Misconduct

Two days later and I was still thinking about her. What the hell was wrong with me? The luncheon was the day after tomorrow, and I couldn’t wait. I hoped she wasn’t going to chicken out, because it would throw off my entire fucking day.

I pulled back the pen, noticing I’d been retracing notes I’d already made as I sat at the head of the conference table, vaguely aware of Stevenson, one of my vice presidents, updating everyone on distribution figures from the last quarter.

I wasn’t even listening.

Every time I sat still, my head would drift back to her. Her body, her lips, her hunger . . . She was driving me crazy, and I knew right then and there that I hadn’t lied to her.

I might actually have a crush.

And I dropped the pen to the table, knowing that was the last thing I needed.

Easton Bradbury was beautiful, educated, and strong. She was built for challenges. But she was also complicated, difficult, and moody. She wouldn’t make friends easily.

Even if she weren’t my son’s teacher—even if I weren’t about to enter a campaign, knowing that going public with a love interest could put me further under the microscope—Easton could still fuck me up.

Damaged people were survivors, and they survived because they always put themselves first. Self-preservation demanded it.

I didn’t like realizing I might not be the first one to walk away.

I had to enjoy her for what she was and not let her mean more than that. She was fun company, good in bed, and a welcome distraction when I had time for one. And I had every confidence I was the same for her.

Other than that, she needed to be pushed out of my head.

I came back, refocusing on the table in front of me. “All right,” I said, cutting off Stevenson midsentence. “Everyone go to lunch. We’ll continue this later.”

I didn’t wait to see if anyone had any questions before I got up and moved back into the main office to continue the work that was doubling before me, no matter how many hours I spent at it.

Everyone slowly drifted out while I got on the computer and started reviewing messages from Corinne.

There was a stockholders’ meeting in the evening, but I was going to send Jay in my place, and some new contracts to delegate to regional vice presidents.

Jay was right. I couldn’t handle everything myself. With the campaign—and the Senate, if I won—I was going to have to learn how to hand off more work to others.

Then I looked around, seeing that my brother had left the meeting. Picking up my phone, I speed-dialed him.

But Corinne walked in. “Mr. Marek? Ms. McAuliffe is here to see you,” she said.

“Five minutes,” I commanded.

She nodded, knowing that it was her job to come in and scurry out whoever I needed gone, so I could get on with my day.

Corinne walked out, and Jay picked up his phone.

“You just told us to go to lunch,” he pointed out, knowing I needed him back here.

“Not you,” I shot back. “I want to be out of here by four, so get back in here.”

“Four?” he blurted out, but I hung up the phone without responding.

I never left the office that early, and he knew it. But slowly I’d started to try to manage my time better. I could take a break, eat dinner with Christian, and then work in my home office while he went to his room to do homework or over to a friend’s house.

I began clicking on the messages on my computer when I saw Tessa stroll in, a casual smile brightening her face and her beige suit jacket and handbag hanging in her hand.

She was dressed in a burgundy blouse and a beige pencil skirt, and as usual, she had a relaxed sway to her hips and determination in her steps, as if she were always comfortable, no matter the room or the company.

Such a contrast to Easton’s stiff posture and the black curtain that seemed to hang over her eyes.

I don’t want anyone else to have it while we’re doing this, okay?

I inhaled a deep breath and hardened my jaw.

“Close the door,” Tessa instructed Corinne a few feet behind her, turning her head only enough to be understood but not enough to see her.

Corinne shut the door, and Tessa tossed her things onto one of the chairs opposite my desk.

She smiled. “I thought you were away on business,” she said sweetly, but I knew she was scolding. “Or perhaps detained with no way to communicate.” She circled the desk, making her way to me. “Or maybe you lost my number and, knowing how anti–social media you are, you didn’t think to tweet.”

Twitter? Was she kidding?

Tessa and I were never the type to check in with each other, and while I knew she was playing it cool, it was unlike her to show up at my office without calling.

Or put herself on my side of the desk, interrupting my day. That was what I liked—or did like—about Tessa. She respected our careers, and she didn’t get territorial.

Not like Easton. I started to smile at the thought of her but stopped myself.

“Tessa—”

“I’m seeing someone?” she interrupted, finishing for me. “Is that what you’re going to say?”

I sat down, watching her as I ran my finger over my lips. I knew what was coming.

She looked at me, all business, calm and levelheaded. “Here’s the thing, Tyler.” She sat down on the edge of my desk, crossing one leg over the other. “I don’t care. Her, me . . .” She shrugged. “You get two for the price of one. Which works for me, because I don’t want anything more anyway.”

And then she leaned in, running a finger down my light blue tie. “But I don’t want to lose what I already have,” she clarified.

I looked up into her eyes, wondering why she was really here. A few months ago she’d insisted on having our lunch date in my office, but we’d never eaten. She’d walked in, pulled up her skirt, and straddled me in my chair.

And while I’d enjoyed it, I was simply wondering now if the five minutes I’d told Corinne to give us were up yet.

I let out a breath and cocked my head. “You haven’t been waiting around for me to call,” I challenged.

“No,” she allowed, pulling back with a smile. “But I would’ve canceled any plans I’d made if you had.”

I grinned, appreciating her candor. She was useful, and I’d rather keep her on my side if I could. We’d enjoyed each other, and there was mutual respect for the other’s position and connections in the city.

But the thing was . . . I’d never craved her.

And I no longer wanted her.

It’s not that I was callous or that I thought women were disposable. I only involved myself with women who knew the score and wanted the same thing as me.

Easy fun.

Now everything felt different.

Because of Easton.

Her sharp tongue spouted words that cut, but it also tasted like a cool lake on a hot day.

I remembered her whispers in my ear, waking me up Wednesday morning before she slipped a leg over my stomach and climbed on.

I inhaled a sharp breath, refocusing on the current situation.

“It turns out,” I confided, “maybe I do want to complicate my life a little.”

Her eyes widened, and she smiled big. “Dish,” she demanded.

I let out a bitter laugh. “Not a chance.”

“It’s off the record,” she assured me, holding up her hands in innocence.

“You’re never off the record.”

“Oh, come on.” She waved a hand at me. “You’re bound to take her to dinner sometime. The press would kill to see someone unknown on your arm. You can’t hide her away forever.”

That’s exactly what I wanted to do. If anyone found out, we’d be done, and I wasn’t ready.

I let out a sigh. “I can do whatever I want,” I replied, aware I sounded a little cocky.

She pursed her lips in a plotting smile. “I’m intrigued.”

“But not disappointed, I see,” I shot back.

“Psh.” She laughed and hopped off my desk. “I would be disappointed if I thought it would last.”

I narrowed my eyes, watching her walk back around the desk to the chair and pick up her jacket and handbag.

She cocked her head, looking coy. “But you, Tyler, are a bachelor for life,” she asserted. “I only hope you marry her. It’ll make our little interludes all the more fun.”

And with a confident smirk, she spun around and walked for the door, calling one last time over her shoulder, “You’ll call me when you’re done with your shiny new toy?” But she didn’t wait for an answer.

Swinging the door open, she disappeared, and I let my eyes fall closed as I pinched the bridge of my nose. I wasn’t quite sure if there was a man alive in this city who could match that woman’s set of balls.

“Jesus Christ,” I breathed out.

“Well, that was quick.”

I looked up to see my brother strolling back in, his attention half on me and half on his phone.

“She’d make a good politician’s wife,” he hinted. “No matter what, she always looks cheerful.”

I cocked an eyebrow and stood up, getting ready to sort through what I needed him to handle today.

Cheerful. And then I snorted, thinking how much that word and Easton would never go hand in hand.

My phone buzzed, and I immediately stopped, reaching into my top drawer for it.

Since Easton’s little lesson to all of my VPs the other day, I’d set out to prove her wrong by leaving my phone out of reach at certain times. There was no such thing as an information addiction. It was simply an excuse so she could manage attention in an easier way.

But when I saw a text from her, liquid heat rushed in my veins, and I couldn’t possibly ignore her like I did others when I was busy.

How many politicians does it take to change a lightbulb? she’d texted.

How many?

Two, she answered. One to change it, and one to change it back.

I laughed, causing Jay to peer up from his phone with an inquiring look.

Tweet that, she ordered.

I shook my head but did it anyway.

“What are you doing?” Jay pried as I clicked on my Twitter app and began typing.

“Tweeting,” I said in a low voice.

“Oh,” he said, sounding surprised. “Good. Your breakfast tweet earlier this week was exactly what I’ve been talking about. People eat that shit up.”

I finished the tweet, tossed my phone down on a pile of folders at the edge of my desk, and ran my hand through my hair.

“I need you to make sure Corinne has everything set up for the luncheon,” I told him, “and can you set up a conference call with Mexico City for one o’clock today?” I asked but didn’t wait for an answer as I grabbed a sheet from the printer, handing it to him. “Also, here’s the speech for the veterans benefit. I made some changes, so just look it over for me.”

I sat back down, straightening my tie and grabbing the remote. I turned on the TVs on the wall, a barrage of news stations coming to life and their chatter filling the room as I turned to my computer and jumped online.

Trying to organize my day to allow for more time for Christian was kicking my ass.

“Are you okay?” Jay asked.

“Where the hell are those deeds to that land in California?” I barked, ignoring him as I scanned my e-mails.

The lawyer was supposed to scan them and send them over, so we could get on the land, and I knew there were at least fifteen other fucking things I was forgetting to do.

“Corinne, get in here!” I shouted.

“All right, I’m outta here. I’ll take care of this,” I heard him say, holding up the speech I’d run through last night. “Is Tessa coming to the luncheon?”

“Yes, of course,” I answered. “She’s influential, isn’t she?”

“And Ms. Bradbury?”

I stopped, looking up at him and sitting back in my seat. How the hell did he know?

He smirked, shaking his head at me. “Give me a break, Tyler,” he scolded. “It was pretty clear you weren’t the one taking that picture of your breakfast, and judging by the sparks in your office last Saturday . . .”

He stood there, probably waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t.

Jay was younger, but I knew he never took it to heart that I was the boss. He liked working here and working with someone who took his bullshit.

Working together had never been a problem. Until now.

An average assistant would know their boundaries. A brother had none.

“Look,” he started, “I’m not saying you can’t—”

“That’s right.” I cut him off, nodding. “You’re not telling me anything.”

I let his expertise drive the invitations I accepted, the platform I created, as well as guide my campaign, but I would keep Easton separate.

It wasn’t that my brother didn’t have a right to ask. I just didn’t care to hear what I knew he would say.

“Tessa McAuliffe is our business,” I clarified. “Whoever I fuck is mine.”

—

I’d gathered in my short and limited experience as a father that being a parent was like tossing marbles up into the air and seeing how many would land in a shot glass.

I’d read enough and seen enough to know that kids could grow up in the worst hell and become valedictorians and doctors. Or they could be raised in privilege with two parents and Christmas trees stocked with gifts and still die of overdoses or by suicide.

One irrefutable fact about parenting that I knew even before I was one was that there was no “right” way. No set list of proven methods to follow if you wanted your kid to captain a submarine or conduct orchestras or be president.

If you pushed them to succeed, they could resent you. If you didn’t push them enough, they could still resent you. If you gave them what they needed, they would complain about not having what they wanted, and if you gave them what they wanted, they may only want more.

How much was too much? How much was too little? How hard should you push to be able to call it encouragement, because if you pushed too hard, they’d call it bad parenting?

How do they know that you love them? How do you know if they love you?

How do you know if they’re going to be okay?

I stared out the car window, watching Christian talking to a couple of girls, and there was an ocean of regret for the years I’d missed. I could tell myself that he’d turned out well. Maybe if I had been in his life, he wouldn’t have become this strong or confident, but I knew I was making excuses. I should’ve been there.

Easton stood at the bottom of the stone steps, smiling as she talked to a parent, her arms crossed. The students had just gotten out of school, and although Patrick usually picked Christian up, I’d decided to be here as well. I’d worked through lunch, even stopping Corinne from ordering food, so I didn’t waste time eating. I still had a few loose ends to tie up for the day, but I could get to that after Christian and I had dinner.

“Patrick?” I leaned forward and handed him a small black bag. “Would you please take this to Miss Bradbury?” I told him. “And hurry Christian up, please.”

“Yes, sir.” He reached around and took the bag, then hopped out of the car, leaving me alone.

I watched as he traipsed over to Easton, interrupting her conversation. Politely, I was sure, knowing Patrick.

She smiled at him, and the parent waved goodbye to her as she took the bag Patrick offered. Her face was a mixture of surprise and something else I couldn’t place. Curiosity, maybe?

She knew Patrick, so she had to know it was from me. He bowed his head quickly, saying goodbye, and she dipped her head, peering into the bag.

I watched her, my heart starting to beat faster, and I had to remind myself that I’d see her Sunday.

She slipped her hand into the bag and picked out the small box. Opening it up, she plucked out the smoky gray Lamborghini lighter I’d stopped to buy on the way here.

Her eyebrows pinched together as she cocked her head, studying it. I almost laughed, because she looked intrigued but utterly confused. Easton, I already knew, wasn’t a woman who liked to be caught off guard, and I enjoyed gaining the upper hand this once.

She pushed the button and jerked a little, breaking out in a smile as the flame appeared. Reaching back into the bag, she plucked out the small white card and read my message.

Don’t set any fires without me, it read.

She smiled to herself, the genuine kind of smile she always tried to hide. I knew if I were next to her I’d be able to see her blush.

Finally looking up, she met my eyes, and I saw the need there that I was hard-pressed to ignore as well.

The car door opened and Christian appeared, climbing in and dropping his bag before he sat down. When I looked back, Easton was just disappearing back into the school.

I loosened my tie and set my phone down on the console. “How was your day?” I asked.

“Fine,” he responded.

Yes. Fine.

Okay, yes, no, maybe, whatever . . . His usual responses.

“Was that Sarah Richmond you were talking to?” I inquired. “Clyde Richmond’s daughter?”

He took out his phone and started scrolling with his thumb. “Yeah, I guess.”

“I talked to your mother today.” I crossed my legs, resting my ankle over the top of my other knee. “She would like you to go to Egypt for Christmas to spend some time with her.”

I didn’t want him to go. My father and his wife were planning a huge party, and Christian could get to know my side of the family better, not to mention that I’d never spent a Christmas with him.

But he sat there, focused on his phone, and nodded absently. “Yeah, whatever,” he mumbled.

I shook my head.

Picking up my phone, I texted him. Right there, two feet away from me, because he wouldn’t talk to me, so I had to text my kid to have a fucking conversation with him.

I would rather you stay. I clicked Send.

I heard his phone beep and watched his lips tighten when he saw it was from me. He started to look up but stopped, instead typing out a response, I assumed.

I don’t like you, he texted back.

I stared at it, hating those words and feeling my chest tighten like a rubber band was wrapping around my heart.

I know, I responded.

His phone beeped, and he hesitated, looking like he was wondering if he wanted to continue the conversation.

But he did.

You piss me off, he admitted.

I nodded as I typed. I do that to a lot of people.

I’m not a lot of people, he shot back immediately.

I paused, feeling guilty that I’d made him think he was no more important than anyone else in my life.

I know, I agreed.

He started typing, and I waited, but when he kept going and I hadn’t received a text, I stilled just as much out of gratitude as out of fear.

I was afraid he had more to say that would be hard to hear, but I was also elated that he was talking to me. Albeit texting, but it was still communication, and it was about as much open dialogue as we’d had since he’d moved in.

Patrick turned onto St. Charles and headed east toward the CBD when my phone buzzed.

I opened Christian’s message.

I used to see you on TV or in the newspaper, he wrote. You had time for everyone but me. I used to wonder what was wrong with me, and then I realized that you were just an asshole.

I gritted my teeth as I held the phone and tried to figure out what I was going to say to him. He was right, after all. There was no excuse and no reason good enough.

And I’d known this was coming.

Come on, Tyler. You’ve had fourteen years to figure out how to make this up to him. You got nothing?

My phone buzzed again.

You’re an asshole.

I texted quickly. I know.

A huge asshole! he shot back.

I know, I replied again.

That was all I could do.

He was right, and if I didn’t stay calm, I’d push him farther away.

And I’m sick of this jazz shit! he texted.

I forced away the smile that pulled at my lips. Patrick kept the music light—with no lyrics—per my request, since I often made phone calls or worked on my laptop in the car.

I texted back. What kind of music do you like to listen to?

Rock.

I licked my lips and looked up, calling out to Patrick.

“Patrick, could you put on a rock station, please?” I asked.

Without answering, he began spinning the dial in search of a different station. Finally, once he settled on a tune that sounded angry and talked about “home,” I leaned back in my seat and took the opportunity to push Christian further. He was talking to me—or yelling—but we still hadn’t accomplished anything.

We’ve got a party on Sunday, I texted. You could invite friends.

His phone beeped, and I glanced over out of the corner of my eye to see his eyebrows furrowed. Finally, he started typing.

I don’t want to go to a party.

I continued. Food, music, swimming . . . You and your friends can enjoy the pool before it gets cold.

He sat there, staring at the text and wiggling his thumbs over the screen, looking like he wasn’t sure how to answer. He hadn’t said no, so I sent another text before he found a way to say no.

I invited Clyde Richmond. His daughter may come. I hoped like hell that enticed him.

The luncheon was for business, but families and significant others were coming. Some bridges needed to be built, but it was supposed to be a relaxed occasion, as well. If Christian liked the girl, as he appeared to—and he had the safety of his friends—maybe he’d brave it.

He began typing, but it was a while before I got another text.

I invited a few people, he wrote.

My jaw ached with a smile, and I looked out the window, letting out a breath. He must’ve sent a mass text to his friends. He was giving me a shot, at least.

I had one foot in the door.

“Are we going home, sir?” Patrick’s voice came drifting back.

And I blinked, realizing I hadn’t told him where we were going.

“Ah, Commander’s Palace,” I told him. I was starving.

“Not again,” Christian blurted out, startling me.

I twisted my head to see him scowling.

And I laughed to myself, because I liked it. Give me anger. Give me annoyance. Just give me something.

I raised my eyebrows in expectation and waved my hand, inviting him to reissue the order to Patrick.

“Camellia Grill,” he told Patrick.

And I slipped my phone into my breast pocket, hoping I wouldn’t need it at dinner.