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  “Oh, I’m an accountant,” she said. “Busy time of year for us.”

  As a rule, Olivia didn’t like to lie. But she was having a pleasant evening drinking gin and ranting about food with a stranger, and she didn’t want him to ruin the fun vibe they had going by cracking a stupid lawyer joke she’d heard a million times before. Accountant was a good, solid, boring job, and the best part of it was it was such a boring job no one ever asked her any follow-up questions.

  “Oh, really?” he asked. “That’s so interesting. What do you think of the new tax laws? Have they made your job more difficult?”

  This guy, of course, would be the exception.

  She reached for a cookie and bit into it so she had more time to think of an answer. She would have never figured a pretty actor would ask for details about her nonexistent accountant job, especially not details about the tax code.

  “It’s been a little more challenging,” she said, after thoroughly chewing her cookie. “And personally, I’m not a huge fan of the new laws. But the good part is business is up.”

  He nodded.

  “I’m not a huge fan of the new laws, either, but I’m glad that—”

  “Oh wow, you should try these.” Olivia held up the cookie. “Krystal was right, they’re actually good.”

  She didn’t only say that because she wanted to end this digression about tax laws, but sure, that was part of it.

  Just then, Krystal brought their coffees.

  “See, what did I tell you?” she said.

  Max bit into a cookie and nodded.

  “Sure, these are good,” he said. “But just think of how much better they’d be if this was an ice-cream sandwich.”

  Olivia gasped and dropped her cookie.

  “Yes! This is exactly what I’m talking about—dessert menus should have ice-cream sandwiches with cookies like this, and cakes, and pies, instead of this pistachio tart nonsense.”

  Max laughed.

  “I’ll add that to my platform,” he said.

  Olivia took the last sip of her drink and pushed the glass toward Krystal.

  “You joke, but I think someone needs to start a movement here.”

  * * *

  * * *

  That had been a close one. Max added cream to his coffee and mentally kicked himself for his stupid “platform” comment. This woman obviously didn’t know who he was; why would he say something to help her figure it out?

  Granted, most people didn’t recognize him when he wasn’t in uniform as Maxwell Stewart Powell III, junior United States Senator from California, at least not immediately, and that’s the way he liked it. Sometimes it dawned on them after a while, though, especially if he’d been on TV recently, and he’d been on TV a lot these days.

  But Olivia obviously had no idea who he was—that had been clear from her withering “even this guy agrees with me” comment when he’d joined her conversation. No one had talked down to him like that in years.

  Why did he like it so much?

  He had no idea, but he knew he didn’t want this woman to figure out who he was and laugh at all of his stupid jokes like everyone else did these days. She barely even smiled at him, and the one time she had, he felt like he’d won a prize. It was weirdly nice to have to fight for a smile for the first time in a long time.

  “So, Olivia, where did you move from? To move to L.A., I mean.”

  She pushed some of her curly hair back into her bun and gave him that half-suspicious look again.

  “New York. But I’m a native Californian—I grew up in the Bay Area.”

  He lifted his coffee cup to toast to her.

  “Well, welcome home.”

  She touched her cup to his.

  “Thanks. It’s good to be back. Even though L.A. is a lot different from the Bay Area, it still feels like coming home. But I’ve realized I only know L.A. from the perspective of a visitor, not a resident, so I have a lot to figure out. I haven’t even bought a car yet.”

  He shook his head.

  “You let yourself get too New York when you moved away. Soon you’re going to start lamenting the state of the bagels and pizza in California, and insisting you really can get good tacos in New York if you know where to look.”

  Olivia burst out laughing.

  He’d made her laugh. What a victory. Now all he wanted was to do it again.

  “I swear, I’ll never, ever do that last thing, cross my heart! People kept trying to pretend there was actual good Mexican food in New York—and in Boston, too, for that matter. It gave me a lot of trust issues, let me tell you.”

  Max grinned at her. The way she’d joked and laughed with the bartender was one of the reasons he’d initially eavesdropped on their conversation. He was so glad that smile on her face now was because of something he’d said.

  “What about the bagels, though? Are you going to complain about the bagels?”

  She shook her head, a smile still on her face.

  “I won’t, I promise. I hate it when people do that—I didn’t even complain about the bad Mexican food on the East Coast . . . well, not until someone dragged me to a place they promised was good. Not to be weirdly patriotic, but one of the things I love about America is the regional specialties; it would feel too bland and same-same if you could get everything in the right form everywhere. I love visiting other states and finding something I’ve never had a real version of—or sometimes, never even heard of—where I live. I don’t want to change that.”

  She’d put something into words he’d always felt.

  “I could not agree more,” he said. He barely stopped himself from putting his hand on her shoulder, but instead just swiveled his stool around all the way to face her. “Even the Northern California–versus–Southern California burrito fights—I think it’s great that even different parts of the state have such strong views on burritos, and I happily eat them all.”

  She picked up another cookie.

  “So do I, but I have to admit that my loyalties lie with the Mission burrito. It’s going to be hard to get used to the Los Angeles version, but I’ll try.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “So, Max, any favorite local places for me?”

  He reached across the bar and grabbed Krystal’s pen.

  “Find me some paper and I’ll make you a list. But first, you’re moving out of this hotel soon, I imagine? Where will you be living? I have favorites all over L.A., but if you live on the Westside, you won’t spend a lot of time east, and vice versa.”

  She pulled a legal pad out of her bag and tore off a sheet for him.

  “That’s a detail about living in L.A. that I already knew—I’ll be on the Eastside. Silver Lake.”

  He started writing.

  “Good choice. And there are even a few places over that way where I can recommend the desserts.”

  He scribbled down the names of all of the places he could remember, and vague location markers for the ones he couldn’t—“that taco truck on Olympic” was one of his notes. He knew if he pulled his phone out, he could look up exact names and addresses, but he didn’t want to deal with his phone right now. There would be so many crises—texts and emails and news alerts he needed a break from. He was enjoying this moment of pretending he was just Max. He needed at least thirty more minutes off from being Senator Powell.

  And at least thirty more minutes to talk to, and look at, Olivia. He’d noticed her as soon as he walked in; she looked so joyful and alive, he couldn’t help but notice. Her warm brown skin glowed as she laughed, her eyes lit up as she talked, and her hair refused to stay in the bun she’d tried to trap it in, her curls dancing in a halo around her face. Most of the time when she looked at him, she wasn’t smiling, but that just made it all the more valuable when she did. She wore a silky pink shirt, and a thin gold necklace that disappeared under it, and he found the entire co
mbination incredibly alluring. He wanted to follow that necklace down, but he forced his eyes back to his list so he wouldn’t stare.

  Olivia asked questions as he wrote, and they chatted about food and Los Angeles and hotel horror stories. This fun, easy conversation was the most relaxed he’d been in months. How was it that someone like him, who spent all day every day talking to people, felt so lonely for personal connection, and so happy to have found it, if only for a little while? The whole time they talked, he was afraid she’d ask him what he did—he didn’t want to lie to her, but he also didn’t want to tell her the truth and break this spell. But while they talked about a lot of other things, she never asked him that, thank goodness.

  “Anything else for either of you?” Krystal picked up their long-ago-drained coffee cups and the empty cookie plate.

  Olivia shook her head and glanced at her wrist.

  “Oh God, it’s after eleven. I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ll take the check, thanks, Krystal.”

  Max sighed and nodded. This night had to end sometime.

  “Me, too.”

  They each signed their checks and walked together to the elevator. He pressed twelve; she pressed eight. They were silent for the first few floors.

  He could see more of her now that they were off those bar stools. She was shorter than he’d assumed, with generous hips, that incredible chest he’d noticed before, and very sexy black high heels. She had a tiny smile that hovered around her soft pink lips. He wondered if it was about him.

  He didn’t want her floor to come, he realized. He didn’t want her to get off. Right now he’d welcome a power outage, an earthquake, any emergency that would cause them to get stuck together in this elevator so he could spend a few more minutes talking to this woman who made him laugh, and relax, and who had no idea who he was. Maybe after that they’d go out for a drink on purpose. Maybe after the drink he’d pull her close, and kiss her, and she’d wrap an arm around his waist and kiss him back. And then maybe . . .

  But the elevator kept moving.

  “It was great to meet you, Olivia,” he said in a rush. “And welcome back to California.”

  She smiled at him one last time as the elevator doors opened on her floor.

  “Thanks, Max. Have a good night.”

  The doors closed behind her, and he dropped his head in his hands. He’d lost all of his game in these past few years, hadn’t he? He’d spent hours chatting up a hot, smart, funny woman at a bar, and hadn’t even asked for her number? He’d written her a list of restaurants in Los Angeles, for God’s sake, and hadn’t even thought to put his number at the top of it? Or—what was wrong with him?—he could have asked for her email address to send her more restaurants, and then found a way to ask her out then.

  He shook his head as he let himself into his room. This was the first woman who had sparked his interest in over two years, and he’d just let her get off the elevator? Sure, he was attracted to her for lots of reasons, but he also really missed having someone around who treated him normally—someone who made fun of him a little, laughed at him, was relaxed with him, in that way Olivia had been tonight.

  He should have asked for her number.

  * * *

  * * *

  Olivia shook her head as she walked into her hotel room. For a minute there in the elevator, she’d thought Max in the baseball hat was going to ask her out. And honestly, for a minute there in the elevator, she would have said yes. She hadn’t realized until they’d gotten in the elevator how tall he was. Or how nicely his T-shirt gripped his biceps. Or how warm those dark brown eyes of his were. Thank goodness her floor had arrived when it had. What was it about elevators, anyway?

  It really was for the best that Max hadn’t asked her out. Sure, he could give good banter at a bar, but what in the world would she do on a date with a guy like him? She’d eventually have to ask him what he did, he’d say he was an actor, and then she’d have to ask him what he’d been in, and he’d say that one commercial and that other episode of Law & Order and she’d say, “Ohhh, that’s where I know you from!” And then he’d go off on another long list of his acting credits and bore her to tears and that would be the end of it.

  Plus, she didn’t have time for men right now! Her firm was her first—really her only—priority; she had to get it all set up, keep her handful of existing clients happy, network with local lawyers and potential clients, and do everything she could to drum up new business. She actually wanted to concentrate on all that! Not some guy who charmed her at a bar after she’d had a little too much gin, but likely had nothing to his credit other than that perfect smile.

  Okay, and those biceps. And those big, warm, nicely manicured hands.

  Why hadn’t he just invited her up to his room? That would have been the best of both worlds. Sure, she didn’t have time to date men right now, but she had time for a few hours of stress relief. Ah well. Too late for that.

  She kicked off her heels, turned on the TV to the local news, and went into the bathroom to wash her face and take out her contacts. When she came out, the reporter was saying something about the homeless problem in L.A., and she listened as she changed into her pajamas.

  “Earlier today, senator Max Powell had a press conference on Skid Row that some are calling just a publicity stunt. But others are grateful to the senator for shining light on this problem.”

  “It’s shameful the way we’ve treated our fellow citizens, many of whom are veterans,” a strangely familiar voice said.

  Olivia looked up at the TV and promptly dropped her pajama pants on the floor.

  Was that. . . ?

  Could that be?

  She sank down onto the edge of the bed. Yes, it was. It could be. Max in the baseball hat from the bar was not some C-list actor. He was United States senator Max Powell.

  Holy shit.

  She laughed out loud and picked up the phone to call her sister.

  “You are never going to believe what happened to me tonight.”

  Chapter Two

  Max walked toward the hotel ballroom, his staffer Andy by his side. They were there for the anniversary fundraiser for a newish community center in an underserved part of L.A. He was happy to help salute this place, and plus, his speech would be a good opportunity to push his big criminal justice reform bill. He hoped that when the Senate came back after this recess, he’d be able to get some traction on it.

  He took a deep breath and straightened his tie. He loved doing events like the one today—he always had. He loved the part of his job that was speeches and shaking hands and talking to people; he found people and their stories endlessly interesting. But he had to be at least twenty-five percent more for these things: louder, friendlier, more intense, with a firmer handshake. People were coming to see Senator Powell, after all—he needed to give them what they were looking for. But sometimes when he walked into these rooms, he felt he had to push his ON button.

  He and the community center’s board president walked into the ballroom to a round of applause. Max sat patiently through his introduction, dropped his speech on the podium, and smiled at the crowd before he started talking.

  He glanced around the room a lot as he spoke. It helped him to connect with the people there, and to see if his speech was landing well or not. If he saw people on their phones for most of the speech, he knew he had to go back and make some changes before the next time. This one was going well; there were lots of smiles and laughs all around the room. Midway through, he looked at a table to the right of the stage, and that’s when he saw her, staring straight at him, with that knowing look on her face he remembered so well.

  Olivia. The woman from the hotel, three weeks ago. He’d spent the whole next day full of regret that he hadn’t at least gotten her number. He’d even gone back to the hotel bar the next night to see if she was there, but Krystal had told him Olivia had come to sa
y good-bye and had checked out of the hotel. He’d thought he would never see her again, and here she was.

  They made eye contact, and he grinned at her. She grinned back at him with that same cocky smile on her face she’d had at the bar. He really liked that smile. And once again, he felt like he’d won the lottery when it was directed at him.

  The crowd laughed, which reminded him he was in the middle of a speech and he should really pay attention to what he was saying. Thank God he’d done this kind of thing enough that he could daydream about the woman in front of him when he was halfway through a speech and still keep talking and making sense. But now he needed to concentrate.

  He took a sip of water, looked at the other side of the room from Olivia, and cracked a joke that got the whole ballroom laughing again. He was going to finish this speech, and then he wasn’t going to let that woman leave the room until he’d gotten to talk to her again.

  To what end, though? Was he really going to ask her out? Did he really have the time and energy to try to navigate dating someone not even two years into his first (and hopefully not only) six-year Senate term?

  He wasn’t sure. But he’d thought about her every day for the past three weeks. He’d gotten a second chance; he couldn’t waste it.

  He finished his speech to a round of applause and made his way off the stage and down into the ballroom to chat with the crowd . . . and to find someone to introduce him to Olivia. It would help if he positioned himself by her table . . . like so.

  He didn’t have long to wait.

  “Senator, can I introduce you to Olivia Monroe?” The board president had his hand on Olivia’s shoulder. “She’s an old friend of mine and a fantastic attorney who just moved to L.A., and I’m trying to convince her to join our board. I know she could be a wonderful asset to us.”

  She’s a fantastic . . . attorney? But she’d said she was an accountant.

  He kept the bland, professional smile on his face and shook her hand.