It takes a moment to formulate a response, and the only thing I can think to say is “Charlie.” He looks at me quizzically, his right eyebrow lifting in question. “Please call me Charlie. Mrs. Carter is my mom, and Charlise is so formal; everyone calls me Charlie.”
“Charlie,” he says as if tasting my name, savoring it. When I don’t answer he tries again. “Charlie, I want you to contemplate my offer. Would you consider meeting me tomorrow for breakfast?” he asks, with beseeching eyes. “It will give you an opportunity to learn more about the campaign and more about me.”
I’m drawn to this man, his masculine, chiseled jaw and cheekbones, straight nose, blue eyes and the glorious waves in his hair. This is unchartered territory, and I’m not sure accepting his offer is the right thing to do—for him or for me.
“I’m leaving this afternoon. I haven’t booked a room to stay through the night.”
He glances over my shoulder. I turn, following his eyes to the window and the snow that has started tumbling from the sky. Big, wet flakes fall, the roof of the building next to ours already thick with buildup.
“Charlie, I'll take care of the room for you this evening. Please don’t drive in this weather.” His words are pleasant, but his tone is demanding.
I agree with him; snow is not my favorite driving condition, especially for an almost four-hour drive. “Okay.”
“Good,” he says simply. He stands, staring down at me, his face unreadable. “If you agree to work with me, I would like for you to enter into our agreement knowing little about me or my campaign. Base your perspective on what you learn firsthand. Can you promise me you'll forgo any research from this moment forward?”
I’m surprised by his request. Most journalists engage in extensive preparation prior to embarking on such a journey. “Will you promise to be forthright and honest with information when I ask for it and have a need to know?” I search the sculpted lines of his face to determine the truthfulness of his answer.
“On my honor,” he says with sincerity, his eyes piercing in their connection with mine.
“I promise.”
“Until tomorrow then.”
Standing, my hands fan over my skirt to ensure it’s lying smoothly over my rounded hips. His eyes flick over the area I just caressed before lifting his hand to shake mine in farewell, the electricity pulses through me when we touch.
Bewildered, I look into his eyes once more. “Good night, Senator McKenna.”
TWO
FEELING LAZY, I snuggle deeper into the warmth of the bed, unwilling to start the day. Last night there were no erotic dreams of a man with deep, intense blue eyes or nightmares from a past I can never seem to fully escape.
I haven’t spent any time trying to decipher my reaction to Colin McKenna, pushing thoughts of him out of my mind each time they drive forward. Lying under the thick covers, I’m cocooned in the soft warmth of the hotel bed. Yesterday's dream and my reaction to the real man flood into consciousness, refusing to be repressed any longer.
The image of his sculpted face, his lips that in one moment harden into a firm line and in the next are soft and full, the brilliant smile and dimples that soften the solid and strong lines of his face cause my heart to beat faster. Blood pounds quickly, reverberating in my head, down my arms and tingling in my fingers. Oh, my. I catch myself as my breathing changes, increasing with the direction of my thoughts.
The magnetic pull I feel when I look at him is beyond surprising. These unbidden reactions scare me; this kind of physical response has never happened before. I can’t figure out why now, why him?
Throwing back the covers, the cool air of the room quickens my pace into the bath for a hot shower. Turning on the water, I contemplate the day ahead. I had not expected to stay over so I was completely unprepared for the night and even more so for today. Taking advantage of the hotel amenities, I was not left wanting for a toothbrush and soaps; clean clothes were the hardest part of an unexpected stay. The hotel offered same-day laundry service, yet it was too late to send my things and have them back for an early-morning meeting.
I’d been surprised to find University of Notre Dame panties in the gift shop, which solved one problem. I’d also bought a long-sleeved Fighting Irish T-shirt I could wear underneath the slim-cut jean jacket I had in my car, along with my skirt from yesterday. It isn’t very professional, but it will have to do.
After our meeting, Mr. Daugherty had made a couple of phone calls to secure a room for me at the hotel, in addition to a reservation for the Senator to meet me at nine this morning at Sorin’s, a restaurant within the inn itself. After that I was alone to fend for myself throughout the evening. It would have been the perfect opportunity to walk the campus, if the snow had let up. It didn’t, so my only outing was the gift shop, spending the rest of the night watching movies with room service for company.
The bathroom is hot and steamy as I dry myself, the outline of my body present in the foggy mirror. I sigh as the towel runs over my hips and full breasts, standing to the side to stare, disheartened, at my stomach. I’d joined a Pilate's class, guaranteed to strengthen and lengthen muscles, and my own hope was it would help with my coordination. Clumsiness is a recurrent and ongoing challenge for Charlie Carter. I laugh at my naked self—so much for guarantees—because the reflection returned is still soft. That’s the best word to describe the roundness of my hips into muscled thighs, the effect of many summers spent water-skiing at my parents’ lake house. My ample breasts hover above a flat but healthy stomach. No one would call me skinny—curvaceous maybe, but not skinny.
My hair has responded differently this morning, creating natural silky and smooth loose waves cascading over my shoulders. I have limited resources when it comes to make-up; but I slept well, so there isn’t a lot of coverage needed. My clear ivory skin is a gift, along with the blazing auburn waves, from my biological mother, who I barely remember.
One last look in the mirror confirms I resemble a student of the university, not a professional on her way to a breakfast meeting with a presidential candidate. I smirk at the vision in the mirror; leave it to me to take business-casual to a whole new level.
It’s ten to nine when I leave my room, intentionally allowing just enough time to make the appointment. A calculated move on my part, so my nerves can’t get the best of me while waiting for him to arrive.
The doors to the restaurant are framed in heavy wood, and the name is written above the entrance in the same navy and gold colors that are woven throughout the inn and conference center. The dark wood carries through the entire space; it all looks very stuffy and old. Hmm . . . based on his physical appearance and intense eyes, I would guess Colin McKenna is many things; old and stuffy are none of them.
A young girl managing the hostess desk, wearing a casual yet crisp white shirt and navy pants, greets me. “Can I help you?”
“Yes, I’m meeting Colin McKenna. Do you know if he’s arrived?”
Her once pleasant features drop and her mouth opens and then closes before saying, “Uh, yeah . . . yes, please follow me.” She rounds from the back of the desk, poorly trying to hide her scrutiny.
There are few patrons at this hour so it’s not hard to find him, sitting at a small table in front of the room’s only fireplace. Thankfully, his head is tipped to read something on his phone so he misses my inspection. He is, even more so than in my memories, striking. More relaxed than I saw yesterday, he's wearing a dark blue cable-knit sweater with a high collar. It hangs open exposing a thick, muscled neck and the white crew-neck T-shirt hidden underneath the heavy knit. His stature is impressive, with wide shoulders and firm forearms visible as the sleeves of his sweater are pushed toward his elbows.