His smile broadens and I lose myself in the brilliance for a moment, drawing in a deep, steadying breath. Standing from the chair to greet him, my knees teeter as I tilt my head back to continue eye contact. He's breathtaking.

Extending his hand to mine he says, “Ms. Carter, I’m Colin McKenna. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me on such short notice.”

As my hand connects with his, a line of electricity shoots up my arm and the air suddenly feels full of an almost palpable energy I’ve never experienced before. His smile shifts, brow furrowing as the energy, electric and curious, continues to pulse. I wonder if he feels it too.

He stares at me for a long moment with scrutinizing eyes, searching mine for answers to unasked questions. My lips part as if to respond to the mysterious inquiry, but no sound escapes my now parched throat. Shaking my head, I recover, slipping my hand from the heat of his. The electric current recedes but the air remains potent.

With our physical connection broken, his smile and brow smooth. “Please have a seat. May I offer you anything?”

I sink back into the soft chair, crossing my legs again; his eyes follow, staring for a second at my leopard-print heels. “No, thank you I’m fine.” My voice is low, weakened by our intense greeting and his casual perusal.

Sitting on the couch, he crosses his leg, his ankle resting over his knee. “I hope you had an uneventful drive. Where is it that you live?” His tone remains polite as he searches my face in wait of an answer.

“Royal Oak, Michigan. It’s just north of Detroit.”

“That must have taken you most of the morning. I’m very sorry we didn’t give you more notice to plan an accommodating travel schedule.” His eyes narrow and he sends Daugherty a stern glance.

“It was no trouble, really. I didn’t mind the drive.”

He nods. “I understand Evan has reviewed with you my thoughts on creating an extensive social media campaign, a chronicle if you will, relating to my candidacy and me personally. I want to connect with those who use the Internet and social media as their primary means of communication.”

“And you believe I may be the person best suited to do this?” I can’t help that my voice is incredulous. I fail to understand how my experience qualifies me for this assignment.

 “Yes, I do.” He continues by changing the subject. “Ms. Carter, it seems you and I have differing opinions on topics that are very pertinent to the moral compass of our Country. I’m intrigued to learn more about your position.”

I don’t know how to respond. This is not a conversation I want to have with him. I could kick myself for opening my mouth and wish I had shoved my glorious leopard-print heel into it versus spew verbal vomit out of it. I stare into his bright eyes for a moment before deciding to offer the truth. “I don’t believe a man wholly unconnected to the state of a woman’s body should judge and prevent a possible life-saving procedure. Who are you, or any other politician, qualified to determine what a woman may do with her own body?” I glare, impassioned by the topic.

“And what about the baby, Ms. Carter? Who will protect the innocent life taken each time an abortion is performed?” His eyes penetrate mine, ferocious in their interest to know my answer.

I flinch, blood pounding in my ears. “There are some instances in which neither one would survive if not for the option. It’s in those circumstances I believe the woman has a right to choose her own life over the beginning of another.” The intensity of my position shows as my voice reverberates my answer, forceful, even though the tone is low.

His gaze is intense, but comforting in an indescribable way. Nodding, as if to close the topic he says, “It’s very rare that someone voluntarily and so spontaneously opposes my opinion at an event sponsored by my camp. I need to be connected to people, even those with beliefs that differ from my own. I like that you offer another side of the picture painted before me.”

“Is it my opinion you seek, or my ability to write about yours?” I ask. What is it he wants me to do?

His eyes light with my response, “Both. Tell me, how do you approach a topic to present it in a fair light, approach it from a true, unpolluted perspective?”

I consider his question for a moment. “I withhold all personal judgment of the individual or subject. It’s not my job to provide a conclusion for the reader; it’s my responsibility to share the facts as I understand them. I remain neutral, seeking to understand and communicate that understanding thoroughly.” I have regained my footing, comfortable in my answer. “It’s important to keep an open mind, refrain from presumption. I learned very early on most people are not as easily read as one would believe. I let them tell me their truth, and listen carefully to the art of people. You would be surprised by what you hear.”

Raising his fingers to his mouth, he begins to pull gently on his lower lip. After a short moment he asks, “And what if the topic is of no interest to you?”

“There is something interesting in everything, Senator. Life is interesting. I don’t need to have a passion for everything in it; I have to find what’s interesting for not only myself, but for the readers. That’s what will engage them in the blog and the topic itself.”

I look at Evan who has remained silent through the entire conversation, standing against the far wall, arms folded in front of his chest. He's looking at me with an amused smile, choosing this moment to interject. “I’ve read many of your articles, Ms. Carter. You have an uncanny ability to understand the workings of people and get them to open up to you. How is that?”

I tilt my head, not certain what he’s asking. “Mr. Daugherty, I choose to find the good in everyone. The world is a dark place when one focuses on or seeks out the negative attributes of those surrounding them. There are few people I’m unable to find a positive quality I can connect with. I understand human nature—or at least, I try to. It’s that connection that allows me to capture the true nature of my subject. They feel comfortable with me and share their truth.”

He nods, eyes twinkling like he’s in on a joke I’m not aware of.

I turn back to McKenna. His eyes darken and his face grows very serious, “Ms. Carter, I’m about to embark on a tour of the United States seeking the Republican presidential nomination. I would like for you to accompany me as I campaign. Use your expertise to understand my motivations and connect my beliefs and me to voters via the Internet. Will you come?”

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.