Page 74 of Full Mountie

I don’t see who asked that question—the room is packed—but Gavin’s answer is exactly the one I want to hear. “It’ll cost what it needs to cost. People lost their homes this morning. Probably lost loved ones and neighbours, too. If you think there’s a financial cap on the federal response to that, the door is over there.”

A stunned silence pauses the room for a moment, then the sound rushes back. A flurry of polite and some not-so-polite political debate points get tossed back and forth, but the parameters have been set. The prime minister wants the federal government to fix this, and as quickly as possible.

By mid-day, he’s in an awful mood because his brief statement didn’t go over well with his critics, and he’s chomping at the bit to get down to Beaumont.

“The logistics of you showing up on the scene are nightmarish,” I tell him candidly, because I pull no punches. I can’t, not if I’m going to do my job properly. “Because it’s not just you. It’s the media train that will follow, even if you try to keep it under wraps. It’s not like flying into a war zone, where we control the media access. They’re camped out down there already. You show up and the perimeter that’s been established will fall apart.”

He glowers at me over the roast beef sandwich Beth has shoved in his hands. “A month after I was elected to the House, there was a mudslide in my riding, and I was at home. I went and helped. People liked that. It wasn’t a stunt.”

“You can’t help with the search and rescue.”

“I realize that.”

“Do you? Your job here is to provide national leadership, and that unfortunately means, you can’t do things like just show up in a disaster zone.”

“Yeah.” His frown deepens.

“Is this about something else?”

“No. Yes.” He sighs. “Now’s not the time. But I want to be bolder, and simpering, expected, mediocre responses that feel canned and unhelpful—even if right now there’s no way for me to do anything else—it underlines how hampered I feel in this role.”

Shit. That is something else. He’s been the prime minister for a year, and I know it’s been quite the adjustment for him. He’s young and willful, accustomed to be big, brash wins.

But this is pretty far outside my wheelhouse if he’s having some kind of… I glance around. Nope, only me. We’re sitting in his office, having a five minute lunch together.

He gives me a rueful smile. “Right. You can’t advise me on that.”

“I’m flattered that you’d confide in me.”

“Bah.” He wipes his mouth with a napkin, then shoves it in the brown paper bag his sandwich came in. “I’m just frustrated and I can trust you. It’ll be fine.”

Beth knocks at the door and pokes her head in. “It’s time.”

And then we’re off, for another round of briefings and speeches and decision making so high up, the prime minister can’t do much but throw money at a problem he’d dearly love to try and fix shoulder-to-shoulder with the people on the ground.

When Gavin goesinto the House of Commons for Question Period that afternoon, I head to the gym, but I’m barely ten minutes into my workout when I’m paged by security. I have a visitor, and he’s been through clearance many times before, but he’s not on the expected guest list for today.

Max Donovan. The prime minister’s best friend, Beth’s favourite person to flirt with before Hugh showed up on the scene, father-to-be with the beautiful Violet, and the man I’ve been dodging for a few weeks.

He’s waiting outside my office when I get there.

Apparently he’s committed to planning a bachelor party and no amount of me pretending that isn’t on the agenda is going to make him go away.

“Lachlan, I was starting to worry you didn’t like me anymore,” he says with an incorrigible pout.

“I like many things about you, Max.” I open my door and gesture for him to enter. “But our friendship is definitely going to be on the line if you insist on planning any kind of stag night for Gavin.”

“I’ve been preparing for this event for twenty years. Don’t rob me of the joy.”

“You didn’t have a bachelor party for your own wedding.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Details.”

“You decorated your holiday party with dildos.”

“They were festive cocks, not dildos, and that wasn’t me. I gave Corinne free rein with the decorations.”

Our hockey team’s goalie does like to mix craft and kink, but that’s not the point. “How long did you leave them up after the party?”

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