Page 42 of Her Wild Coast Promise

Cora slides her fork into her mouth. “Mm.”

I remember my little pep talk in my bedroom, and ignore the pulse of warmth in my belly. “How’d the rest of your day go?”

She covers her mouth with her fingers as she quickly finishes chewing. “Good. I got the agenda finished, including the debate date settled, and set up the photo shoot.”

My fork hangs halfway to my lips. “Photo shoot?”

“For the posters and flyers.”

“The picture I gave you for the campaign website won’t do?”

She gives me a patient look. “No. I have something specific in mind.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow at three.”

“I’m at work at three.”

“It will only take a half hour,” she says.

I take another bite and try to breathe through the irksome idea of posing for a camera in the middle of my shift. Hunter and the guys are never going to let me live this down.

“Oh, exciting news,” Cora says, cracking open a sourdough roll. “Guess who’s been invited to the fundraising gala for Hope House?”

I raise my eyebrows. “How is this tied to the campaign?”

“I’m highlighting your interests,” she says. “Children and veterans. The ladies organizing the gala just about had a heart attack when I offered you making a speech urging guests to support the foster care system.”

I nearly choke on my water. “Hold on. I’m not telling anyone what to do with their money.”

“It’s not like that,” she says, adding butter to her roll. “You just thank them for their generosity, praise them for the work they already do. Trust me, they’ll be putty in your hands.”

I shake my head in confusion. “And then they’ll vote for me?”

“That’s the goal. But even if they don’t, you’ll have helped raise money for an important cause, one you believe in.”

When she puts it like that, it doesn’t sound so sleazy. “I don’t have a tux.”

“But you have a Class-A, right? That’s better. Everyone in the room will see you as the next sheriff.”

“You’re good at this,” I say.

Her eyes turn thoughtful. “We haven’t won yet.”

Why does her use of the plural strum such a melancholy chord inside me? Before she came, I was fine on my own. Dinner alone? Fine. Morning runs with Rosie alone? Fine. Jerking off in the shower? Falling asleep alone?

Okay, maybe not exactly fine, but workable. “You’ve taken on a lot in less than a week. How do you know all this stuff?”

“I learned a lot of it working on Noah’s campaign. Plus, I work in state politics, or at least I did.”

“You were pretty vague about what happened. I thought you liked the Witness Comp job?”

“I got fired,” she says, her mouth a hard line.

I set down my fork. “I’m sorry. Was it budget cuts or something?”

“No. It was more like a misunderstanding.” She looks away for a moment, and I wait, my eyes on her face. Something upset her about this job. I want to know what it is, but only if she’s comfortable sharing.

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