Читать книгу The Power and the Glory - Kimberly Lang - Страница 8

MARGO was in the process of opening the store when Aspyn came down Thursday morning, ready to tackle her first day of work—even if she still wasn’t one hundred percent clear on what she’d actually be doing.

“Good morning!” Margo sang out. “Don’t you look adorable?”

Aspyn tugged at the borrowed black skirt. “You think?”

“Definitely. And not just adorable, either. Competent. Capable. Professional. You’re going to knock ’em dead.” Margo was a proponent of dressing for the part. As the owner of a New Age bookstore, she leaned toward caftans and head scarves, even when the result was more “carnival fortune-teller,” because that’s what people expected. She’d been the driving force behind Aspyn’s wardrobe today, practically manning a phone tree to find all the appropriate pieces. “Here.” Margo passed her a travel mug with the bookstore’s logo on it. “A ginseng and kava tisane to get you going today.”

Margo mothered her unreservedly, and Aspyn was thankful for it today. She needed the cheerleading. The events of the last few days had her head spinning as it was, but yesterday … She couldn’t quite decide what had her more off balance: Brady’s offer, the fact she’d accepted it, or her disturbing reaction to Brady himself. About midnight last night, she’d finally convinced herself she’d be able to handle this job and keep her hormones under control.

The bags under her eyes rather belied that already shaky resolve.

“Now go. You don’t want to be late for your press conference.”

“I feel terrible leaving you short-handed, with no notice—”

Margo waved a hand. “Annabelle will do fine, and my sister is glad to have her doing something other than lazing around the house. This is an amazing opportunity for you, honey. Take it.” Then she leaned in with a coy smile. “And the scenery there is much better than anything you’ll get around here.”

“The scenery?”

“If you must take a job in the political machine, eye candy like Brady Marshall makes it go down much easier.” Margo fanned herself, causing an armful of bangles to jangle. “I’m considering volunteering for the campaign myself.”

“Don’t be silly.” Margo wasn’t really helping in the it’s-not-about-Brady-Marshall department. “Anyway, he’s the campaign manager, and very, very busy, I’m sure. I doubt I’ll have much interaction with him at all. Other than the press conference today, I bet I’ll rarely see him.” Bummer.

“Pity.” Margo patted her arm, adjusted her necklace and unlocked the front door. “Go. Have a great day.”

The neighborhood was awake, bustling but not too busy. After the media circus of the last few days, it was nice to see things getting back to normal. Brady had made an announcement to the media on his way out yesterday—she hadn’t heard it, but it had worked wonders. Only a few cameras were still hanging around, but she had no doubt they’d be out in full-throng at HQ.

Once she was safely around the corner and out of sight from the bookstore, Aspyn sipped carefully from her mug. Her eyes watered and she ducked into the coffee shop. Joe, the owner, held out his hand, and she handed over the mug without comment.

Joe dumped the tisane into the sink, refilled the mug with the French Roast she preferred and gave it back with a smile.

“Thanks, Joe. You’re awesome.”

“Margo means well.”

“I know. And I love her for it. Nothing beats caffeine, though.” She inhaled the steam gratefully before putting the lid back on. “And I’m going to need it today.”

Joe waved away her money. “It’s on me. Good luck.”

He turned to another customer, and she waved goodbye. She’d built in plenty of time to make the walk, but the shot of caffeine mixing with nerves already on edge had her covering the distance in half the expected time. Sure enough, there were press vans outside HQ. Not as many, she noted, as yesterday. Had the press already lost interest?

Aspyn took a deep breath to steady herself and opened the door to one place she never thought she’d go. Campaign HQ was not what she expected. They’d taken over an old storefront and filled it with nondescript desks and tables. A few had computers, but all had phones. There was a distinct red, white and blue theme in the minimalist decor, and every wall was covered in Marshall For Senate signs. It was only a little after nine, but a dozen or so people were already manning phones and stuffing envelopes, and there was a healthy buzz of energy and noise.

Brady was easy to find, standing off to one side and talking on the phone. Margo’s eye-candy comment sprang to mind. Indeed. The jacket to his suit was draped over a chair behind him, and his shirtsleeves were rolled up over his forearms. They were tanned to the same hue as his face, meaning he didn’t always wear long sleeves. Granted, she was hardly an expert on Brady’s wardrobe, but it was hard to picture him in anything other than a suit and tie.

That was a lie. Frankly it was rather disturbing how easily she could picture Brady in substantially less. Dear Lord, she’d had her hand on the man’s thigh; between the breadth of his shoulders—which was evident to all, even in a suit—and the firsthand knowledge she now had of his quadriceps, it was quite easy to extrapolate to an appreciation of what Brady was like under that D.C. politico uniform … ahem.

She snapped her attention back to his tie. Today, it was a different shade of red with small blue stripes. She had no business noticing anything else.

Remember that.

Even if she didn’t already know Brady was the man in charge, simply the way he filled the space and the way the activity buzzed around him made it obvious he was the boss.

Then Brady looked up and noticed her. A strange jolt of adrenaline shot through her veins, a combination of excitement and nerves and Brady’s presence. He waved her over, but she kept her steps slow and even in the hopes her pulse would calm down before she had to get too close.

A crease formed between Brady’s eyes as he ran his eyes over her, but he never paused in his conversation—something about small donors—and Aspyn shifted uncomfortably under his stare. The crisp, distant tone to his voice didn’t help, either. When he hung up the phone, one eyebrow went up as he asked, “Who died?”

That rankled her. “Good morning to you, too.”

Brady accepted the censure with an amused nod. “Good morning, Aspyn. Good to see you. Seriously, did someone die?”

“What?”

“You look like you’re on your way to a funeral. At a convent.” Irritation and disapproval colored the statement in equal amounts.