Page 80 of Where There's Smoke

She cocked her head. “You sure? You look—”

“Mr. Cameron,” someone broke in, thrusting a clipboard in front of me. “A few things for you to go over.”

I looked at Simone, eyebrows up, as I took the clipboard.

She smiled. “We’ll catch up after the debate. Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

She disappeared into the crowd—Christ, how thick could a mob get in a room this small?—and I shifted my attention to the paperwork in my hand. No sooner had I finished going over that when someone else needed my opinion, signature, endorsement, comment, attention, initials, DNA sample, firstborn, mortal soul…

“My turn.” Ranya grinned, but her brow knitted with sympathy.

“Oh, I suppose I can spare you a minute,” I said with mock exasperation.

She eyed me. “I could always make these decisions on my own and let you deal with the fallout.”

“And with that, you have my undivided attention. What’s up?”

“That’s what I thought.” She threw me a good-natured glare, then shuffled some papers in her hands. “I need to call Al Davis at Channel 4 back in the next few minutes about scheduling an interview with Patricia Barton. They want you in their studio at noon on Thursday, but you’ve got another interview with Phil Stanley at four thirty. It’ll be tight getting from one to the other, but are you okay with back-to-back interviews? They both sound like they’ll be pretty intense.”

I nodded. “Yeah, I can handle it. Run the schedule by Anthony, though. Make sure he doesn’t have something else up his sleeve.”

“Will do.” She took a step, and the mob swallowed her up like a thick fog.

I sighed and rubbed my forehead. Interviews. More and more interviews. And of course, tonight would dictate how those interviews went. This debate would be the difference betweenLet’s discuss your thoughts on immigration reformandDo you really think you’re cut out to govern the state of California, Mr. Cameron?

Well, did I?

“Hey.” Anthony’s voice shook me back into the present. “Doing all right?”

“Yeah. I’m good.”

He quirked an eyebrow, the subtle change of expression screamingbullshit you are.

I put up a hand. “I’m fine. Really.”

“Nervous?”

I threw him a sidelong glance. “What do you think?”

“You’ll be fine.” His voice was low and calm—the verbal equivalent of a gentle hand on my arm. “You always nail these things.”

“Yeah, well, all it takes is that one time when I give a stupid answer or make some ridiculous Freudian slip.”

Anthony laughed. “Somehow I doubt that would actually happen.”

“Glad you’re so confident,” I muttered. “Howareyou always so calm and together before these things, anyway?”

He shrugged. “You’ll notice I’ve never run for office myself.”

“Stage fright?”

“Not quite.” He chuckled. “But these things aren’t as nerve-racking for the campaign manager.”

“Lucky you.”

His perpetual calm annoyed me on a few levels—why couldn’t it be contagious, goddamn it?—but mostly I was grateful for it. As long as he wasn’t panicking, I was good. If he panicked, I’d fucking lose it.

---