Page 33 of Her Wild Coast Promise

“I have lighted a vest you can borrow,” he adds, as if this is the reason for my hesitation.

“Perfect!” I call back.

“See you at five thirty.”

I feign a smile and he continues down the stairs. Only when he’s disappeared from sight do I release a withering sigh.

It takes everything I have not to fall onto the bed and wrap the cozy comforter around me. Five thirty will be here before I’m ready—I should get to bed as soon as possible.

But there’s work to do.

I wake justpast one in the morning with my face glued to my open notebook, thanks to the puddle of drool I’ve deposited. With a snort, I bolt upright and blink at the unfamiliar surroundings. Right, I’m in Alaska, in Seth’s home, working on his campaign. While stretching out my tweaked neck, I review where I left off: my rough T-chart of Seth and Peyton Reece’s top qualities.

Peyton is squeaky clean. I was able to dig up her high school yearbook online. She was not only president of the debate club, valedictorian, ASB treasurer, and a cheerleader, she played select soccer and volunteered at the food bank every Saturday. She graduated from Columbia in History and completed her law credentials in record time and has been a star in the D.A.’s office since she was hired as an intern six years ago.

She’s also from a major political pedigree. Her father heads a private committee of businessmen in Alaska that works closely with the Alaska Commerce Commissioner. He’s also likely Peyton’s funding source—their family is extremely wealthy thanks to Nickerson Oil & Gas, one of his many companies. Peyton’s grandfather was State Treasurer and her mother, also an attorney, was active in the schools at the state level before she passed away when Peyton was ten.

Peyton is also extremely pretty. Long dark hair. Sharp brown eyes that beg for my trust. On her campaign website, she’s dressed in a navy-blue suit with a crisp white shirt beneath, her hair slicked back in a bun. It’s a no-nonsense, I-kick-ass pose, but there’s a hint of warmth in her expression that is hard to turn away from.

The idea that Seth broke things off with her because of me—even though nothing happened between us at Noah’s wedding—is both troubling and intriguing.

Troubling because Seth and I have no future beyond friendship. Intriguing because something big must have been missing if Seth needed to break things off after a weekend of harmless flirting and companionship with me.

But at least I now have Seth’s campaign slogan: Experience Matters. I’ll need a lot more than that to beat Peyton Reece, but it’s a good start.

With a yawn, I rise and shuffle down the dark hall to my room. I suffer through a fleeting fantasy that he’s what woke me by lifting me in his arms so he can carry me off to bed. He would lay me down, undress me, then take his time warming me up.

It’s a nice dream, but once I’m in bed, I can’t shut down my rampant thoughts. So I close my eyes and try not to squirm, but my body betrays me.

I’m tempted to dig out my vibrator, which Libby insisted I pack even though I thought it was a bad idea. But the house is so quiet I’m afraid the sound might carry.

I giggle to myself under the covers, then realize how dire this situation could become.

This is going to be the longest two months of my life.

ChapterNine

CORA

“Sleep okay?”Seth asks as I descend the stairs still rubbing sleep from my eyes.

“Yes,” I lie.

Rosie dances around my feet, her tail wagging, letting out a littlerawrto get my attention.

“Hi, Rosie.” I sit on the last step to tighten my laces. Rosie takes advantage of my lower elevation to go to town on my face.

“Rosie, off,” Seth commands as I dodge.

Immediately Rosie sits, but her butt wiggle is making the floor vibrate.

Seth sips from a mug. “There’s coffee if you need it.”

“When we get back,” I say. “Thank you.”

With a nod, he carries his mug in the kitchen. I sneak a glance at his backside, then wish I hadn’t.

Of course he’s just as dreamy in running pants as he is in jeans, shorts, a suit. I’m betting he’ll be downright devastating in his uniform. Maybe I can avoid it—or one of my ovaries might explode.

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