew where this was headed. His question came out before I could leave. “When the fuck are you going propose to Bernadette? It would be a nice media distraction right before the debate.”

  I bristled. “Since when did a proposal become a media distraction?”

  He shook his head at me, disappointed. “Get a ring, boy. There’s one at Tiffany & Co. that will do real well. Six figures and twelve carats will make all the headlines.”

  I scoffed. I knew that ring well. The conniving woman had planted the glossy picture in my wallet weeks ago, so I knew it would meet with her approval. I’d even looked at it online, my hands sweating as I tapped on the keyboard. In a particularly low moment, I even came close to ordering it, just saying “fuck it” and getting it over with.

  “You need to make plans, boy. It has to be perfect. Violin music and fireworks and shit.”

  I said nothing. Did it not even matter that he knew what a high-maintenance bitch his future daughter-in-law was? “Would you like to write out my words on notecards?”

  He grinned that big ole shit eating grin that I hated. “I’d be happy to. I’ll also plan every detail. This weekend work for you?”

  Fuck no.

  No weekend would work for me. Besides, this weekend was for Cassandra. The second my thoughts turned to her, desire and guilt and frustration flooded in.

  I needed to get it through my thick head that Cassandra didn’t want me. If she did, she’d tell me her real name, tell me details of her life… she’d let me in.

  It was clear that I wasn’t who she wanted, not long term anyway. And I couldn’t keep stringing us both along. At some point we’d get caught and she’d become the target for the tabloids and media.

  I needed to just call it quits after this weekend. Then again, I’d made no promises, and she’d had no expectations, which was why she’d revealed so little about herself and kept telling me that none of this mattered. But there were possibilities there, possibilities that thrilled me unlike anything else in my life.

  The problem was, the time for exploring those possibilities was running out.

  Just get it over with. Let her go. Get back on the path you were destined for.

  “Next week then?” Damn, Dad wouldn’t let it go. “You could invite her to dinner at the Stone Bistro in the city.”

  I was so fucking tired of this. “Sure, why not.” My voice was devoid of any emotion. “Why don’t I just rent out the rooftop too, maybe hire the Monteverdi Choir for the background music.” I snorted. “Maybe even knock her up that same night. It would be a nice two for one, wouldn’t it?”

  Dad ignored my sarcasm and gave me his best politician smile, clapping his hands together. “Perfect. We’ll drop the video the morning of the debate. You’ll cinch it, son.”

  I just stared at him, disbelieving. He’d feed me to the wolves if it bought him a single vote.

  I shook my head. What did it matter?

  I’d known for years that this was my lot in life. I’d known my wife would be carefully chosen, a woman the people of America could look up to and respect.

  I’d known it. Prepared for it. Surrendered to it.

  And yet…

  Without another word, I left my father’s office and turned my thoughts toward Cassandra and Saturday. I told George to make sure my Mustang was ready and called the maid service to have them ready my house in Rock Hall on Chesapeake Bay. It was a small, private cottage I’d bought on a whim, totally in secret a few years ago, using layers of companies as a cover to hide my name. I’d never taken anyone there before. I’d only used it for solitary weekend getaways, whenever I had the chance to get away, which wasn’t very often. Not even my parents knew of its existence. But when I thought of escape, I thought of that place.

  And now, I thought of Cassandra.

  There was no one else that I could trust to share it with, but her.

  My phone pinged.

  I just stared at the message. It was confirmation that the Stone Bistro rooftop had been reserved in my name for Thursday at seven p.m. There would also be a bouquet of white gardenias, Bernadette’s favorite, and a bottle of her favorite champagne.

  Vomit gurgled in the back of my throat.

  How the fuck had it come to this?

  Part of me wished the world would end this weekend, and I could spend my last few moments with Cassandra, in the only place in this fucking world I wanted to be. I ached to see her again.

  And I tried.

  It wasn’t until I was sitting in the back of my limo with my internet opened to Google, that I learned I had absolutely nothing to go on with Cassandra. I couldn’t think of a single search term. All I knew was that she was twenty-three, came from a family of attorneys, was a liberal, and likely middle-class. None of that was any help, which led me to an unsettling realization. I could lose her so easily. She could slip out of my life the way she’d slipped into it, and I’d have no way of getting in touch with her. I only hoped that she would be where she said at the agreed upon time. All she’d have to do was simply not show up, and I’d never see her again.

  The thought only made me feel more desperate, more out of control, and ultimately, more foolish.

  But what was more foolish than trusting someone so deeply, when I didn’t even know her real name?

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Brooke

  Bring an overnight bag. With as little clothing as possible, because you won’t need it.

  With such a simple directive, packing should have been easy. But it took me several days to get it right. It started with the bag itself. I’d moved my clothing to school and to my apartment in old crates. The only actual bag I had was my old backpack, and since that was what I’d been taking to headquarters with me, that certainly wouldn’t work. Plus, it was ratty, and not sophisticated in the least. So after work, I’d gone to Macy’s, hoping the Memorial Day sales had started early. They hadn’t. I found lots of bags that screamed its owner was the classy and jet-setting type, but they were all over a hundred dollars. Finally, I forked over the money for the least expensive one, a simple black carry-on that I hoped I could get use out of later, if I ever, miraculously, had places to go.

  What to put in it, of course, proved to be an even bigger struggle. It was Memorial Day weekend, but forget the whole Is it okay to wear white shoes? thing. This went way beyond that. He’d said to bring as little as possible, but even if we would be naked most of the time, I needed to bring clothes. Lingerie. A jacket in case I got cold, since I was always cold. Maybe even a bathing suit? I had no idea.

  Ugh. I thought of what he’d pack, and likely he’d probably do it in the space of three minutes.

  All I ever wore to bed were boxer shorts and wifebeaters. That was perfectly fine when I was dating college guys like Mike, who slept in their boxers. But Cameron was the first real grown-up I’d
ever been with. He probably had pajamas. Monogrammed pajamas. Made of cashmere. And matching lamb’s wool slippers.

  Other than the standard bras and panties, of which I had two matching sets, I had one piece of actual lingerie, given to me by Kiera as a Secret Santa gag gift. It was a black lace teddy that left nothing to the imagination. I’d never worn it before, but now, I clung to it. It was the cornerstone of my packing exploits. I threw in a couple pairs of capris, my thong sandals, sundresses, and my tiniest bikini, like I was packing for a trip to the isles. Soon, my bag bulged with enough clothing for a week.

  Oh, well. Better to be prepared.

  I left the bag open on my bedroom floor until the last moment possible, often going in and changing out a shirt I thought might be too “college,” adding a piece from my wardrobe I’d just remembered. When I finished showering and applying my makeup, I stuffed my cosmetics bag and toothbrush in the side pocket, took a deep breath, and zipped it up.

  Then I had the chore of looking through my wardrobe for something to wear there. I cursed myself when I realized I’d packed most of the good stuff. Finally, since it was unseasonably hot, I settled on a white sundress. I wasn’t tan yet, so I looked a little like the Michelin Man’s daughter. Slipping on a pair of sandals and some chunky jewelry, when I glanced in the mirror, I wasn’t entirely disappointed. I added a wide-brimmed hat and big sunglasses in case anyone saw me getting into Cameron’s limo. When I stood in front of the mirror again, I was surprised to see a fourth version of myself emerging. Not Brooke, not Cassandra, not Violet. No, I was someone more mature, sophisticated. Not Bernadette, of course, but pretty damn close.

  It didn’t help quell the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. I knew Cameron could spot a phony a mile away, the way he’d spotted my imitation pearls.

  It didn’t stop Owen Blakely’s voice from playing on repeat in the back of my head. I need ammunition NOW.

  I told myself not to worry. Not to think too much. I’d been so sheltered all my life, and this was a time for new experiences. I told myself that whatever happened, whatever crazy, wild, sexy, amazing things happened to me this weekend, it would be so worth it because I’d get to do them with Cameron. Cameron, who wanted me. Who couldn’t wait to see me. Who thrilled me and made me feel more alive than anything on this Earth.

  You can do this, I told myself again and again as I closed the door to my apartment and hefted my bag onto my shoulder, preparing for the three-block walk to the welcome center. It was only one forty-five, so I had plenty of time.

  You are classy. You are sophisticated. You are beautiful. Own it.

  When I arrived at the welcome center, there were a few cars parked in the lot, but no limo. I’d just found an empty bench and turned around to sit on it when I saw a man in jeans leaning against an early model, cherry-red convertible.

  Waving at me.

  It was so Sixteen Candles, I had to do the same thing Molly Ringwald had done. I looked behind me to see who this gorgeous man in jeans was waving at.

  But of course, it was Cameron. I’d just never seen him looking so relaxed. Filling out jeans the way he did. Wearing a cream-colored sweater — probably cashmere, of course — that brought out the dark tanned tone of his skin. My mouth nearly dropped open as he jogged up to me and grabbed my bag.

  “Hi,” I said dumbly.

  “Hey.” He jogged to the back of his car and placed my bag in the trunk. He was still smiling when he came around and opened the door for me. It was a gesture like I’d seen him do for Bernadette, and I was instantly speechless as I started to climb into the car. Before I could, a giant ball of white fur lunged at me, and I had the strangest feeling of déjà vu.

  The dog from his backyard.

  “Oh, hi!” As I sat down, he licked my shoulder. I reached over and ran my hand through his soft, thick fur as he panted and wagged his tail excitedly.

  “Don’t mind Mr. Fluffers,” he said, giving the dog a scratch behind the ears.

  “Mr... Fluffers?” I asked with a laugh. That was so not a name I’d expect a full-grown man to bestow on his best friend. “Is that seriously his name?”

  He nodded. “He likes you. He’s usually a little skittish when he meets people for the first time.”

  I froze. Well, this isn’t the first time.

  He slid into the driver’s seat a moment later. “Are you okay?”

  I supposed I was flushing because, from the moment I saw him, I couldn’t understand why I’d stressed so much over packing when all I really wanted, and all that mattered now, was that we were going to be together for an entire night. I was giddy at the prospect.

  Swallowing the nervous flutter of anticipation inside me, I motioned to him. “You’re just… I didn’t know you owned a pair of jeans.”

  “I’ll let you in on a little secret.” He leaned toward me conspiratorially. “I own two pairs.”

  I smiled.

  His eyes swept over me, fixating on my bare legs. “And you look utterly amazing. It’s going to take every ounce of concentration I have to not pull over at the side of the road and defile you before we get to our destination.”

  I couldn’t say I would object to that.

  I grinned. “Are you going to tell me where that destination is?”

  “If you’ll tell me your name.”

  Truthfully, I’d thought about telling him. What kind of relationship could we have if he didn’t even know my name? But then it always came back to one thing… we couldn’t. We could have no relationship anyway. Still, part of me must have wanted one, ached for one, or I wouldn’t have been with him right then.

  Until he indicated that he wanted more, too, there was no point. Well, not even then. When he learned I’d lied to him, spied on him…

  I sighed and shook my head, hoping he saw the gesture as mysterious instead of me completely giving up.

  “Then you’re out of luck.” He touched the brim of my hat. “You might want to hold on to this. We’re going on the highway. Unless you want me to put the top up?”

  Oh, hell no. I’d never ridden in a convertible before, and it was a gorgeous day. I wanted to feel the breeze in my hair. I opened my mouth to tell him that this was a first for me, but then thought better of it. I needed to channel Bernadette, the worldly woman who belonged to him. “It’s fine,” I said, removing my hat and putting it at my feet. “What kind of car is this?”

  “Mustang,” he said, not pretentiously at all, and he pulled out of the space. “Let me know if you get cold.”

  “And you’ll find a way to warm me up?” I asked with a sideways glance.

  He nodded and wiggled an eyebrow.

  We didn’t talk much in the car. We pulled right onto 95 and stayed on highways the whole way. There was little traffic, and the wind was blowing noisily, which didn’t make for much conversation. But that wasn’t to say it wasn’t an experience.

  In fact, it was better that we didn’t talk. I loved feeling the sun on my face and the wind whipping around as we drove. There weren’t many sights to be seen, save for trees on the median, but I didn’t mind. I knew my hair was a wreck, but I didn’t care because once we left Pennsylvania and headed into Maryland, I was in unexplored territory. I’d never been this far south before, though I kept that to myself. I loved watching him in his mirrored sunglasses, his strong forearm flexing and moving every time he had to shift. When he wasn’t shifting, his hand was on my bare thigh, tracing little circles there that gave me a million goose bumps. Occasionally, he let it stray farther, and though I parted my legs, welcoming his touch, he stayed very much the gentleman.

  Finally, we pulled off the interstate onto Route 301, and I saw the signs for the Chesapeake Bay Bridge. He’s taking me to the beach, I thought, looking around excitedly. I’d been to the beach maybe twice, but in New Jersey, when I was a little, sandcastle-building kid. “Have you been on the Chesapeake Bay Bridge before?” he yelled over the noise at me.

  No, I hadn’t. But what was the dif
ference? I’d been on the Ben Franklin Bridge before, of course, so did it matter? Rather than answer a no, I just smiled and pretended I hadn’t heard him.

  And then we came to the bridge. It was, quite possibly, the scariest piece of real estate in all the world. It was narrow and seemed to stretch on and on, forever. When I looked over the side, all I could see was the bay beneath us. No bridge. Nothing. Cars whipped forward like they weren’t one toothpick-like guardrail away from certain death.

  “Okay?” he said, looking at me.

  I nodded, then looked down and realized I’d taken his hand, which was on my thigh, into my sweaty death grip. “Okay, I’ve never been on this bridge,” I admitted.

  He let out a laugh. “So I noticed.” My face heated, and I wondered if he thought I was a completely naïve idiot who’d grown up under a rock. Before I could feel too embarrassed, though, he said, “Don’t worry. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

  I won’t let anything happen to you.

  I clung to the words. I had no doubt that he meant them. They weren’t words you said to someone you just wanted to fuck silly. They were words said to someone who meant something. Someone who mattered.

  I wasn’t sure if that was the sign I was looking for, but I knew right then that this had moved past infatuation.

  I was falling in love with him.

  And even before the knowledge settled deeply in my brain, I made a decision…

  Forget it, Owen. I’m through. I let out the breath I’d been holding all week. Get your dirt from someone else because I won’t let anything happen to Cameron either.

  We made it over the bridge and entered a small, quaint little town called Rock Hall. He navigated through the busy streets filled with shops and cottages, and then took a sandy, winding drive between hills of dunes. We drove on for at least five minutes, with nothing to see but dune grass around us and a blue line of the sea up front. Finally, he pulled into a parking space in front of a small, beachfront cottage. Removing his sunglasses, he looked up at the house, and then at me. “Home sweet home.”