Page 31 of Accepted Precedent
“Be careful, Mrs. Adams, or you’ll have a different last name before Christmas.”
I close the distance, her lips nearly touching mine, but Andrew’s voice breaks the spell my angel has me under. “Ten minutes until the polls close.”
“He needs us,” she whispers, not pulling away from me.
“And I need you.”
Her eyes search mine until Andrew clears his throat. “Ten minutes.”
I press a single kiss to Evie’s forehead and take her hand in mine, leading her back inside. This time she tugs her hand back, and I let her. As she interlaces her fingers with Andrew’s, my heart breaks, just as it did the day she married him.
Keeping my distance for the next few hours, I let them enjoy Andrew’s victory with the volunteers and staff once the race is called.
Finn pulls me aside, and with a paper shielding his mouth, he whispers, “Andrew is going to stay with me tonight. As soon as everything dies down, take Evelyn home. You’ve been in love with her for years, it’s about time you show that woman how much you missed her—and not just with your cock.” He claps me on the back, then we make our way to Andrew and Evie. Finn offers his hand, and I don’t think I’ve seen Andrew look this relieved in months. “Congratulations, Senator Adams. Here’s to another six years. Mickey is going to take Mrs. Adams home so we can go over logistics with Ms. Proctor.”
Evelyn’s eyes widen as her gaze darts between the three of us. “Are you sure? I can stay, if you need me.”
“You’re soaked, love. Let Mick take you home and get some rest. It’s going to be another long Senate term for your husband—more babies to kiss and fundraisers to attend. You may as well get your beauty sleep while you can.”
Six more years without Evelyn. I won’t survive six hours—years are out of the question.
“He’s right. Finn, Kristin, and I are going back to his place once we close up shop here. At least one of us should get some sleep.”
“Are you sure?” she asks nervously.
Andrew assures her, “Of course. Love you.”
Nodding, Evie offers him a sweet smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Love you too.”
I shake Andrew’s hand, but all I want to do is steal him away from here with Evie. I’ve tortured myself for nearly a decade, and would give almost anything for a chance to prove how much I still love them.
But if I stay with Evie tonight, I won’t be able to give her back to Andrew in the morning.
The driveto Evelyn’s is short but in comfortable silence. It seems the bulk of the storm has passed, but a light rain dusts my windshield. As much as I want to touch her, even just hold her hand, I don’t risk it. Still, I can’t remember the last time I felt less alone, less empty. For years, I admired her from afar, watching her become too comfortable with being a politician’s wife. The dinner parties, fake smiles, and forced conversations—she deserves better.
I pull into the driveway of the house I’ve passed daily for years. There’s a large tree in the front that I always imagined would be perfect for a tire swing if they ever had children. Turning off the ignition, I take a few deep breaths before exiting the car. She doesn’t move, waiting for me to open her door—Andrew’s trained her well. I offer my hand, and the moment she takes it there’s a zing of electricity shooting up my arm. It isn't static; her mere presence is to blame. Keeping her fingers laced with mine,we make our way up her front steps and she fumbles with her keys. I take them from her to unlock the door, and once it’s shut behind us, I press her against the hard wood, desperate to taste her.
“I told you, we’re not having sex,” she manages breathlessly, her gaze falling to my lips.
“I believe I once told you I could make you come without fucking you, but never made good on that promise.”
Evie huffs a small laugh. “Do you ever keep your promises?”
Her question hurts, but she’s right—I’ve ruined everything for the three of us to keep Andrew in office. Unable to speak it, I change the subject. “When did you eat last?”
“Lunch,” she admits. “I had a bowl of soup.”
“That’s not lunch,” I groan and step away from her. Needing to be close to my angel, I take her hand and lead her into the kitchen, then lift her onto the counter. “You don’t move until you’ve had something to eat.”
“I’m not hungry.”
I ignore her protest and rummage in her cabinets and fridge. There’s sliced sourdough, white cheddar, and gruyere—easy grilled cheese. “Where are your skillets?”
“Cabinet to the left next to the stove.”
As I pull it out, I glance back at her. “You don’t have staff, angel. Who cooks more—you or Andrew?”
“Andrew’s better than me, but?—”
