“It’s very good. Are you turning your nose up at my choice?”

“No, no, not at all, it just looks boring.”

He chuckles. “It’s not boring, Charlie, it’s healthy.” Looking into my eyes, he takes a bite of his scrambled egg whites and roasted peppers.

Boring, I mouth. “Here, try some of my pancakes; you can taste the difference between boring and fantastic.” I push my plate toward him an inch, encouraging him to take a bite.

He reaches his fork over cutting a triangle from the stack and I watch as he raises them to his mouth. Our eyes connect and the heat is back, raging uncontrollably at our table for two. It was only a pancake, for the love of God. How can it turn into this unbearable tension?

I have to look away. My appetite is suddenly gone, I can’t concentrate on anything but the intensity coursing between us.

“Charlie?” His voice is deep, the laughter gone. “They’re very good.” I peek at his face where a small smile offers encouragement.

After a minute, I get us back on track. “What did you do after Harvard?”

“Opened my own company.”

“Doing what?”

“I bought a relatively small business, determined why it was failing, got it moving in a new direction, sold it for a profit and then I did it again.” He looks directly into my eyes as he finishes, “I like to find broken things, discover their secrets and make them whole, mend and repair until they’re far better than before my interception.”

It’s as if he’s speaking about me. Shit. I blanch, surely causing my already pale skin to become colorless. I try to refocus. “Were you successful?” My voice quivers as I try to compose my thoughts.

“Very.”

“What’s the secret to your success?”

“I learned very quickly that it wasn’t about me; it’s not about my title, or the skills I have, or what I can do. It’s always about the people: their capabilities and motivation. People will not follow someone because they have a title; they’ll support and do the right thing when influenced by someone they trust. Honesty and transparency are pivotal to a successful endeavor. If a task or goal isn’t achievable, sharing the reasons why an initiative won’t work builds trust. With those principles and hard work, I push the companies and the employees beyond expectation, surpassing what they believed themselves capable of. Once it’s successful, I sell it and start all over again.”

“So why did you make the change to politics?”

He shrugs. “It’s always been my dream. Fundamentally, the business concept is the same, yet it’s on a bigger level. Very simply, it’s about peeling back the layers one at a time, identifying the problems, fixing them, making it better than it ever was and moving on to the next layer. It’s the ultimate challenge and I do it justice.”

I nod. It makes sense. “But you’re so young.”

“Should I wait until I’m fifty?”

“Maybe. I thought you had to actually.”

“Thirty-five is the minimum age to run. I’m thirty-six; I’ll be thirty-seven by inauguration, if I’m elected. You think I’m not qualified?” he challenges.

“No, I don’t know you well enough to say that. I think there are a lot of people who will jump to that conclusion, though.”

“It’s one of the reasons why I need you.” Oh, my heart free-falls. I know very well he’s talking about business, but I feel his comment deeply. I groan silently, knowing my reaction is bizarre and entirely unexpected. How is it that for years I’ve been immune to desire and at first sight of this gorgeous, completely out-of-my-league man I’m salivating like a hormonal teenager?

My voice so low I wonder if he can hear me. “I have so little experience. What if I fail you?” It’s the truth; why would he look to me to assist him in this lifelong endeavor?

“Please, don’t make yourself uneasy. I’m very familiar with your experience and expertise.”

Somehow I have a feeling he’s not just talking about my resume, but how is that possible? My past is sealed, protected from curious eyes.

“I don’t leave many things up to fate, Charlie, not in pursuit of the position I hope to have. I need you,” he says it again.  His eyes grab mine and hold them steady. “You’re young with a fresh perspective, an understanding of the minds of young America.”

“How do you even know who I am?” It’s a fair question. There are hundreds, maybe thousands of more qualified journalists who could support his campaign; how did he find me? Why did he search me out?

“Evan has read many of your articles and came across a website you devised for Jay Tyler; he’s impressed, as was I when I did my research.”

My head swims. It makes sense he would delve into my past and qualifications, just as I would have done on him if I’d had time. The Senator would be very thorough and in depth. He has a need to know who is participating in his campaign, traveling with him for months; a need to know if someone could taint his image. If that’s the case then surely he knows . . . he must know everything.

My worst fears realized, the blood drains from my face, my head becoming light, my sight blurring, so I close my eyes to ward off the creeping anxiety. The panic that always simmers just under the surface rises quickly. I clench my fingers around the edges of the table. The underside of the wood is rough against the pads of my fingers as I press them desperately into the grain. I might be sick. His hand rests on mine and my eyes swing open to find his. The skin underneath his fingers burns with heat; I can feel it shoot up my arm and into my chest. Hyper-aware of his close proximity, my breath hitches in my throat.

I hear his sharp intake of breath; his eyes close infinitesimally and darken. “Charlie,” he whispers, concern echoing in his voice. I sense there's something else there, another unnamed emotion I can’t quite capture. Staring shamelessly at his beautiful, etched face, I’m immobilized by fear.

The waiter interrupts, saving me from further embarrassment. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

They both look to me, and I shake my head emphatically. I can’t put anything else into my quivering stomach.

“No, we’re fine. Thank you.” McKenna’s eyes remain locked on mine, his voice filled with concern.

“I’m okay,” I say without explanation, grateful he doesn’t comment further. I try very hard to get my heart rate under control, taking slow deep breaths to keep the panic at bay. Closing my eyes briefly, I repeat the thought: if he knew, he wouldn’t have asked me to be here.

I fixate on his left hand, still lingering over mine on the table. It’s the first time I’ve taken the time to notice there's no wedding ring and no indentation of one on his finger. I wonder about that. He's beyond gorgeous, successful and a gentleman; I’m surprised he isn’t married. And then I blush, realizing I’ve basically flirted with him for an hour and it didn’t occur to me to look before bantering with him.

“My wife died,” he answers my unspoken question, removing his hand, rubbing his finger as if in memory of the ring that once was.

“I’m so sorry, I . . .” My voice trails off as I gaze into the fire.

“It was years ago, Charlie. I don’t like to talk about it.”

I chance a look at him. His eyes are dark. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, as if it will make it better. He tilts a side of his mouth up in a sad half-smile.

“Will you leave today to begin your campaign?”

“Yes, as soon as breakfast is over.”

“Oh.” I wasn’t expecting that. “And if I accept, when will I join you?”

“Will you accept?”

Staring into his eyes, I contemplate his offer. Sincerity lays heavy in the deep luminous pools and I know my answer.

“Yes.”

His response is a broad, heart-stopping grin. “Good. I’d like you to spend a week at my campaign headquarters here in Indiana, and then meet me and the others.”

“Who are the others?”

“Evan Daugherty; you met him yesterday, he's my campaign manager. John Montgomery is my lead in communications, and Ella Montgomery, manages volunteers. Evan travels with me at all times, John and Ella periodically, depending upon the circumstances. You’ll tour with Evan and I; it’s constant travel and work.”