Page 82 of The Dandelion Princess
I expect to find a shady underworld and secret organizations. Instead, upon breaking down the polling on a granular level, I discover that his constituents love him for delivering on promises to bolster local manufacturing firms and streamline simple healthcare wait times using telehealth portals. I toss down a pen and plow fingers through my hair.Vede.If I didn’t know how unctuous, insular, and petty he is, maybe he’d have my vote.
If I voted. Which I don’t. One of Mama’s policies.
My phone emits a low chime—the first three notes of “Love Crime.” Marc. “May I bring my homework over?” he asks.
I glance at the dozen odd tabs open on my computer, and the long list of notes on my desktop.
“If you want,” I answer, voice calm even as my toes dance along the rug. After hanging up, I twirl out of my computer chair and peel off my t-shirt. I dive into my closet, tearing it apart in my quest for something cute. My latest denim looks relaxed, but hugs my backside as lovingly as a sloth mom. Should I pair it with a sweatshirt? Something silky?
My thoughts collide, and I drop to the floor in an explosion of high-end loungewear, bathed in the glow of the light over my limited editionIntelligence Forceposter.
Dust motes twirl in the air, sparkling lazily as they descend, each one like a memory of me and Marc. I was there when he tried to grow facial hair and looked like a weedy gangster. I remember how he drove across San Francisco during rush hour to pick up Sondish herring when I made the college honor roll. I choke on a laugh. There was the time he was dating an academiccommunist who used to raid my toiletries bag when she ran out of personal hygiene products. My response was to buy ten boxes of jumbos, stow them under his bathroom sink, and label it “The People’s Collective”.
I look down at the chaos of clothes, reading the signs as I would a scattering of tea leaves. I pick up a light sweater in forest green—three-quarter sleeves with a subtle pattern picked out in the same fine wool—shrug into it, and give myself a hard look in the mirror. The seers are troubled.
This is too much. Not the sweater. It’s a perfect blend of comfortable and flattering. My business has never looked better. This. Marc and me.
“It’s just fun,” I mutter, wandering over to the bathroom sink and applying a quick swipe of eye liner. Maybe some mascara, too? I glance at the clock. I’ve got time.
I keep falling for Marc, but I always get back on my feet again. It’s a whole cycle, and I can repeat it again to get us back to what we decided this was going to be at the outset. Fun. But I’m gently working a few dots of blush tint over my freckles, making slower and slower passes.
Is this fun? I glance down and the blush applicator clatters into the sink. This is a date. I’m dressing for a date.
Vede.
A light knock sounds on the door, and I take a hard, assessing look in the mirror. Marc has seen me in the full royal get-up without ever once dropping to his knees and promising half his kingdom. He’ll survive a flattering sweater. I take a deep breath, willing myself to inhale rationality and sense with it. I’ve been falling in love with Marc for a dozen years and, in all that time, he’s never fallen back.
Another knock. He has the code, but he’s being polite.
If I meet him at the door, I’ll look like I’m bounding up for my scratch behind the ear, so I punch the door mechanism, take a beat, and wander out when I’ve had time to collect myself.
“Hey,” I manage.
He looks tired when he walks in, but he loosens his tie, scoops me into his arms, and brushes my lips with a kiss. It’s easy and careless and makes me want to burst into ugly tears.
“I like this,” he says, nipping the fabric at my waist.
“Are you hungry?” I ask, slipping out of his embrace.
He shakes his head. “I took my team out for a work dinner.”
“To celebrate? Did the EC sign off on the acquisition?”
“The approval came in before markets closed.” I take his jacket just for something to claim my attention. “Are you mad at me?”
I aim a look of amused incredulity at the floor. “Of course not. Why would I be mad at you? Did anyone see you on your way up?”
“No.” He rolls his shirt sleeves past his forearms. “But anyone could check the visitor’s log.”
“No one will check. I’m not one of my mother’s special ducklings. As long as I’m not causing trouble, she’s not interested in my comings and goings.”
He breathes a laugh and touches my face. “No?”
I swallow. “I’ve been tracking Torbald’s whereabouts all day.” Best have it out now.
Marc’s hand falls. He leans on the arm of the sofa, gathering me close enough to stand between his outstretched legs. “I wondered if you were.”
“You’re not going to tell me to stop?” I look past his shoulder, but he tips his head into my line of sight.
