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“We don’t need a code word,” I counter, exasperated.
I look away so Bash won’t see my reluctance to face off with Harding. Bash reads me anyway. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. I’m_”
“Chelsea, stop. I may be missing a lot of details, but I’ve worked with you long enough to see that something’s not right. Before you walk out that door, I need to know if this is personal or if you’re afraid of Harding.”
My shoulders stiffen. “I am not afraid of some candy-ass politician.”
“Good. Then do I need to kick Jackson’s ass? Don’t think I haven’t noticed his absence or his silence.”
“You leave him alone,” I fire back, poking Bash in the chest. “Jackson has suffered enough because of me.”
I shove away from Bash, suddenly energized for my mission. As I yank open the door, he whispers, “Maybe, but he needs you.”
My feet keep moving, though my heart craves the validation of Bash’s belief. A second after the door closes, it opens again, and his voice carries down the hall after me. “The code word is trust.”
I ignore my partner and keep moving until I’m seated in the bar. Not long after, the bartender serves me a fruity, sparkling mocktail. Bash and Kai are holed up watching the camera feeds, and Sadie and Aaron are seated in a booth across the classy room.
My nerves are shot, and the longer I wait for Harding to show up, the closer I get to cracking. Since talking to Bastien, all I can think about is Jackson. I still believe the man deserves better, but I’m going batshit thinking, despite my crazy, that I could possibly be something he needs.
That’s something worth fighting for, fighting myself, my demons. I’ll even fight Jackson for another chance. I reach for my purse and phone, but there’s a touch on my bare shoulder before I can put the call through. I slide my phone back into my bag and turn to greet my target. “Congressman Harding. So good to see you again.”
The tall man towers over me in my seat. I direct him to the chair across from me so he’ll be in direct view of the flower cam planted by Sadie. With a predator’s smile, he slowly unbuttons his jacket and holds his tie to sit. “Please. Call me Calvin. Or Cal if you wish to be more friendly.”
I test out the name, speaking to the ceiling to expose my neck. “Hmm. Cal. I like that.”
Harding winks. “Thanks for carving out time to meet me. I hear you have a busy weekend planned.”
I brush off the comment. “When you have no children, your family is a continent away, and your husband is always deployed, you find things to fill your weekend. I get to the point sometimes where I’d do just about anything to feel a connection with another human.”
A waiter approaches to take Harding’s drink order, and I scan the room, briefly locking eyes with Sadie. When the barman leaves, Harding leans forward. “I understand how you feel. And to be worried about your husband’s safety doesn’t help. How often is he forced to work with mercenaries?”
My blood boils at the derogatory term, but I don’t let it show. “Pretty often,” I answer with a sigh. “And with the number of tragedies you’ve reported, my nerves aren’t catching a break, I’m afraid.”
Harding reaches across the table to take my hand. “That is an unfortunate consequence of what I do. I regret any loss of sleep I cause you.”
“No. I understand. You have to do this. No one else is. Besides, no battle was ever won from a place of comfort. I also know you need help and support, not whining from spouses like me. Speaking of, did you have something in mind for me to do?”
The waiter returns with Harding’s drink, and I clench my napkin in my fist at the interruption. “Sir, your table is ready.”
Shocked at the announcement, I sit up straight. “Table?”
Harding brags, “I’m friends with the manager and requested a private dining room. I hope you don’t mind.”
Schooling my features, I toss back my shoulders and stand. “Hmm. Preferential treatment. You’re setting a dangerous precedent, Cal.”
Harding collects his old-fashioned and my mocktail with a laugh, and we follow the host down a long hall past a collection of doors. Sadie’s concerned gaze follows me from the room, but there’s nothing either of us can do.
We follow the host down a hall to a set of heavy French doors open to a candlelit room. Fragrant floral arrangements adorn the table, and polished silverware gleams in the flickering candlelight. The scene is far too romantic and intimate to pretend to be even remotely professional.
The host pulls out one of the two chairs for me and places a napkin across my lap. Harding sets my drink down and declines a pour of chilled champagne.
A waiter returns the bottle to its ice bucket and removes the covers from the plates. All three courses are on the table, which I find odd. The host and waiter exit gracefully, if quickly, and, suddenly nervous, I reach for my drink. After a fortifying sip, I place the glass back on the table. “This is beautiful.”
Harding follows my gaze around the room. “I felt privacy was needed.”
I snap back to his face at his tone, but he only grins. “In case we discuss your colleagues.”
