Midnight (McKenna Chronicles Book 1) (4 page)

“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, 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 silently, telling 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 playfully to showcase my Kelly green fitted
T-shirt, the long sleeves peeking from the rolled ends of my jacket. “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, the
Senator is 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. It’s strong and good.

“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. “Your
neutral perspective will provide a truthful, austere position to the campaign
and to me.” He sounds hopeful, I think.

The
waiter approaches. “Are you ready to order?”

Colin
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.” He says this without a hitch, as if it’s everyday
conversation.

“Harvard?”
I squeak. It’s confirmed; he’s in a completely different league than anyone I
have 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.”

“What
do you mean?”

“Scholarship
money at these schools equates to genius level academics. I shouldn’t be
surprised about the schools, the courses or the scholarship money, because it’s
a given you’re seriously smart.”

“How
is it a given?”

“Are
you trying to tell me you’re not?” I ask, exasperated.

“No,
I’m just wondering why you would assume I am?”

Oh
I don’t know, because you need an IQ of 150 and a 4.0 GPA to get into both
schools.
“I don’t know, maybe I’m psychic.”
Ask me a sarcastic question
and you’ll get a sarcastic answer, Mr. President.

He
laughs as our food appears. Laying my napkin on my lap, I’m thankful my mom
taught me the basics of table manners.

The
pancakes are delicious. We suspend conversation, eating in companionable
silence. I’m amazed at how easy it is to be with him, talking or sitting silent
in tranquility. Serene, easy moments pass as we enjoy the meal. The electric
current is still swirling around us, but it’s become manageable and somewhat
natural.

“How
are your pancakes?” He breaks into my reverie.

“They’re
delicious. How about your president’s special?” I scrunch my nose up while
looking at it.

“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.” Colin looks in my eyes as
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,” he says it simply.

“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 directly to me, about me. Shit. I blanch, surely causing my
already pale skin to become colorless. I try to refocus. “Were you successful?”
My voice quivers ever so slightly 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 for a moment. I
know very well he’s talking about business, but I feel his comment deeply. I
groan silently, knowing my reaction is bizarre and completely 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, Charlie. 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, tightly 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. Colin 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 tightly 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?”

Colin
looks to me, and I shake my head emphatically. I can’t put anything else into
my quivering stomach.

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