“Oh, good Lord,” she breathed, shaking her head. “It’s come to this, has it?”
“Good morning. I’m Harley Laine from Channel Six Action News, and I’m assuming you’re Mildred Prescott?”
“The same.”
“I was wondering if you might have anything to offer, other than the neighbor’s yard is noisy and smells like feces? That was her stated complaint, and I certainly can’t argue with those two issues.”
“Are you going to be taping this? If so, can I at least put on some makeup first?”
“Spoken like a sane person,” Harley stated with a laugh. “Sure, we’ll wait.”
Mildred walked back inside, and Harley cautiously lowered herself to the porch and dared a glance at the bottom of her shoes. Snapping a quick picture, she sent it to Mitch: Thanks for the lesson, but next time, an actual stench-hole is not necessary.
“Don’t think I could live here, man,” Kenny said, glancing back across the street. “That’s just plain gross over there.”
“Ya think?”
“Careful, you’re slipping out of your careful reporter speak.”
“Oh, shut up, Kenny. I have poop on my shoes. Surely that deserves a bit of a reprieve from being poised and polished. How is one supposed to be professional and unaffected when she’s standing in fecal matter? That is a question I’d like to pose to Barbara Walters.”
“Meh, she wouldn’t stand in it. She’d throw a fit.”
She probably would throw a fit. Oh, to be at the stage in my career where I could throw a fit and get away with it!
“Sorry about that,” Mildred stated, returning to the porch. Kenny reached a hand out to haul Harley to her feet, and she turned toward her hostess.
“Mildred, can you give me your side of the story regarding these chickens?”
“Most certainly,” she stated, appearing completely reserved and professional. “The homeowner’s association clearly has a rule that states that no animals are allowed in the neighborhood besides dogs, cats, and inside pets. No horses, no goats, and no chickens. The Tuttles don’t have a couple chickens—they have well over thirty. Does the smell bother me? Of course. Anyone who moves into the neighborhood and utilizes manure as a yard fertilizer would be a bit of a nuisance, but the Tuttles’ complaint is not with me. Their complaint is with the homeowner’s association, in violation of the agreement they signed when they purchased the home.”
“Are there other members of the association that would attest to that?”
“Councilwoman Stewart is a part of our association. She would confirm our complaints, I’m certain.”
“Very good. Thank you, ma’am, for your time. You don’t need to worry about the story. I’m not sure what she’s trying to prove, but she doesn’t have much to stand on here.”
“No, she doesn’t. Thank you, young lady. You’re my favorite reporter—you always have the cutesy little sayings that you throw in before the stories. I bet you’ll do one on this, won’t you?”
“Already done,” Kenny tossed out.
“It’s been a pleasure,” Harley stated, shaking the woman’s hand before stepping back to the van. Looking down at her phone, she caught a glimpse of Mitch’s reply:
Drama, drama. Hope you got the story.
“Boring story, Harley. You made it sound good in the lead-up, but there’s nothing there.” Mitch flipped the video off and stared at the feisty young reporter across his desk.
“What do you want me to do, disparage the poor neighbor? That place smelled to high heaven. The woman had the bird feces spread all over her yard like fertilizer.”
“I know, I saw the shoe.” Chuckling, he crossed his arms over his protruding stomach. “Make the lady look crazy, then. Whatever works.”
“What’s your angle? You gunning against that councilwoman or something? Or trying to protect her?”
“Always so skeptical,” Mitch muttered, grabbing a handful of peanuts from a glass jar on his desk. “No angle, just wanted to send you after the chickens. Now get out of here.”
“That’s cruel,” she stated, pointing a finger at him accusingly. When all he did was grin, she rose and walked out into the hall. Passing the first office, she slipped by Summer standing in the doorway discussing a story with one of the producers. Harley knew Summer’s form well—two inches taller, twenty pounds heavier, blonde hair cut into a bob that slid around her chin like two hands gently cradling her cheeks. Every day she wore a camisole covered by a blazer along with a pair of slacks—gray, brown, or black.
Summer’s star was fading, and Harley could tell, but she was still the one with poop on her shoe. Summer would never be sent to do such a ridiculous story.
“Harley, got a sec?” Denton’s voice broke into her thoughts. She paused in the hallway, taking two steps backwards.
“What’s up?” she wondered as she stopped in his doorway, and he waved his hand for her to step inside.
“How’s Kit?” Denton leaned back in his chair and placed his hands behind his neck, giving her a teasing grin. He was so quintessentially news anchor material, with his polished look and his handsome guy-next-door face. Sandy blond hair, light green eyes, always buttoned up and professional with a tie around his neck.
“His name is Kip, but to you he’s Christopher,” Harley told him with a sly grin. “He’s perfectly fine, by the way. Thank you for asking.”
“You practically have to be a Senator’s son, with a name like Kip. His parents certainly labeled him well.”
“As though you have room to talk, Denton Price. Your parents practically groomed you for the anchor desk the minute they gave you that moniker.”
“And what about you, Harley Laine? You were certainly destined for the spotlight. Maybe not on the evening news, that name sounds more adult film industry—”
“Shut up, Denton. Did you call me in here to insult me?”
“Would I do that?” He gave her a winning smile and motioned for her to sit, which she did reluctantly. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“I have plans,” she said simply.
“Kip plans?”
“As a matter of fact, yes. And please don’t call him Kip. I have a feeling he would be perturbed if he knew I called him that here.”
“No worries. I don’t plan on calling him. I might call you, though.”
“I won’t be home, Denton,” she told him again, rising from her seat.
“I might call anyway.”
Pausing in the doorway, she gave him a flirty glance over her shoulder. “Get me the desk, and I might answer.”
C hapter Three
Christopher Stanton knocked on the door promptly at 6:00, just as promised, and Harley swung the door open enthusiastically.
“Good evening, Kip,” she said formally with a smile tugging at her lips.
“Good evening, Miss Laine. Are you slumming tonight? What gives with the outfit?”
Looking down, Harley took in her Rock Revival jeans, fitted black blazer over a sequined black tank, and open-toed booties. “Am I inappropriate?” It seemed like such a ridiculous question, but Kip seemed to be giving her a bit of a glare. His eyes were most definitely narrowed, and he wasn’t grinning to hint of a teasing tone.
“I’m taking you to the club. Maybe a skirt?”
She instantly bristled, but attempted to remain breezy.
“Yeah, okay, I’ll be right back down.”
Disappearing through the doorway, she headed up the steps, tiptoeing in her boots so she wouldn’t clomp on the wood. The club. She didn’t even have to immerse herself in the Stanton world to know what it felt like—all political and posturing and putting the best foot forward. Apparently that foot could not go forward wearing jeans at the club.
As she slid the jeans down over her hips and grabbed a white skirt from a nearby rack, Harley glanced at the full length mirror and stuck her tongue out at her reflection. Stupid club. It would be really nice if Kip would take her on a real date for once, in
stead of forcing her to visit with his dad’s stodgy business acquaintances. Still, networking could be good for her, and knowing a Senator’s son could prove invaluable in the long run.
Giving herself a long glance in the mirror, she switched her shoes for some simple black pumps and sighed. Another Friday night of pretending, but she was dressed for the life she wanted, right? Something like that, anyway.
Heading back down the stairs, she pushed the door open at the bottom and emerged to find Kip standing there, patiently waiting in his standard gray suit and blue tie. She tried to remember if she had ever seen him in anything other than a suit, and couldn’t recall a single instance.
“Better?” she wondered cautiously.
“You’re a vision of perfection,” he indicated, stepping forward to gently brush his lips against her cheek. “Shall we?”
Harley allowed him to lead her out onto the porch and in the direction of his Cadillac Escalade, which was parked next to her BMW. He opened the door for her to step inside, and she pulled herself up into the vehicle. Daring a slight glance at him as he opened his own door, she gave a quick smile. Kip wasn’t what she would call dazzlingly handsome, but he was definitely passable and distinguished. He possessed very fair skin, which caused his caramel brown eyes to stand out more than they probably would otherwise. His nose was slightly crooked, but not to the point that it was distracting. He was pleasant and well-versed in current events, so there was usually easy conversation.
So why did dating him feel like an extended job interview?
Brushing the thought aside, she peered out the windshield to the front of her home and smoothed the skirt across her knees.
“I saw your piece about the chickens, darling. Riveting stuff.”
Harley wrinkled her nose, not particularly about the chickens, but more in response to the affectionate phrase. Kip’s habit of calling her darling was beyond annoying.
“Oh? Riveting, Mr. Stanton? Pray tell what you found so riveting about poultry.”
Glancing over his right shoulder as he backed out of the driveway, he offered just enough of a pause that Harley knew he would be teasing her.
“Poultry I could not care less about, to be honest, but you looked stunning in that black dress you had on, going on about fowl and having something to crow about. While I was watching you, I thought, ‘Now there’s a woman I can feel proud to have by my side.’”
“Well then, I suppose one good thing came out of that chicken nightmare, although I’m sure I’ll have a hefty cleaning bill for getting all the dog hair off that black dress.”
He laughed—a slight, reserved laugh, but she supposed it was all she could expect from the buttoned-up Christopher Stanton. The only thing that ever surprised her about him was that he allowed her to call him Kip, but she suspected he wouldn’t have done even that if she hadn’t heard his mother use the nickname first.
On the way to the club, he regaled her with tales from his past week of practicing law, which included two business deals gone awry that admittedly could not hold her interest past the first couple sentences. She didn’t find his profession boring, to be truthful, but she absolutely found his manner of relating the relevant facts less than interesting. It was like picking up a much-hyped audiobook only to find the narrative was all given in monotone.
Staring at the passenger window, Harley gazed into her own eyes, raising them to accentuate her own little private joke.
Can you believe he’s droning on and on about business law?
Come on, let’s pop open the door and hop out into the street.
“That is the important thing, don’t you think, darling?”
Raised from her stupor, she turned her eyes back to her companion. “Oh, of course. Certainly.” He sounded like he wanted her to agree with whatever it was, and surely he hadn’t proposed anything too ridiculous.
“You seem slightly distracted tonight. Not mulling over an ambush of city leaders or anything, I hope.”
“Would that be so terrible?” she suggested, knowing full well that he absolutely would think it was terrible.
“I like that you’re driven, but I do hope you’ll tone it down for a bit. Especially after tonight.”
Her first instinct was to be annoyed at being ordered to “tone it down,” but his cryptic mention of the evening’s future piqued her interest.
“What’s happening tonight?”
“You’ll see,” he stated, reaching over and placing his hand atop hers against her knee. “I think you’ll be pleasantly surprised.”
“Harley, dear, when are they going to give you a nice studio job at that station, instead of sending you out after ridiculous stories?” Mrs. Stanton asked, fake kissing Harley on one cheek and then the other. As the elder woman grabbed Harley’s wrist, it took every ounce of strength the younger woman could muster not to gawk at the gaudy new diamond on the woman’s right hand. “It’s just such a waste, my darling, when they could have you doing the real news stories. Covering politics and such—that should be your focus instead of chasing frivolities across the city.”
She happened to wave her hand in front of Harley’s face at that precise moment, mentioning frivolities as the ring danced in front of her eyes.
“From your lips to God’s ears, Mrs. Stanton,” Harley answered politely, offering a pageant-approved smile. “Perhaps if Senator Stanton put in a good word for me, I’d make some headway.”
“If he were around for five minutes at a time to do so…” she trailed off, glancing around the large room for her husband. “Thank heavens Frankfurt’s not too far from Louisville, or I might never see the man.”
Harley pretended to laugh as she scanned the room herself, not seeing Senator Stanton or his lookalike offspring. Instead, they were interrupted by a couple of Mrs. Stanton’s acquaintances, and the night took to idle prattle.
Thirty-five minutes later, when the two couples finally settled down to dinner, Harley had barely taken a sip of her sparkling water when Kip’s fork tapped delicately on the side of his wine glass, a small smile appearing on his face.
“Mother, Father, Harley,” he began, “I have an announcement. I’ve been doing some serious thinking about my future, and I’ve come to a conclusion about possibly the biggest decision I’ll have to make in my life.” Her breath caught in her throat as Harley realized she sincerely hoped he wasn’t talking about her. “I’m thirty-two years old, and I’m not getting any younger. There just comes a time when you have to go after your dreams, and not hold anything back.” For some reason, Harley’s mind shot back to the gaudy diamond she saw just a while before, and her blood nearly froze in her veins. Afraid to look at Kip, she stared at her plate. “That’s why I want to share this moment with you three, who I care most about. I’ve decided to enter the election for the U.S. House of Representatives.”
Oh, thank God.
Realizing she was nearly prepared to hyperventilate, Harley grabbed her water and took a cautious sip as the Stantons congratulated their son on his wise decision. If she needed any realizations about her relationship with Kip, the fact that hearing him talk about his life’s goals sent her into a near panic might have been a wake-up call. Nearly trembling, she placed the glass back on the table.
“What do you think, Harley?” Kip looked at her expectantly, so she swallowed and reminded herself to choose her words carefully.
“Of course I think it’s wonderful, and you’ll do well.”
“You won’t mind being thrust into the public eye with me? I would imagine Mitch would keep you well away from political stories, so there wouldn’t seem to be a conflict of interest.”
No! I’ll be relegated to chickens forever.
“Maybe Harley should leave reporting entirely,” Senator Stanton piped up. “You’d be great as a lobbyist, young lady. I’d be happy to make some contacts for you.”
“Thank you, Senator, but I’m sure some arrangements can be made.” Schmoozing patrons of the club was bad enough—she c
ouldn’t imagine having to sit around with fake politicians for a living. The mere thought made her want to go running into the hills.
“We’ll discuss it later,” Kip insisted, placing his arm around her shoulders, his hand resting limply against her back.
“Of course, there will be plenty of time for that,” Senator Stanton agreed. “If you all will excuse me, I have some business to take care of.”
“As do I,” Mrs. Stanton added, rising from her chair. “Do enjoy the rest of your dinner, you two.”
Harley barely noticed their retreat, because she was imagining the next year of her life: Fundraising dinners, press conferences, public forums. She would be forced to stand on the sidelines, politely nodding and keeping her mouth shut. What if Kip said something ridiculous? She would just have to pretend that she agreed.
And she hadn’t even given any thought to being Lady Stanton—Kip was simply a diversion who allowed her to press her own flesh in the game of high-powered politics. She wanted to report on the races, not be involved in them. If he wanted her to be by his side, he obviously had long-term plans that involved her. He wouldn’t want to appear at his speaking engagements with a woman he was casually dating.
What if he believed something that was totally against her beliefs? Something she was passionate about?
Was she even passionate about anything, other than getting her foot in a door? Any door?
And the occasional fantastic fashion score?
“What ticket?” she asked cautiously.
“Ticket? What do you mean?” He withdrew his arm and reached for his wine glass.
“I mean, are you running as a Republican? Democrat? Independent? Libertarian? For the Green Party? Constitution Party? Communist? Anarchist?”
“Very funny,” he told her with a smirk. “Republican, naturally.”
“Because you agree with Republican principles? What’s your platform? What are your fundamental beliefs?”
“Fundamental beliefs,” he repeated in a mocking tone. “My fundamental belief is that Kentucky is a predominantly red state, so if I want to get elected, I’m presenting myself as a Republican. Take off your reporter hat for the evening, would you?”
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