Page 21 of Fight for Me

An event Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. This was the busiest weekend on Anne’s calendar in months. Though the tea party Sunday wasn’t something she was looking forward to.

“I don’t know,” she hesitated. Spending more time with Blane sounded like a dangerous proposition. She didnotwant to get into a relationship with a politician, especially one who was going to run for President of the United States, and even more especially, not Blane Kirk.

“Come on, Anne,” he prodded. “Surely your safety is worth spending an afternoon with me.” The look in his eyes sent a shiver through her, as if he was thinking about something completely unrelated to shooting and everything to do with sin.

Yes, please.

Anne tamped down on that thought right away.

“Just shooting?”

“Absolutely. Cross my heart.” He made the requisite motion all kids learned at the age of six. Anne rolled her eyes.

“As if I’m going to believe a politician,” she huffed.

“I’ll make you believe me.” He said it with an intensity in his eyes that took her by surprise. The air was suddenly charged between them as he gazed at her, as if she was the only thing that mattered in the entire world.

“No need for that,” she breathed, breaking his gaze and setting her glass aside. She got to her feet. He stood as well, ever the gentleman. “I’ll wait on the announcement to congratulate you properly.”

“I’ll hold you to it,” he said. “Thank you for the wine.”

“It was the least I could do for saving my life.”

“A slight exaggeration.”

“I don’t think so. And now I’ll go have a few nightmares and try to sleep.”

Blane’s expression turned solemn. “I’m sorry for that. Would you like me to stay?”

Anne shook her head. “No. I’m a big girl. But thank you for the offer.” And what would he have done if she’d said yes? Slept on the couch? Beside her in bed? Held her when she woke, sweating and panicked?

That didn’t sound so bad, actually. She’d underestimated how quite lonely it could get, being on one’s own.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said, picking up his jacket from where she’d left it on a nearby chair. “I’ll pick you up at two.”

Anne frowned as she followed him to the door while he shrugged on the suit coat. “I still don’t know why we’re doing this when the odds of me being granted a permit are nil.”

He opened the door and turned back, his lips twisting into a smile. “You never know. It could happen. Maybe dinner, too.”

“What? Wait—” But before she could protest further, he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

Dammit. She’d been wrangled into a date after all. Damn politicians…

Chapter Five

It was still dark Saturday morning when Blane rose for his daily run. Running was his least favorite form of exercise, which is why he did it religiously. A shrink might say it was a form of punishment. He preferred to think of it as self-discipline.

He lived in a nice part of Georgetown, though that was probably redundant. While he hated running, this was his favorite time of day. Before the city was brimming with activity. Before you saw kids being loaded into minivans for the trip to the private school. His neighbors were both families with kids. Sometimes Blane liked to sit on his screened-in deck in the back and listen to them scream and laugh and play. For some reason, it made him feel less alone. Slightly pathetic.

The sun was just peeking over the horizon when he returned, grabbing papers off the front stoop and heading inside. Yes, everything was only online now. Call him old-school, but he still liked to flip the pages of a newspaper while he ate breakfast and had his coffee.

His man Daniel had arrived and just begun cooking when Blane stepped into the kitchen.

“Good morning,” Blane greeted him, grabbing the protein smoothie waiting for him on the counter and taking a big gulp.

“Good morning, Senator.”

No matter how many times Blane had asked him to call him by his first name, Daniel was determined to maintain propriety. In his mid-thirties, he served as cook, butler, handyman, and just about anything else Blane needed doing. He was Latino and from the worst part of L.A. He’d come to D.C. through the long road of fighting to stay out of gangs (mostly due to his mother—a more frightening woman Blane had yet to meet), graduating high school, then working his way from the bottom up in restaurants, learning as he went. From dishwasher, to server, to prep cook, then on to fancier establishments where he could climb higher. He’d never gone to culinary school, but Blane thought his cooking rivaled the best he’d ever eaten.

---