Page 42 of Presidential Bargain
Once we reached Boston, we stopped at the waterfront hotel where our engagement had been announced. All the campaign staff were staying there. I remained in the back of the SUV while Jameson talked briefly with Sean. Then he climbed back into the car and we made our way tohishome.
Nervous butterflies filled my belly the closer we got to Jameson’s townhouse in Beacon Hill. We had lived our life together in hotel rooms and the back of a campaign bus. There was nothing personal about any of that, but now I was going to get a glimpse of a side to Jameson I had yet to encounter. I was going to see where he lived, and I wasn’t entirely sure I was readyforthat.
The car pulled up in front of a lovely red brick townhouse that had striking black shutters. The front double doors were painted a brilliant robin’s egg blue and contrasted beautifully with the rest of the home’s exterior. Jameson led me through the front doors, which revealed a sort of second entrance with a gorgeous, glossy dark mahogany door. This door opened to a foyer with gleaming hardwood floors. The house was bathed in an abundance of natural light that reflected off the cream-colored walls. The spaces were all too formal and exquisitely furnished, and felt so impersonal. I had a hard time believing that Jameson actuallylivedhere.
“What’swrong?”
We stopped in the kitchen while Jameson sorted through a large stack of mail. I took in the white cabinetry and beautiful white Carrera marble countertops. The appliances were all high-end stainless steel and everything just seemed tooperfect.
“I just wasn’t expecting all of this.” I turned in a circle, holding out my hands to indicate to the flawless kitchen that looked like it belonged in a magazine spread. “It’s gorgeous, Jameson. But I have a hard time believing youlivehere.”
“I don’tlivehere.”
My mouth hung open in disbelief. What did he mean, he didn’t live here? Whose housewasthis?
I was sure my face did nothing to hide my confusion, as he continued, “I live most of the year in Washington. I rarely spend any time here, but I do own this home. Do you want to see the mortgagestatement?”
I made a choking noise. I absolutely didn’t want to seethatmortgage statement. I knew how prestigious a place like Beacon Hill was and I could only guess at how much this home cost. I also knew that Jameson came from money and that he could easily afford to own multipleproperties.
“The company I hired to gut this place and remodel it is the same one I hired to remodel yourfamilyhome.”
I had completely forgotten about my own life. How was that even possible? Back in New Hampshire, my little town still existed and my family home sat empty. The night I agreed to pose as Jameson’s fiancée, he mentioned a company that specialized in restoring older homes. I never heard from them, so I assumed it never happened. Now I longed to see my homeevenmore.
“This remodel has only been finished forayear.”
I looked at him, roused from my own thoughts, and realized he’d finishedtalking.
“I didn’t realize you had people working on my house,” Imanaged.
Jameson easily closed the distance between us in two strides before he wrapped me up tightly in the cocoon of hisembrace.
“I’m sorry that there isn’t enough time to go there.” His voice was quiet and I nodded inunderstanding.
“Finishthetour.”
The rest of the house was just as impeccably decorated as the second floor, which was actually the main living area of the home. Downstairs, there was a room with a gigantic pool table that had a set of glass double doors, which opened onto a brick-paved courtyard. Backyards were hard to come by in a neighborhoodlikethis.
Jameson grabbed my hand and led me up a marvelous oval staircase until we were on the third floor of the home. His boyish grin made me think that he was up to something and as soon as he opened a set of doors, I knew. This was the master suite, hisbedroom.
I took one step into the room and I finally felt him. The space represented him and his style. The walls were painted a rich midnight blue that was almost black, and the windows and baseboards were all finished with wide, stark-white molding. The bed was a massive affair completely upholstered in a light, dove gray, and it had a towering tufted headboard. An armchair in the same gray fabric sat in a sunny corner of the room. The floors were a gleaming gray oak and a simple white rug was placed at the foot of the bed. Despite the dark hue on the walls, there was so much natural light that I soon forgot the coloraltogether.
“This is so breathtaking,” I sighed. I eyed the bed. It was seriously huge and I wanted to fall back against it andsleep.
“Wait until you see the bathroom.” Jameson’s eyes gleamed. He was excited to have me in his home, in his bedroom, which made me feelatease.
I nearly died when I walked into the bathroom. I dreamed of having a bathroom just like this. A large, glass enclosed walk-in shower and an even larger soaker tub dominated one whole side of the room. The walls were a soothing gray tone with just the faintest hint of blue. A wide double vanity with a white Carrera marble top was placed on the opposite wall, and above it were two large mirrors and chrome light fixtures. I looked down to notice the penny tile that covered the floor, also white Carreramarble.
“It’s like you crawled inside my head and plucked out my dream master bathroom,” I said, still enamored by the luxury oftheroom.
“That can be arranged,” Jameson added matter-of-factly.
“Only, it needs tobepink.”
“Pink?” One of his thick eyebrows shot up and he lookedconfused.
I shook my head eagerly. “Yes. The palest pink. Pink is my favoritecolor.”
I don’t think Jameson knew that pink was my favorite color and I had absolutely no idea what his was; there were so many gaps in our knowledge of each other, but if he won the election, we would have at least four years to fill in those blanks. We needed time just to be ourselves, the man and the woman, and I hoped the time we spent in his home meantjustthat.
