Looking up, his eyes connect directly with mine, piercing intensity visible in their depths. He stands in greeting, not looking at the hostess as she deposits me at the table. “Is there anything you need, Senator McKenna?” she asks with a hopeful draw to her tone.
“No, thank you.” His eyes remain trained on mine as he holds his hand out to me. “Charlie.” It’s almost a whisper from his lips.
Held in his trance, I raise my hand to his and gasp when our fingers touch. The electricity is so strong I pull back, as if burned. His brow furrows and we stand silently together, unmoving for a short moment. In time he steps to the chair next to his, pulling it out graciously for me to sit.
“Thank you.” It’s the only thing I can manage without giving away how appalled I am at my reaction to him and our physical contact.
He relaxes, sinking into his chair gracefully. “Thank you for changing your plans and meeting with me, Charlie. I hope you slept well?”
Okay, normal conversation. I can do this. He is, after all, a man, just like everyone else. I inhale deeply to steady my nerves before replying, “Yes. Surprisingly I slept very well.”
Our waiter presents at that moment, “May I get you something to drink?” He looks to me. The Senator already has coffee and an orange juice sitting in front of him.
“Coffee, please.” I beam with gratitude. Coffee is usually the first thing I have when I wake up, even before showering; I feel half-awake without it this morning. My smile remains in place as the waiter leaves. I tip my head back to the Senator, whose own face has become impassive as he gazes at me. “Did you sleep well?”
He considers my question thoughtfully, one side of his mouth rising. “Yes, Charlie, I did.” I wish I knew what he is thinking. One minute he's completely unreadable, the next his eyes are sparkling like the fire lapping next to him. I glance to the flames, appreciating the heat on my bare legs.
“Are you cold?” There’s real concern in his tone, as if he would add kindling to raise the languid lick of flame to an inferno if I said yes. He's very serious, refined in his dialect and manners. I suddenly wonder if he ever has any fun, if he ever laughs or is teased.
“The heat feels nice; my legs and toes are a little cold. I didn’t have my thermals to keep me warm last night.” I try not to smile as I say it, keeping my face smooth.
He tips his head back and laughs. “Thermals?”
Oh, his laugh is deep and genuine, warming me from the inside out, and I have no idea why. It spurs me on. With a sober face, designed to maintain a certain amount of dignity, I tip my head to him. “It’s very cold in Michigan, at nighttime especially. Thermals are warm; you should try them.”
“I think you say that in jest, Charlie.”
“You doubt thermals are warm?”
“No, I doubt you wear them.” A small grin brightens his face, eyes glistening with laughter.
He’s breathtaking, and for a second I lose myself in him. After recovering, I shrug my shoulders, to tell him he’ll never know what I wear to bed. He looks over my face and then catches sight of my shirt, his right brow lifting in question as his head tilts a fraction.
“A sudden fan of the Fighting Irish?”
“You like it?” I ask, opening my jacket to showcase my Kelly green fitted T-shirt. “I’m sorry I’m not more presentable. I wasn’t prepared for the overnight stay so I improvised with a gift-shop find.”
“It suits you.” His impish grin remains in place. “The color enhances your eyes.” There’s heat in his voice, so much so my stomach flutters. Oh, my. . . It’s very strange to sit across from this powerful man and engage in lighthearted, comfortable banter, as if we’ve known each other for a long time. I stare, fixated on his full lips, mesmerized by his sheer masculine beauty, idly wondering what his mouth tastes like, how it would feel on my neck.
I almost kiss the waiter when he interrupts my errant thoughts with my coffee.
“Thank you.” My voice is a little too breathless for my liking. Cream and sweetener are already on the table so I busy myself with the task. When I look up, McKenna’s watching as I stir my additions to the steaming cup. “I like my coffee sweet and light.”
“So I see.”
“You graduated from Notre Dame?” I ask before taking a sip.
“Yes, 1999 undergraduate.” He doesn’t offer more and I don’t say anything waiting for him to continue. “I graduated with two degrees: Economics and Management Entrepreneurship”
“The second sounds interesting.”
He laughs. “It was. You don’t like economics?”
“No, not at all.”
“Why?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. My brain has a permanent aversion to it; that and math.”
“Why does entrepreneurship interest you then?”
“It sounds like the foundation of the program is entrenched in creativity—that I can buy into. Economics is boring.” I pretend to sleep on my hands.
He shakes his head, chuckling. “And where did you go to college?”
“A small university in Michigan.”
“Tell me.”
“Oakland University. I graduated with a degree in English Literature.”
He nods. “Did you always want to write?”
“Not in this sense. I thought I would teach high school English. When I graduated there weren’t any teaching positions, so I went in a different direction: writing freelance articles for magazines and taking programming classes to learn more about the Internet so I could translate my work there.”
“Are you happy?”
I find his question curious, as if he’s not necessarily asking about work. “Yes and no.” He uses my technique against me, lifting his right brow and waiting for me to continue. I sigh, keeping it strictly about business. “Writing freelance is very competitive. Finding work or getting something published is difficult, which is okay. I’m certainly not complaining.”
“But?”
“But I would still like to teach one day, or write something more meaningful. There are only so many nonsensical topics I can address without losing my mind.”
He contemplates that for a minute before asking, “Do you think writing about a presidential hopeful might qualify as something more meaningful?” I detect a hopeful hint in his voice, yet his expression gives nothing away.
“Maybe. I have to be honest. I don’t know how good I’ll be at it because I’m ignorant to the whole political scene.”
“I like your honesty, Charlie. And it's exactly why you’re perfect for the assignment.” His eyes lose some of the levity as he becomes serious, leaning in with elbows on the table. “Your neutral perspective will provide a truthful, austere position to the campaign and to me.”
The waiter approaches. “Are you ready to order?”
McKenna looks to me, his brows arched in question. “Hungry?”
Hungry? Hungry for him. Holy mackerel, where did that come from? I swallow reflexively, picking up the menu as a diversion to my suddenly erratic heartbeat, and quickly decide on breakfast. “Um . . . I’d like the blueberry pancakes with ham, please.”
“And I’ll have the president’s choice, ham, and rye toast.” My eyes widen at his pompous selection. “It’s on the menu, Charlie.” He points to it, proving he didn’t make it up.
I smile wryly, changing the subject, “You got your undergrad at Notre Dame; do you have a higher level degree?”
“A Masters in Public Administration with a concentration on International Development from Harvard.”
“Harvard?” I squeak. It’s confirmed; he’s in a completely different league than anyone I’ve ever met before. To bring it back down to my level, I say, “Your parents must have spent a fortune on your education.”
Laughing, he nods. “Yes, I’m lucky I had scholarships to both schools.”
I actually roll my eyes. He tilts his head down and stares at me through his lashes. “Sorry, that was meant more for me than you.”