Party of Two Read online

  She picked up her phone to text him.

  Hi Senator—Thanks for the cake, it’s delicious. My schedule is pretty booked for the next few weeks, but

  No, come on, that sounded laughable. He was a senator; his schedule was likely four times as packed as hers was.

  Hi Senator—Thanks for the cake! But I’m not sure if

  No, the exclamation point sent the wrong signal.

  Hi Senator—The cake was very thoughtful, thank you. However

  Should she call him Senator? Or Max? He’d signed the card Max, so it seemed overly formal to the point of rudeness to call him Senator after that.

  Hi Max—Thanks for the cake, we all loved it. But I don’t know if

  “Max” sounded too informal. He was a senator, after all, and she’d only really talked to him that one time. Better to not call him anything.

  Hi, this is Olivia Monroe. Thanks for the cake, it was delicious. I hope all is well with you.

  Well, that seemed perfectly appropriate and very cold. She didn’t feel that cold toward him.

  She sighed. Fine. She’d call him.

  Luckily, since it was just after six p.m., he was probably still in a meeting, or at a dinner, or with his staff or something—it would probably go to voice mail. If there was one thing that being a lawyer had taught her, it was how to leave a polite but firm voice mail. That was much easier than a text message.

  She tapped out his number on her cell phone and waited for it to ring. She definitely wouldn’t have to talk to him; no senator would have his ringer on. And he definitely wouldn’t answer a number he didn’t know.

  “Hello?”

  Shit.

  “Hello, Max?” Maybe it was a wrong number. It was probably a wrong number—she always did that when she actually had to type a number into her phone.

  “Olivia?” His voice was warm, and slightly amused.

  Nope. Not a wrong number.

  “Um, yeah. Hi. How’d you know it was me?”

  He laughed.

  “Well, I only give this number out to a handful of people, and everyone else who has it is in my contacts. And you told me you were from Northern California, which made sense with your phone number—you never wanted a New York number?”

  He only gave this number out to a handful of people?

  “Oh, I thought about getting a New York number on and off, but I’m so glad I never got rid of my Oakland number,” she said. “After a while, it was a point of pride for me. Plus, I think there was some part of me that always knew I was going to come home, even in my most insufferable ‘New York is the greatest city in the world!’ phase. Thank goodness I had the sense to take the California bar right out of law school, or else this whole process would have been a lot harder.”

  She didn’t know why she was babbling on about her phone number and taking the bar. Why was she even on the phone with a senator in the first place? Not just on the phone, but on his private number. What the hell was going on?

  “I had that ‘New York is the greatest city in the world’ phase, too, in my midtwenties,” he said. “The phase ended, but I still love that city. I’m always grateful when I get to go there, though these days my trips there aren’t as . . . exciting, let’s say, as they used to be.”

  She grinned.

  “I know you think that’s a product of your job, and I’m sure it partly is, but I’m here to tell you it’s also a product of your age. My twenties were exciting in New York, too, but then I reached that age where I got horrified when someone invited me to something that didn’t even start until nine p.m.”

  Did that make her sound uncool? Oh well, if it did, this man should know right off the bat that she wasn’t going to any midnight soirees with him.

  “Okay, fine, you’ve got me there,” he said. “Tonight I managed to get my staff to let me get home at five and have dinner alone here in my own house, and I’m thrilled about it.”

  Oh, so that’s why he’d answered the phone when she called. Well, at least she knew his staff wasn’t hanging around in the background.

  “I understand that so clearly,” she said. “When I finally moved into my house here in L.A., that first night I got to have dinner in my own kitchen again, instead of on a hotel bed or in a hotel bar . . . it was ‘shower after a ten-hour plane ride’ good.”

  He burst out laughing.

  “Okay, now you’re speaking my language,” he said. “I know very well exactly how wonderful that shower is. But don’t you miss Krystal and her perfect martinis?”

  Oh God. They’d been on the phone this long already and she hadn’t thanked him for the cake yet!

  “I do, but speaking of Krystal, thank you for the cake. It’s delicious.”

  “It was my pleasure,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure you knew that we do actually have good old-fashioned layer cakes in Los Angeles, even though most dessert menus don’t. That bakery is one of my favorites, and they have so many great cakes, I had a hard time deciding which one to send you.”

  She’d been so distracted by the note she hadn’t even bothered to look to see where it had come from. She looked at the box and scribbled down the name of the bakery.

  “What were you deciding between?” she asked.

  And how had he found the time to do this? Hadn’t he had events all day?

  “Well,” he said. “It was mostly between the chocolate one that I sent you, and a yellow cake with chocolate frosting, though carrot cake was a real dark horse. But in the end, I decided to go with the first one you’d mentioned at the bar—I figured that was the one you were craving the most.”

  She couldn’t believe he’d remembered the cakes she’d listed at the bar, and in what order.

  Was this for real? Was he just making it up that he’d thought about what kind of cake she’d liked the best, when he’d really delegated “send cake to new conquest” to a staffer?

  “By the way, I also know some great places for pie, if you’re interested in joining me for dinner at one of them.”

  “Dinner” was just code for a one-night stand, she knew that, but that part she didn’t really mind. It was everything else about Max Powell that gave her pause.

  Oh hell with it, Olivia—he sent you a cake, didn’t he? Who cares if he placed the call himself or if someone else did; his staffer wasn’t there with the two of you at the bar that night to take notes and remember your cake preferences. Plus, remember how hot he is?

  But as nice as that was, she was still far too busy to go out with him, and she opened her mouth to tell him so.

  “Sure,” she said instead. “I’d love to join you for pie.”

  Chapter Three

  Olivia rubbed her hands together as she tried to figure out what to wear to her date with a senator. It had been a while since she’d had some fun, relaxed, no-strings sex, and she deserved this. She’d had a stressful-as-hell few months, with no end in sight. Maybe a fun night with the hot senator was exactly what she needed to give herself a little stress relief.

  She had no illusions this would be any more than one night—all she wanted from tonight was a fun romp with someone she found very attractive, and she was certain that’s all Max Powell wanted out of her, too. Though she had to give it to him; cake delivery was the best booty call invitation she’d ever received.

  She’d given up on real relationships with men a while ago, anyway. Men never really liked her for her, they never made her feel wanted or cared about, and she decided a few years ago that she’d had enough. She’d had casual things with guys since then from time to time, but she’d thrown all of her energy into her career. Which was where it was going to stay.

  They were going to some place called Pie ‘n Burger, which seemed like a glorified diner—her favorite type of place—though that meant she probably shouldn’t wear her favorite heels. She reached for that
one pair of jeans that made her butt look fantastic and her favorite red blouse, with one fewer button fastened than usual. She’d noticed Max’s quick glimpse toward her cleavage at the bar. Might as well give him a taste of what he was looking for.

  When she walked into the restaurant, she looked around for him. The place was bustling and crowded, but she saw him immediately.

  “Olivia!”

  He came over to her with that big smile on his face. It was far too charming. Even when she’d made fun of him to his face at the bar, that smile had told her he was in on the joke.

  “Hi.” She smiled back at him. She couldn’t help it.

  He had his baseball cap from the bar on, and glasses this time. He looked like an off-duty college professor. She noticed for the first time that when he smiled at her, he had a tiny dimple in his chin. Damn it. How was it possible he was even more attractive tonight?

  “It’s good to see you,” he said.

  He didn’t pull her into a hug, which she’d sort of expected him to, but he did put his hand on her arm and stand very close to her while they waited for their table.

  She looked up at him and kept her voice low.

  “I have to ask: are the baseball cap and glasses your disguise so you can go out in public without being recognized, like Superman?”

  Max grinned at her and moved his hand up and down her arm in a way she could feel all the way to her toes.

  “Try them and see,” he said.

  She reached up with both hands and slid his glasses off, and put them on her own face. She could see perfectly.

  He laughed and took them back. The way he slowly pulled them off her made her shiver.

  “They look good on you,” he said. “The glasses are an extra precaution, but the amazing thing is that I manage to hide in plain sight everywhere in L.A. I don’t know if it’s just that there are so many people in here who are far more well-known than I am, or that I’m unrecognizable outside of my suit and tie and with my hair all . . .”

  “Ken doll–like?” she helpfully supplied.

  He sighed and shook his head, but with laughter in his eyes. His lips were full and looked soft, yet firm. How had she not noticed that before?

  “Unfortunately, yes, Ken doll–like was exactly what I meant. It’s usually much less tamed when I’m off duty.” He laughed. “Maybe it’s just that I look like Generic White Man Number Five, so I seem familiar to everyone, but not enough so they actually wonder who I am. Sometimes people figure it out after a while, but the baseball hat and/or the glasses help.”

  Olivia glanced at the hat and shook her head.

  “I’m evidence that the hat works—I had no idea who you were when we met at the bar.”

  Had he known that already? She wasn’t sure.

  “I wondered about that,” he said. “I thought you didn’t know, at least at the beginning, but there were a few times you sort of looked at me like you were trying to place me.” He laughed. “I’m sorry, is it weird that I remember that?”

  Yeah, it was weird, but in a good way. She liked that he’d paid such close attention to her.

  “I was trying to place you, but I just assumed you were an actor,” she said. “I’m not exactly saying I thought you were Generic White Man Number Five, but . . .”

  “But you’re not not saying that, are you?”

  She just grinned at him, and he laughed again.

  The host led them to their table, and Max slid his hand from her arm to the small of her back as they walked together. She could feel the warmth of his firm hand through her blouse. Suddenly, she was very glad she was here tonight.

  “When did you realize I wasn’t an actor?” he asked when they sat down. “Was it at the luncheon yesterday?”

  She shook her head.

  “No, before that. I got to my room and turned on the TV and . . .”

  “And saw my press conference?”

  He rested his hand on the table, right near hers. It was warm, strong, and browned by the sun.

  “Yes, exactly. Did you watch yourself, too? Isn’t that a little . . .”

  “Embarrassing? Uncomfortable? Stressful?”

  She let herself grin at him.

  “I was going to say ‘masturbatory,’ but those words work as well.”

  He laughed out loud.

  “Okay, yes, that works, too.” His cheeks got slightly pink. It was strangely . . . cute? “And yeah, it’s that and all of the other things. I’ve more or less gotten used to watching myself, even though I hate it—it’s basically trial by fire when you run for office, because your staff makes you watch yourself, and then they criticize everything you do to make you ultra-aware of your most annoying habits. But I don’t do it by choice.”

  He pushed his sleeves up. She tried not to stare at his forearms.

  Tried and failed.

  “So that’s how you found out who I was,” he said. “I’d wondered if it wasn’t until you saw me walk up to the podium yesterday afternoon that it clicked.”

  She shook her head.

  “No, but I did wonder if you’d remember me. I was surprised that you did.”

  He looked at her, and a slow smile dawned over his face.

  “Olivia, I promise, you’re unforgettable.”

  A warm glow went through her. She knew this was just his politician charm offensive, but hell if it wasn’t working on her.

  “Now.” He opened his menu. “We should figure out what we’re going to order before the waitress comes around again.”

  She looked at the top of the menu.

  “Well, I assumed we would get . . . pie and burgers. Am I correct there?”

  Now he rolled his eyes at her.

  “Yes, thank you, smart-ass, you are correct there, but the question is what kind of pie? Just a warning: the burgers are good, but the fries need some work. The pies, on the other hand, are great.”

  After how good that cake was, she believed him. And after the way he looked at her, she was very glad to be here with him right now.

  * * *

  * * *

  Max put the menu down and smiled at Olivia. He had more fun talking to this woman than to anyone he’d talked to in a long time.

  “Okay, I know what burger I want,” Olivia said. “But what pie should I get?”

  “How do you feel about sharing food?” he asked her.

  Before she could answer, he hurried to qualify that question.

  “If you don’t like to, or we don’t know each other well enough, or whatever, that’s fine, it’s just that . . .”

  “I know it’s fine.” The look on her face said, I don’t care about what you think of me enough to pretend to you. Well, this woman was certainly bad for his ego.

  Or good, maybe, depending on who you talked to.

  “But actually, I’m fine with sharing,” she said. “I grew up in a very sharing-food kind of family. And plus, I’d rather have lots of things to try than just one.”

  Oh, thank goodness.

  “I did not grow up in a very sharing-food kind of family, but I’m with you on that last thing. I always want to try more stuff on a menu than I have appetite for.” He grinned at her. “So I was thinking we could get a few slices of pie and share.”

  She looked at the list of pies on the menu and then back up at him.

  “That depends on what kinds you wanted. I was thinking hard about both the apple and the boysenberry, and then I was also intrigued by the lemon meringue, and then there’s the pecan, and . . .”

  A woman after his own heart.

  “I like all of those,” he said. “Unfortunately, there’s no strawberry rhubarb here.”

  She shrugged, which did incredible things to that V in her neckline. This woman got more attractive every time he looked at her.

  “We can�
��t have everything.”

  Just then, the waitress came over to take their order. They both ordered cheeseburgers and fries, with everything.

  “We’ll go ahead and order dessert now,” he said. “We want slices of apple, boysenberry, lemon meringue, pecan, and cherry pie.”

  The waitress looked around at their booth.

  “Anyone else joining you?”

  He shook his head and grinned. Olivia covered her face with her hands.

  “Nope.”

  When the waitress walked away, Olivia’s head was still in her hands. Finally, she looked up at him. With, he was relieved to see, a grin on her face.

  “When I listed all of those pies,” she said, “that was just, you know, for discussion, so we could decide which ones to order. That wasn’t me saying we had to order them all.”

  Max liked how, every time Olivia laughed at something he said or did, he felt like it was hard won. Even when it was clear she was laughing at him, like right now.

  “I know, but this is your first time here! Plus I want you to be able to accurately tell all of your friends back in New York how much better L.A. is—you can’t do that unless you have plenty of evidence.”

  Olivia brushed her hair back from her face. One curl immediately sprung back. He wanted to lean forward and tuck it behind her ear, but stopped himself.

  “That would be a waste of time. There are two kinds of people who live in New York: the ones who know L.A. is better but refuse to move, and the ones who will never acknowledge to their dying day that there’s anything good about California. Oh, well, there’s the third kind—the ones who are trying to get out. That was me for the past few years. But I never bother to have those arguments about which city is better, partly because the answer is obvious to me, but also because those arguments are pointless and make everyone mad for no reason.”

  He was pretty sure she’d just insulted him again. Hardly anyone ever did that to his face these days, not even people who strenuously disagreed with him politically.

  It was kind of . . . nice?

  “I was going to ask why you moved back to California from New York, but I guess that just answered that question. How long did it take you to get back here?”