Page 6 of Where There's Smoke

My wife laughed. “Unless it’s laundry or dishes, right?”

“What?” I feigned offense. “I did the dishes the other night.”

She shot me a playful scowl. “Rinsing a coffee cup does not count as doing the dishes.”

Exhaling melodramatically, I rolled my eyes. “Yes, dear.”

Francine laughed. She continued with the usual mundane questions about married life, our relationship, our careers, our family. God only knew what kind of profound, quote-worthy answers she wanted. At least Simone and I had nervously rehearsed this interview every night for the last week, coming up with answers to any question we could think of so nothing caught us by surprise. So there wouldn’t be any stammering or throat clearing while we improvised alibis and cover stories.

Francine shuffled her note cards. “Now, your marriage hasn’t been without its obstacles.”

My stomach tightened.Here we go…

She went on. “Simone, you’ve been in the news several times because of your struggles with an eating disorder. How has that affected your marriage?”

My wife’s shoulders turned to steel beneath my arm. I gave her a gentle squeeze.

Simone coughed quietly, then produced a smile that probably looked easy to anyone but me. “It’s been a struggle, but what marriage isn’t?” She glanced at me, the smile broadening as if a director had just told her to look even happier, and at the same time, her eyebrows lifted in an unspokenhelp me out here.

I reached up and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. Still looking at her, I said to the cameras, “We deal with that just like anything else. One day at a time.” I faced Francine and the camera that peered over her shoulder. “You marry someone, you roll with their punches as well as your own.”

Simone relaxed against me, the change in her posture so subtle I doubted anyone else noticed, and I ran my fingers up and down her arm for a little more reassurance. This wasn’t the first time either of us had been grilled about her illness, and we’d both had a feeling it would come up this time. Anything for a little drama and sensationalism.

Fortunately Francine let the subject go. Evidently she had the sound bite she wanted, so she moved on.

“Tell us,” she said, clasping her hands around her knee, “is it true, Jesse, the rumor that you’re considering pursuing a political office?”

At the edge of my peripheral vision, Anthony shifted his weight. Though I couldn’t see him directly, the tension in his posture made it to the hairs on the back of my neck. I swallowed hard, trying not to look at him. “Yes. Yes, that rumor is true.”

Her pencil-thin eyebrows climbed her makeup-caked forehead. “Would you care to elaborate?”

Anthony didn’t move. The hairs on the back of my neck didn’t lie down.

I took a breath. “There’s a…” I couldn’t resist letting my gaze dart toward Anthony for a fleeting second, but quickly returned it to the inquisitive reporter. “There’s a very strong possibility I’ll be throwing my hat in the ring for governor of California.”

Francine blinked, drawing back slightly. “Is that right?”

“Yes.” Why was my mouth suddenly dry? “There’s a press conference scheduled for the fifteenth, so I’ll answer anyone’s questions about the election at that time.”

“And Simone,” Francine said. “How do you feel about possibly being the first lady of California?”

Simone forced another tight smile, this one probably taking even more effort than her neutral expression in the face of the eating disorder questions. “I’m looking forward to it.” She put her hand on my knee and offered a stiff squeeze. I turned to her, returning her smile and affectionately smoothing her hair just to remind the cameras how happily married we were. Damn, maybe I really was cut out for the “lying through my teeth” side of politics after all.

The interview finally wrapped up, and Simone shooed me into the kitchen while she saw the producers and crew out. I owed her big-time for that, but she must have known I was nearing the end of my tether. The interview would have been easier if we hadn’t already done the photo shoot. By the time Simone and I had taken our seats on the couch to smile our way through our well-rehearsed little act, we’d already spent half an hour or so faking the affection that the cameras wanted. The whole thing had left me nauseated, and smiling for the other set of cameras gave me a more in-depth understanding of the phrase “straw that broke the camel’s back” than I ever wanted.

And it’s only just beginning.I closed my eyes and rubbed a phantom headache out of my temples.

“He’s right in here.” Ranya’s voice preceded two sets of footsteps coming into the kitchen, and the skin on the back of my neck prickled again a split second before she added, “Jesse, Anthony Hunter’s here to see you.”

I exhaled, put on the closest thing I could still muster to a pleasant expression, and turned around.

Oh. Holy.Fuck.

The man was gorgeous. No two ways about it. He didn’t have the flawless, lineless perfection that show business or California high society demanded. Instead he looked like a man who’d worked his ass off and wore every subtle groove of fatigue, wear, and tear with pride. I guessed he was in his late thirties, maybe early forties. At least a few years older than me, probably. A few gray hairs peppered his temples like thin, sharp hash marks. They reminded me of notches on a gun stock or the silhouettes of enemy aircraft drawn on the fuselage of the plane that shot them down, like a tally of everyone he’d ever taken down with a single look.

Up close, his sheer intensity was magnified. His dark eyes pulled no punches, boring right into—through—me, and his jaw was as firmly set as his broad shoulders. We were roughly the same height, but I couldn’t shake the feeling I was looking up at him. Or, more specifically, he was looking down at me. Christ on a cracker, I’d met Hollywood overlords and shaken hands with sitting presidents, and I’d barely batted an eye. This guy had my knees threatening to collapse right out from under me.

Clearing my throat, I extended my hand. “Anthony, good to meet you again.”

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