Songbird (26 page)

And the reason for that happiness just pulled into the driveway.

I race through the kitchen and fling the door open just as Devin walks up the steps. His eyes widen when he sees me.

“Callie?”

Without a word, I leap into his arms and bury my face against his neck. He wraps his arms around me and carries me inside. Devin sits down at the kitchen table and gathers me into his lap, holding me close.

“Callie, what is it?”

I wipe away my tears and gaze into his worried, handsome face. There’s so much I want to say to him, but I’m not brave enough. Not yet. Instead, I smile and gently stroke his cheek.

“You make me happy, too.”

“B
ack to reality,” I mutter, gazing wearily at the line of traffic. “You know, Oliver, sometimes I hate living in the city.”

My photographer and I are now fifteen minutes late for my interview with real estate mogul and mayoral candidate Dominic Barkley.

Oliver grins. “You say that every time you come back from your father’s house. By the way, does Daddy approve?”

“Daddy does indeed. To be honest, I think Devin’s the son my father never had.”

He laughs. “Awesome. It’s always nice to have the support of the parentals. I hope to experience that myself someday.”

I smile sadly. Leo and Oliver have had an uphill battle with both sets of parents since they moved in together. Apparently, the fact they’re now sharing an apartment made it officially official that their sons were gay. The guys try to make light of it, but I know it bothers them . . . just like it would’ve bothered me if Dad hadn’t accepted Devin or if his parents hadn’t welcomed me with open arms.

“They’ll come around someday, Ollie.”

He doesn’t look convinced, but he smiles anyway.

When we finally reach the campaign headquarters of Dominic Barkley, I try not to roll my eyes at the god-awful red, white, and blue streamers that welcome us as we step inside. We’re greeted by his campaign manager—a fiery redhead named Jocelyn. According to the tabloids, Mr. Barkley recently left his wife of twenty years for a curvy, voluptuous woman, and Jocelyn definitely fits the bill. My suspicions are confirmed when she leads us to his office. Oliver and I hang back while Mr. Barkley finishes his phone call. Jocelyn walks over to his desk and whispers something in his ear. She smiles and bats her eyelashes while he continues his call and slides his hand along her ass.

So disgusting.

“The man is running for elected office,” Oliver murmurs. “Don’t they know they’re supposed to do that stuff behind closed doors and
not
in front of the press?”

“I guess not. What are you waiting for? Take a picture.”

With a grin, Oliver lifts his camera. Who knows? Maybe someday Jocelyn will get tired of being manhandled by her boss. If she files a sexual harassment suit, we’ll have the evidence . . . and the scoop.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Mr. Barkley says, standing up from his desk and walking over to us. He flashes his phony, pearly-white grin and shakes our hands.

“Dominic, this is Callie Franklin from the
Journal
,” Jocelyn says.

“And this is my photographer, Oliver Grant. Thank you for making time for us, Mr. Barkley. We apologize for running late. Traffic was horrible.”

“No apology necessary. And please, call me Dominic.”

His gaze rakes over me, and my skin instantly crawls. Jocelyn clears her throat and offers me a chair. I place my phone on the edge of the desk.

“I prefer to record, if that’s all right?”

“Of course.”

Jocelyn offers to give Oliver a tour of the office, but he must detect my unease because he politely declines and sits down next to me.

The interview takes about thirty minutes. Dominic’s answers, while articulate, are well-rehearsed and purposely vague. Politicians like to do that. On the off-chance they’re elected, they don’t want their responses, or their campaign promises, to come back and bite them in the ass.

“A few photos?” Jocelyn asks at the end of the interview.

“That would be great. Thanks.”

She suggests using the fireplace as a backdrop. I step back and let Oliver do his thing while making a few additional notes in my phone. When I look up again, I find Dominic’s eyes fixed on me.

Creep.

Once pictures are over, I’m more than ready to get back to the office.

“Would you like a quick tour of the headquarters?” Dominic asks as we head to the door.

“We’ve taken enough of your time, Mr. Barkley. Maybe some other time.”

“Yes, Dominic. You have a meeting downtown,” Jocelyn says, her tone clipped and cold. Clearly, the woman’s unhappy with the amount of attention her boss is showing me. “When should we expect to see the feature in the paper, Miss Franklin?”

“Next Friday. Mr. Barkley will be included with the rest of the candidates in our special election edition.”

“I certainly look forward to reading it,” Dominic says, his gaze roaming down my legs.

Note to self: No more skirts.

I thank them for their time before grabbing Oliver by the arm and ushering him toward the exit. I hear Jocelyn’s shrill voice screaming at her boss before the door slams.

“Creepy,” Oliver mumbles. “Did you see the way he was looking at you?”

I nod and dig for my keys. “Thank God I’ll never have to see him again.”

“Don’t count on it. He’s leading in the polls.”

“Well, I’m not voting for him. The man’s disgusting.”

“Agreed, but I must say you do look hot in the skirt. You’re all glowy, too. That sweet country air must do a body good.”

I grin and climb into the car. Oliver slams the passenger-side door and reaches for his seat belt.

“By the way, don’t tell Devin,” he says.

“Don’t tell Devin what?”

“About the creepy bastard and how he couldn’t keep his eyes off you.”

I frown. “I hadn’t even thought about telling him.
Should
I tell him?”

“Did you hear what I just said? No, you shouldn’t. If someone looked at Leo the way that man just looked at you . . .”

“You’d be jealous? Seriously?”

“I’d be
pissed
.”

We’re quiet on our way back to the office. In my mad dash to work, I’d skipped breakfast, so when my stomach growls, Oliver insists we stop at the deli for lunch. He places his order while I check out the condiments.

What will it be, Baby? Mayo or mustard?

I smile at the girl behind the counter. “Turkey and cheese with . . . extra mayo. And banana peppers!”

I’ve never eaten a banana pepper in my life, but right now, my body’s
craving
it.

Oliver wrinkles his nose. “Gag.”

“It’s what the baby wants.”

I’m starving by the time we get back to the office. I don’t even turn on my computer before digging into my sandwich. I’ve nearly finished stuffing my face when Leo peeks over my cubicle.

“Oh, Callie . . . ugh, what is that smell?”

“Shut up. It’s delicious.”

“You’re insane. That disgusting smell will kill the pretty flowers!”

“What flowers?”

Leo grins and nods toward the stairs. Standing there is a delivery boy holding a vase full of tulips.

“Ooh, your favorite! Are those from Oliver?”

He rolls his eyes. “I wish. But no, stinky breath. They’re for you.”

For me? Tulips?

Leo waves the teenage delivery boy to my desk. He’s not Devin’s usual guy, and these definitely aren’t Devin’s usual embarrassing display of white roses.

“Callie Franklin?”

“That’s me. Thanks.”

He places the vase on my desk and tells me to have a nice day. Leo reaches for the card.

“Are you cheating on me and Devin with some guy named . . . Dominic?”

I frantically snatch the card out of his hand.

Looking forward to reading your interview.

Perhaps next time we can talk about you.

What about dinner on Friday? ~Dominic

Shit.
My stomach lurches.

Something tells me I’m going to regret those banana peppers.

“You’re quiet tonight.”

Devin and I are in the living room. He’s on the floor with his back pressed against the sofa, checking his email. I’m stretched out on the couch, letting my fingers wander aimlessly through his hair while I try to figure out what to do.

“Sorry. It was just a long day.”

I’m not considering the invitation. Not at all. What I’m trying to decide is which, if any, of today’s crazy events I’m going to share with Devin. When Oliver saw the tulips and the card, he changed his tune quickly, insisting I tell Devin about the creepy asshole’s behavior during the interview.

Is it harmless flirting? Is it borderline stalkerish?

Will Devin laugh it off? Will he be jealous? Pissed?

I can’t be expected to make a sound decision when there are so many questions and just as many potential outcomes.

“Oh, how was your interview? Is Dominic Barkley still an asshole?”

“Yes,” I mutter.

Devin’s fingers freeze on his keyboard. “What happened?”