Page 28 of Capitally Engaged

Caitlin looked at Laurel adoringly before meeting my eyes and muttering from the side of her mouth, “She’s not wrong.”

We all laughed. Preston asked Caitlin about her job at a human rights law firm. That conversation kept us occupied until our turn to order drinks came around.

“Just water for me,” I said to the woman looking at me expectantly.

“Wait,” Laurel interjected. “I’m not meaning to be a booze pusher if you really don’t want a drink, but didn’t you say you had a big deadline yesterday? Do you want something to celebrate? We can toast, and you can tell us what it was?”

I looked at Preston who shrugged. I turned back to the bartender, who looked a little less patient than she had thirty seconds ago. “I’ll take a Prosecco, please.”

Laurel was right. I did want to take this opportunity to celebrate with my new friends. I hadn’t eaten much today, but my stomach had been fairly stable since this morning. One glass shouldn’t hurt.

We sipped our drinks on the mezzanine level, leaning against the banisters and people watching. Laurel and Caitlin seemed to know half the people here tonight, someone always coming and going, saying hi, offering plans for the weekend, or extending an invite to some dinner or another.

Preston leaned down to mutter in my ear. “I’ve never felt like a collective third wheel before.”

I laughed softly, as I nodded in welcome to yet someone else stepping up to say hello. “Who knew your coworker was so popular?”

“Not me,” he answered. He nodded at my empty glass. “Do you want another drink?”

I glanced at the line and took stock of the effect of the bubbles reaching my head on a mostly empty stomach. “No, I think I’m good.”

He took my glass out of my hand and tossed it in a nearby trashcan. “Let’s go wait in line to walk through the reading room, then? The only problem with happy hour is so many of the exhibits are food and drink free.” He extended his elbow, and I threaded my hand through it. Ever the doting fiancé, at least while we were in public.

We chatted about his trip and he caught me up on the Survivor drama he watched this week, even though I had no idea who he was talking about. Soon, we were ushered forward and walked into the reading room. The size and grandness of the room struck me. The dome ceiling rose over the multiple floors of stacks, while chairs created individual workstations facing either the center of the circular room or the shelves of books. The hush of the room promised productivity and enlightenment, just by the vibes of the space.

Preston gently propelled me forward as the people behind us crowded in where I had stopped still.

“I should come here and write,” I muttered.

“What’s that?” he asked quietly as we completed our too quick circuit and exited the room.

“Oh, just imagining what it would be like to work in that room. Seems pretty quiet.”

“Definitely no senator outbursts, needy interns, or Laurels distracting you in that room. I think it’s pretty easy to apply for a card during business hours.”

I looked longingly over my shoulder. I wish we could have stayed longer.

“Come on, there’s an overlook where you can take it in uninterrupted.” Preston jerked his head toward a marble staircase leading to large glass panes overlooking the reading room.

We started heading that way when I saw a familiar face in the crowd.

“Fuck,” I said as I grabbed Preston’s arm and pulled him to the side of the stairs.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, his head swiveling around in concern.

“That’s that devil woman over atTheDispatchwho got me fired.” I leaned out from behind Preston and noticed her heading right for us.

I looked around and noticed a little alcove underneath the stairs next to us. I pulled Preston with me, leaning my back against the wall, my eyes closed. Maybe I overreacted slightly at the sight of my nemesis. I landed on my feet okay, but like I told the senator, I wasn’t convinced she wouldn’t come after me again. Avoiding her seemed easier.

“Want to tell me what that was all about?” Preston’s voice sounded from directly above me. I realized I still held onto his arm with a death grip and had pulled him flush against me in my fervor to get out of sight.

I looked up at my fake fiancé, taking my time to examine his features up close. The way his brow furrowed in concern at my worry. The fullness of his bottom lip. The flecks of brown and gold in his hazel eyes. The way those eyes were on my mouth.

“Jax?” he asked, his arm finding its way to the wall next to my head, as if he needed help standing.

“No,” I said, before pulling his head down, crushing his lips to mine. Almost just as quickly, he pulled his head back.

“No?” he asked, the confusion clear on his face.

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