Rogue Desire: A Romance Anthology (The Rogue Series)

by Adriana Anders

  Okay, so the thought had briefly, briefly crossed her mind when they’d been driving through Tyson’s Corner, but she’d dismissed it. “No, I’m not going to write. I’m planning to take you back to bed.” She tugged his sleeve. “You tried to save the world for me.”

  “Jeez, woman, how vain are you? Do you think that song is about you too?” He was trying not to laugh and failing, and the sound of him happy and confident was lovely.

  If he wouldn’t follow her, they could start out here. There was a less of a crowd than before. She popped up on her toes and started dropping soft, convincing little kisses along his jaw.

  Come on, Graham. Play hooky with me. Just this once.

  Finally, he turned and captured her mouth and kissed her properly. For a man who’d balked at pursuing her, he knew precisely what the hell he was doing, and soon she was popping like boiling water in a kettle.

  “I will make things right with you,” he vowed.

  But she wasn’t worried about that anymore. She took a step out of his arms and began towing him toward her porch. “You’re already making progress. I know that whatever happens, we’ll face it together.”

  “We’ll hold hands as the world ends?”

  “We tried one thing tonight, and it didn’t work. That doesn’t mean we stop. Democracy is a process.”

  “Actually, we tried more than one thing, and if memory serves, the first was pretty good.”

  “It was very good.”

  She unlocked the door, and he dragged her over the threshold. Obviously they had to test the hypothesis.

  GRAHAM WOKE up to sunshine pouring in around the curtains—Cadence’s curtains. She was nestled up against him, her hair tangled and her breathing low and even. Still asleep.

  Some icy anxiety in his heart cracked and floated away. They were still here. They were together. It wasn’t that the rest didn’t matter, but it had a new context. All politics really were local.

  “What time is it?” Cadence murmured. Not asleep, then.

  He kissed her hair and found his phone. “6:20. I need to get home and finish that speech.”

  When she rolled over, Cadence was laughing. “I’d give you crap, but the truth is, I woke up feeling the same way.”

  “That’s why we’re perfect for each other.” Oh sheesh, maybe he shouldn’t have said that.

  But she watched him for a few seconds, and then she lightly set her hand on his chest. “Yes, we are.”

  He didn’t go right away, however. They snuggled together, checking the news and taking a few more minutes to savor each other’s warmth. Against all logic, the global crisis had stabilized. War no longer seemed imminent, or at least no more imminent than it normally was.

  Finally he got up and put on his clothing, watching her watch him. When he’d finished, he cupped her face. “I’ll see you at work?”

  “Yes.”

  He’d keep his hands off her at the statehouse, no problem. After all, he’d had a year’s worth of practice at that. But he wasn’t going to be able to keep the lust off his face, or the exhaustion and other souvenirs of their crazy, world-saving night. It just turned out the world they’d saved had been his.

  “And you’ll have dinner with me?” he asked.

  “Tonight or always?”

  “Both.”

  “In that case, of course.”

  And he was certain they would.

  THE END

  ALSO BY EMMA BARRY

  Fly Me to the Moon

  Star Dust (Book 1)

  Earth Bound (Book 2)

  Round Midnight (A Holiday Set)

  Star Crossed (Book 3)

  Free Fall (Book 4)

  A Midnight Feast (Book 5)

  The Easy Part

  Special Interests (Book 1)

  Private Politics (Book 2)

  Party Lines (Book 3)

  Standalone

  Sight Unseen

  Brave in Heart

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  This started as a plot bunny in the middle of April 2017. I told the story on Twitter, hoping to amuse friends in a stressful moment. I said at the time, “I’ll never write this book,” but with the help of Zoe York, Tamsen Parker, AJ Cousins, Dakota Gray, Stacey Agdern, Adriana Anders, and Jane Lee Blair, it snowballed into this project. Oops.

  I am always and forever grateful to my critique partner Genevieve Turner. She reads my bad drafts and explains the various ways in which I have erred. I couldn’t write or think without her. Also, she insisted I include the joke about tree jizz, so direct your “ew, gross” emails appropriately.

  Tamsen, Adriana, and Jane beta read the book and provided excellent notes. Kimberly Cannon edited it beautifully, and any remaining errors are mine.

  I wrote a fair chunk of this in the café at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts with Elisabeth Lane, who is an excellent sounding board and a wonderful baker.

  I send my love, as always, to my family, who give me hope.

  Finally, to everyone working in government for good, I appreciate your service.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Emma Barry is a novelist, full-time mama, and recovering academic. When she’s not reading or writing, she loves hugs from her twins, her husband’s cooking, her cat’s whiskers, her dog’s tail, and Earl Grey tea. You can find her on the web at authoremmabarry.com.

  TRUTH, LOVE AND SUSHI

  STACEY AGDERN

  ABOUT THIS BOOK

  When First Daughter Caroline Crosby finds herself in possession of the one document that can bring her father and his administration down, she turns to a real life social justice warrior for help. Max Wilcox isn't sure what to make of Caroline: is this an elaborate hookup or a political conspiracy? But he has to make up his mind fast because the information and their chemistry could change the world—or break their hearts.

  This story is dedicated to Elijah Raphael Harford Agdern. May you grow up in a world where the change we bring on by resistance is lasting and complete.

  ONE: MONDAY

  M ax Wilcox believed in the power of change, of making the world better. Which was why he’d always worked for organizations that lobbied the government instead of the government itself. He liked his tikkun olam free of government intervention, thank you very much.

  Sushi changed his mind. The best sushi he’d ever had in the District in an out of the way bistro that really shouldn’t have been open later than regular business hours. He’d crossed off the last items on his daily to do list, and arrived to discover it was still open. Small miracles and such.

  The place was an undiscovered country by the time he walked in, scattered businessmen and tourists having had way too much sake and not wanting to deal with the metro, and him.

  He waved to the hostess. She worked there often enough where seeing him there wasn’t a big deal. Yes, he worked for J Street; yes he was Jewish; and no he wasn’t kosher when it meant something. She didn’t even pause before giving him a menu and gesturing towards an open spot at the sushi bar.

  With purpose, he walked towards the open seat, sat down on the comfortable chair, and stared at the case in front of him. That was where the smart people sitting in front of the sushi bar looked, not at the menu. And maybe if they were lucky a…

  “Crab. Just in from the Chesapeake.”

  The master behind the counter grinned Max’s way, knowing he’d be all in. This was why he’d come to this place even if it ever moved to Maryland, horrible drivers or high water notwithstanding.

  “What about from Fulton?”

  The voice was nasal, and yet slightly familiar.

  He sighed, giving the sushi master a sympathetic look.

  “You said the crab came from Chesapeake,” the woman went on. “What do you have that came from the Fulton Fish Market?”

  He ran a hand through his hair, trying to dial down his frustration. Why anybody would come to a place in the District, demanding fish that was caught, purchased and sold in New York was beyond him. But he wasn�
��t going to snarl because he was tired. It wasn’t his place or his job. The last thing anybody wanted was some random Jewish dude mansplaining sushi.

  But just the same, he wanted to see what this woman looked like. Maybe he was a masochist; who knew. Maybe it was because he wanted to see the person who’d had the gall to insult the restaurant’s suppliers. So he turned, slightly. Just enough to see her.

  Her dark hair peeked out from under a baseball cap sporting the symbol of a hockey team he didn’t like. Olive skin, slim fingers on the counter, sunglasses perched on the counter next to long nails. A sweatshirt clean and grey, and legs that went for miles in a pair of jeans. She was trouble. She’d be trouble.

  “You’re staring.”

  He sighed. Drummed his fingers on the counter in front of him. “Wanted to know who needed fish from New York.”

  “Don’t trust DC salmon,” she replied. “I don’t think it’s good.”

  He raised an eyebrow. He’d been eating salmon in the District for a very long time, in multiple forms. At breakfasts at work and then at 6th and I. He didn’t say it though. He didn’t think she’d listen.

  “You think I’m crazy.”

  He reached out to take the offered crab and put it on his plate. “I think you’re mistaken. Wrong. Not crazy.”

  She smiled. And God help him, he liked the look of that smile.

  “I like that,” she said. “You’re honest.”

  He wondered what she was doing in this random sushi place, wondered why she was sitting there next to him on a late-night mission of personal gratification. Wondered what she looked like under the sweatshirt. And wondered who she was, why honesty was so important to her. Then he smiled back at her, before finishing his tea in one gulp.

  They ate in companionable silence for the rest of the night, finishing special after special before the owner gently informed him that it was time for the restaurant to close. It had dawned on him that she was the only other person there, and for some reason the owner hadn’t given her the information, but instead he’d let Max be the messenger boy.

  But this only crossed his mind only for the seconds he stood, taking out his credit card from the bottom of his wallet, removing a pen, and popping one of the tea candies they offered into his mouth.

  “So,” he said. “I—”

  “Next week?”

  He wondered what movie she’d walked out of, or possibly a fictional moment where sushi made strange food fellows. But she had familiar, haunted eyes and a great smile. He was a sucker for all of that, and a late night adventure with a beautiful woman seemed like the kind of distraction his life needed. Even though he spent his days fighting, his nights had become a picture of complacency.

  So for once, his answer wasn’t predictable. “Sure. Next week.”

  TWO: THE NEXT MONDAY

  C aroline hated a lot of things about Washington DC: the comparative current success of its hockey team, the annoying carpet on the bottom of the subway cars and the influence of people like her father in its suffocating world.

  Her choices had been taken away long before she’d known it was possible to make them. New Jersey instead of Maine, or Massachusetts; Rhode Island instead of California; Washington DC instead of Paris. Yeah, she was privileged, on multiple levels of course, and she acknowledged that, which was why she always spent more hours in the day at the small pre-school she’d chosen to ‘volunteer’ at under her grandmother’s maiden name.

  That was why nobody was able to find her. Not just because she was the misplaced daughter of a father she couldn’t stand. No, she actively tried to stay away from anybody who wanted to make her think about what her father was doing to the world at large. And when she did, she took the time to donate the money her stock portfolio gave her to families, to hospitals, and to schools.

  Now she was ready for bigger risks to mitigate the damage she knew was happening.

  Yes, of course, every once in a while, she indulged herself. Hence the sushi. Hence the moment she found herself eating right next to him. She knew exactly who he was, even if the world had moved on and forgotten. Max Wilcox. The one that had chosen a life in public service instead of the hockey career most everybody expected.

  Did he recognize her?

  Did she want him to?

  “Caro?”

  Deborah sounded worried, and rightfully so. She had put all the money she’d ever made or gotten and every single bit of her experience into the pre-school she’d founded. The last thing she needed was a volunteer who wasn’t completely focused during a planning meeting.

  The guilt hit Caroline hard when she saw the disappointment in her friend’s dark eyes. “Yes?”

  “You’re not listening to anything anybody’s been saying.”

  “I’m sorry, Deborah. I’m…”

  Deborah patted her on the shoulder. “Just focus on this, okay? It’s been difficult since the beginning of the year. We’re working on donors, and programs, but people aren’t as interested in this since…”

  Caroline sighed. Deborah didn’t even have to finish the sentence. The catalyzing event was her father’s appointment of Theresa DeCarlo as Secretary of Education. Aunt Theresa, her mother’s favorite sorority sister, was a snob whose guiding principle in life was to keep good education accessible to only the upper classes, or the ‘best people.’ Her very first act was to foster the creation of guidelines (not regulations, of course) that would limit the number of teachers allowed to teach in areas where the median income was under a certain amount. That was only the beginning of her ‘revolutionary’ plan, probably created over a seven-champagne bottle lunch.

  But Aunt Theresa wasn’t the only snob that had been appointed to a high-level cabinet position. The rest of her father’s appointees were like-minded snobs and racists interested in tearing the framework of the country apart. As a result, even people who had been the biggest supporters of Deborah’s mission to educate and provide a safe space for the kids who needed it the most were finding themselves unable to help as much as they had before.

  All Caroline could bring herself to say was, “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.” This time her friend was soothing as opposed to scolding. “So let’s get back to it. We’re…”

  As her friend resumed the meeting, continuing the discussion about the problems the small school was facing, Caroline found herself more set on the path towards overt resistance, doing something for everybody. But how? What?

  Maybe Max Wilcox could give her the guidance she needed. Maybe over more sushi….

  BEFORE HEADING TO DINNER, Caroline stopped off at her apartment, a tiny place on the Arlington/Alexandria border retrofitted for her. It was as far away from downtown as she could possibly get, with the closest thing to anonymity she could get—except with her baby sister.

  “Hi Jess,” she said as she walked in. “You okay?”

  Jess was rarely okay on the days she’d been scheduled to see their parents, but Caroline had to ask anyway.

  “I saw the pickle,” her baby sister said with as much teenage angst as she could possibly muster. “And the pickle is never amused.”

  Her parents should never have stayed together, and at least not had Jess after her father’s affair, but her mother and her father were two peas in a horrible pod. Luckily her older brother and her older sister were holding down the fort and the family reputation for stupidity.

  “What happened this time?” Caroline could tell from the cast of her sister’s features that something had happened.

  “So you know ‘the notebook’?”

  The rumor was that Sophia and Jason Crosby kept a black notebook between them. Supposedly, it documented everything: Jason’s innermost thoughts, Sophia’s infamous lists; and things that nobody would admit to in public, let alone write down in private. It had even become the subject of her father’s favorite gesture. A snap of his fingers, followed by a downward pointing index finger, indicating that whatever had been done constituted enough
of an offense that it would go in the notebook.

  Yet nobody had ever seen it.

  There were theories, of course. They ranged from the idea that the notebook was an empty threat, all the way to the fact that it wasn’t just ‘a notebook’ but a collection, filled then burned before anybody could get their hands on them.

  Caroline’s own pet theory was that the existence of this notebook, or collection thereof, was the only thing that kept their parent’s marriage together. Neither of them could withstand the exposure of the secrets it contained.

  But she nodded. “I know the notebook.”

  “They were whatevering and left me alone in their private office. There was a thick black notebook on the desk. I looked inside, realized what it was, and I took pictures of the whole thing. Copied all of it.”

  Her parents underestimated Jess, and Jess often took advantage of that. But the magnitude of what her sister had just done was almost unimaginable.

  “You—” Caroline managed, trying to get a handle on the situation and what her sister was planning to do about it. “I—gah!”

  “They were meeting someone,” Jess continued, partially oblivious in her very teenage way of things. “Like forgot I was there, so I scanned it, and recorded a few pictures ready to put it on Insta or Snapchat or whatever. I put it all onto a flash drive when I got home, three actually, but it’s just on my phone now….”

  “Don’t do anything yet,” Caroline managed, making an attempt to halt whatever plan her sister might possibly have had in store. “Please?”

  All her sister did was roll her eyes. “Oh I know. I figured it’d be safekeeping, you know, for when Mom and Dad did something worse than usual.”

  Worse than usual. Normal people didn’t describe ‘worse than usual’ as a day when blackmail threats turned into a global standstill.