Sway (Landry Family #1) (5 page)

“Because I don’t like baseball?” I laugh. “If that’s the case, our friendship is hopeless. I can’t like something that includes hours and hours of watching grown men hit a little ball with a stick.”

“It’s the all-American pastime! My brother is the center fielder of the Tennessee Arrows, for cryin’ out loud. You have to like baseball, Alison. You must!”

The smile on my face is dopey, but I can’t wipe it off. I know he doesn’t really mean the insinuation that maybe there’s some reason for me to like it because of his family, but still. Just hearing it come out of his mouth plays right to my inner romantic.

I need to change the subject to something neutral. He could suck me in with his charm and that’s not going to do me any good. “So, you know some things about me. Tell me something about you.”

He snickers and looks at the ground. “Why don’t you tell me what you’ve read and I’ll tell you if it’s fact or fiction. It’s probably easier that way.”

“Sounds like a fun game,” I tease. “Oh, the bits of truth I could glean.”

“You aren’t writing an article or anything, are you?”

“I
am
in school for journalism . . .”

His brows shoot to the sky.

“Barrett, I’m kidding. I mean, I am in school for that, but I would never do that.” He relaxes, but still looks a touch apprehensive.

“No, I believe you. You’re way too real to be a reporter. You speak off the cuff with no lead-ins. Trust me, I can pick a reporter out of a line-up.”

“Well, trust me when I say I hate them as much as you do.”

He quirks a brow. “Then why would you want to work in that industry? It seems almost as bad as politics.”

I laugh, but know exactly what he means. “It probably is.” Looking up at his face, the way his gaze peers into mine, so genuinely interested—maybe even concerned—I feel my guard dropping. “I want to make a difference,” I shrug. “I want to be the person that gets it right, that reports the truth and tells the things that are important. Is that stupid?”

“No, not at all,” he muses. “It’s a great thing to want to do. It’s what I want to do too—take this dirty career and try to be the voice of reason. It’s a hard job, but someone needs to do it, right?”

“Right,” I smile, feeling my cheeks flush.

“You’ll be a trailblazer,” he sighs, shaking his head. “God, those people are animals. They’ll report anything if they think it’ll sell a copy of their publication. There are no ethics anymore. None.”

“You’re telling me. They’re vicious and hateful.”

He slows his pace, the moon glancing over his features, making his jaw line look sharper, his eyes more powerful than ever before. “You’ve really been hurt, haven’t you?”

“Oh, Mr. Mayor, you have no idea,” I laugh. “But, once again, we aren’t talking about me anymore. We are talking about you and your fact and fiction.”

He rolls his eyes, looking adorable. I could just watch him move all night. Some people love to watch other people in malls and parks. I could watch Barrett read the newspaper.

“Go ahead. Fire away,” he says.

“I hate to tell you this and burst some sort of ego you might have, but I really know nothing about you to ask,” I wince. “I’m sorry.”

His jaw drops. “Are you serious right now?”

“Yeah,” I eke out. “I mean, I know the basics. I know who you are, bits and pieces of your family and things like that. But I don’t really have time to read papers or watch television right now.”

He presses his lips together, maybe to keep from smiling, and subtly nods his head. “Well, damn. I’ve found a unicorn.”

“That’s something I’ve never been called.”

He looks at me and I make a face, causing him to burst into laughter. His voice rolls over the fields. A flock of birds take flight from a grouping of trees nearby.

“Can I just tell you how much I love that you know nothing about me?”

“I didn’t say I know nothing about you. I just said I know nothing about you to ask.”

“Um, the difference?”

I wink, but don’t answer. I’m not going to tell him how insanely gorgeous he is or how he ignites a fire in my belly with one glance. There’s no way I’m telling him I know,
I know
, he’d be great in bed and that I’m positive he could take over my mind and heart if I let him.

I have to stay focused on what I need and what’s best for Huxley, and that’s not falling in lust with some dapper politician. More than I already am.

“So, what do you do for fun?” I ask instead, pivoting and heading back towards the building.

“Well,” he says, turning his head back and forth, “I don’t get time for a lot of fun these days.”

“That’s sad.”

He snorts. “Tell me about it. Right now my life is centered around this campaign.”

I hear a grit in his voice, a slight twinge of frustration. “I’m sure that’s a lot of work this close to the day of reckoning.”

“It is. It’s all anyone wants to talk about. Family dinner turns into a campaign staff meeting somehow and it’s just . . . it’s hard to get away from.” We turn the bend, the building glowing ahead of us. “I love it, don’t get me wrong. This is what I was born to do. I just haven’t found the balance between this and my personal life.” He takes a deep breath. “Sometimes I wonder if there is a balance, if you can really have both.”

I think back to my marriage. “I don’t have experience with politics specifically, but I know the struggle of being in the public domain and trying to lead a normal life. It’s tough. It’s hard to keep the stuff not job-related private, sacred. It kind of . . . poisons everything.”

The venom in my voice is thick, but I don’t even attempt keeping it out. I couldn’t if I wanted to.

“One of these days, I’d like to know what happened to you,” he whispers. “But I won’t ask you tonight.”

We exchange a smile. It isn't the wide, charming one he uses on his political adversaries, nor is it the sexy smirk he used on me before. It's something else, the one from earlier—something more private—and it sends a wave of warmth through me.

“Would you like to have dinner with me one night this week?” he asks, a drop of hesitation in his voice.

My throat burns as I prevent myself from answering right away. Of course I want to, who wouldn’t? But what good will it do? There’s very little chance he’d do or say something to make me not want to see him again, and the fact of the matter is, he’s a candidate in an election. He isn’t in a place for a relationship, and what I need, what Huxley needs, is for me to be serious and calculated in everything I do.

“Alison?”

“I’d love to,” I say, taking a deep breath, “but I’m going to have to decline.”

He’s taken aback, his steps faltering beside mine. “So . . . no?”

“Yes, no,” I laugh. “Is that the first time you’ve heard that or something?”

“Well, yes. More or less.”

I laugh louder as the lights ahead of us get brighter.

“This isn’t funny,” he says with a grin spread across his cheeks. “I really would like to see you again.”

I beam and hope that the darkness hides it. “I would like to see you again in a perfect world. But we both know that’s not what this is.”

“No, it’s not. Because you just told me no.”

“Oh my God,” I sigh, amused. “The timing is just bad, Barrett. You’re in the midst of a campaign and I . . .”

“You what?”

“I’m a single mom trying to do what’s best for her kid. And that’s not going to dinner with you.”

He stops in his tracks, his head cocked to the side. “Forgive me for asking, but what does you being a single mom have to do with you not going to dinner with me?”

“Look, I didn’t mean it like that,” I breathe. “It’s just that my marriage was sort of high-profile and it ended spectacularly bad. I have this fear of the media, of reporters, specifically,” I gulp. Then, before I can think about it, I add, “It’s not just my life that goes to dinner with you. Huxley’s life kind of goes too.”

“So you would rather not go to dinner with me than be tossed into magazines. That’s what you’re saying?”

I nod.

He grins devilishly.

“That just makes me want to go to dinner with you more, Alison.”

With every centimeter his smile spreads, it tugs my lips right along with it.

“It’s extremely hard to find someone that wants to have dinner with me—the stripped down version. Women want the photographs, everyone to know they’re with me. And you . . . don’t.”

I try to pull my gaze from his, but it’s near impossible. He searches me—not my facial expressions or the angle of my posture, but me. Through my eyes and deep into my soul.

Shivering at the feeling of exposure, I finally look away. “You’re right. I don’t,” I whisper.

He considers this, rocking back on his heels like I saw his brother do earlier. “What if I promised you we could do it at a place no one would see us? Just you and I. No agenda. No media. No expectations. Just a dinner between two friends.”

“We’re friends now?”

“I just saved you from your boss! You owe me one. And if that display of heroism doesn’t get me . . .
friended
. . . what will?”

“You, Mr. Landry, are lucky you chose the word
friended
.”

“What did you think I was going to choose?” he asks wickedly.

“You’re impossible.”

My heart beats like crazy in my chest. I need to put space between us before the remnants of the wall I built around my heart break and I end up agreeing to dinner with this man. Pivoting on my heel, I head back up the path.

"Are you always a pain in the ass?"

"Mr. Landry, I think you just lost yourself a vote,” I say, feigning disbelief.

He stops in his tracks, pulling me to a stop alongside him. He turns me without me ever realizing it’s happening until we're face to face. "You could do the right thing and give me another chance to win it back.”

His voice is low, his eyes boring into mine. I feel my body temperature spike, my pulse throbbing. An ache builds in my core, the flames growing hotter by the second.

“I want a chance to win you over,” he breathes, peering at me. The way his eyes search mine make it seem like time stands still. “Will you let me try?”

He forces a swallow and the look of hesitation, the internal fight he’s having, isn’t lost on me. It’s there, right beneath the surface, and when I add my concerns to the mix, it’s enough to make me balk. Just a bit.

"I'll think about it," I whisper, holding on to the little strand of courage I have left.

“Say yes.”

Instead of responding, I ask, "Where'd you get that scar over your right eye?" I reach out and press gently on the raised skin. I expect him to pull back, but he doesn't.

My hand shakes as I touch his warmed skin. His forehead is silky and smooth. I'd like to run my hands over every inch of it, feel it ripple beneath my fingertips.

The corner of his lips twitch. "Lincoln hit me in the head with a baseball."

"Bad reflexes on your part?"

"Wicked curveball on his," he says, his face breaking out into a full smile.

“I thought he played center field?”

“He does. But he pitched some growing up.”

We stand inches apart, my hand gently brushing down the side of his face. Although I feel like he'd stand here all night and talk to me, it’s not possible.

"I really need to get back to work," I say, trying to unlock my eyes from his.

“Dinner? This week?”

I can barely resist the look in his eye, the one that implores me to say yes. The one that makes me believe he really does want to have dinner and spend a few hours with me.

I need to get away, put some space between us while I can.

“We ran into each other tonight,” I shrug. “If we’re supposed to see each other again, then I guess we will.” I start to turn away before I completely buckle under his gaze.

“How am I supposed to get ahold of you? I don’t have your number,” he calls after me.

Heading up the steps to the Savannah Room, I glance at him over my shoulder. “You’re the Mayor. Figure it out.”

Alison

IT’S LATE WHEN I MAKE
it back to my little two-bedroom rental across town. The light in the kitchen is on as I pull into the driveway and cut the engine. I see the curtains pull back and my mother peering out at me.

I make my way up the walkway, nearly tripping over one of Huxley’s baseballs. My brain is scattered, still back on the path of the gardens with Barrett.

I’d forgotten what this feels like. The excitement of sparking someone’s interest, the feeling of being desired by a man. Maybe Hayden made me feel this way early on, but if so, it was quickly replaced with something more . . . mundane. Even the handful of dates I’ve gone on since never set this kind of energy into play. The way he looks at me, the fire from his touch lingers on my skin even now.

The door swings open as I reach the threshold.

“How was work?” my mother asks, closing the door behind me.

“Good. Long,” I reply, tossing my purse on the couch and heading into the kitchen. “How did things go here? How’s Hux?”

“He did all his homework and fell asleep to cartoons. There’s a permission slip for you to sign on the kitchen table.”

The purple piece of paper is lying next to the salt and pepper shakers when we reach the kitchen. “Did he eat dinner?”