Page 21 of The Americana Playbook

Madeline rolls her eyes. “Shouldn’t you start with a husband first? Or, at the very least, a boyfriend.”

I turn my head. “Who says I don’t have someone already?”

“Do you?” Mom asks.

“I’m seeing someone,” I lie. “And I’m sure you’ll be happy to know that he’s the furthest thing from a congressman.”

In my mind, I conjure up a biker with sleeves of tattoos who never wears a helmet and smokes Marlboro Reds, a guy who believes in government conspiracies and puts his elbows on the table and wipes his face with the back of his hand.

“Did you stop and think aboutwhyI was suggesting Camden Holdings?”

“You could suggest Big Bird for all I care,” I tell her. “It doesn’t matter.”

Mom smiles. “Oh, Parker, but it does. Because there’s something else I know you want that isn’t in that folder. But if you’re going to get it, you’ll need to get with the program. Sit down, there’s a lot to fill you in on. After all”—she takes a sip of her of her tea—“it’s an election year.”

Somehow,I didn’t exactly imagine myself sitting on the steps of a rundown apartment building with twelve cookie cakes stacked next to me today. Call me crazy, but when someone tells meYes, that works, I usually believe that yes, it indeed works.

Apparently that’s not what Parker meant.

I take my damn cakes—because birthday or not, Parker doesn’t deserve them—and begin walking down the street to where I parked my car, looking like an absolute idiot. I’m halfway down the block when a large, blacked-out SUV zooms past me, and my head swings back toward Parker’s apartment where the vehicle stops.

A man decked out in a suit gets out from the front passenger door and opens the back.

With her head down, Parker charges toward her building, and as soon as the guy is back in the car, the SUV drives off.

I begin to jog—not an easy feat, considering I can hardly see over the stack of bakery boxes.

“Parker!”

She jumps, fumbling with her keys. “It’s not a great time, Fitz.”

“Not a great time? You could’ve let me know that an hour ago.” I glance down the street, but the SUV has already disappeared. “Was that your dad?”

“If that was my dad, there’d be a motorcade.”

“If you had something going on, you could’ve told me.” I shift to balance the boxes.

She fishes one of her keys into the lock. “I didn’t have plans. Please, it’s not a good time. I’m sorry.”

Today isn’t a good time. The night after the Super Bowl wasn’t a good time.

She opens the glass door, and I step forward, holding it with my hip because, even though I might be an idiot and she an insensitive asshole, I was raised as a gentleman.

“Tomorrow won’t be a good time either.” I follow her into the small lobby, taking in the dirty floor, the few broken mailboxes built into the wall.

“Since you’ll be on a flight back to Boston, I imagine it won’t be,” Parker says over her shoulder as she makes her way to a door opening to the stairwell, even though we’ve passed an elevator.

“Yeah, exactly.” I trail her, stubbing my toe on the first step because I can’t fucking see anything. “And tell me, Parker, even if I stayed in town, what excuse would you give me tomorrow, hm?”

Parker says nothing, continuing up the stairs.

“Why didn’t we take the elevator?” I ask.

“Aren’t professional athletes supposed to be in shape?” Parker snarks, pushing open a door. “If we took the elevator, we’d be stuck in there for two days. Things aren’t exactly up to code around here.”

I press the stack of boxes against the wall beside her apartment.

She turns the key in the bottom lock before slipping another into the bolt and whipping to face me. “Fitz, what are you doing here?”

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