Midnight (McKenna Chronicles Book 1) (5 page)

“I’m
okay,” I say without explanation, thankful 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 gingerly 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,
we’re leaving 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
deeply 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", he says, jumping right
in to discuss the details. “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 communications manager, and Ella Montgomery, manages my 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. You
will have your own personal quarters,” he says.

 “I’ll
need to go home and get my things together. I’d like to start on Monday. Will
you have Mr. Daugherty send me the information as it relates to the location of
the campaign headquarters and the travel plans? I’ll also want an outline of
your expectations for the blog and social media sites; how do you envision the
chronicle of your campaign? With your input, I’ll put together a proposal as it
relates to Internet communication and advertising. If you approve, we can have
most of it up by the end of the week.” It feels good to put aside the curious
connection I feel to this relative stranger.

“Yes,
absolutely.” He glances at his phone, which is vibrating against the
tablecloth. “McKenna.” He picks it up, and his voice is clear with authority.
His tone is different on the phone, different than his tone with me. Looking
directly into my eyes, he responds, “Yes, in about ten minutes.” He listens for
a minute more. “In addition, I’ll need you to get Ms. Carter specifics on the
campaign as soon as possible.” “Yes, Monday.” After a pause he hangs up without
a farewell salutation. His face, once relaxed and at ease, has become somber
and serious. Colin McKenna is back to business.

The
waiter approaches, “Sir, it was a pleasure serving you today. Miss.” He nods in
my direction and then walks off to the kitchen. I assume he has the bill routed
to Colin’s room.  

Taking
the napkin from his lap, Colin stands and walks behind my chair to pull it back
for me. It’s time to go. As I stand, he offers a hand to assist, ever the
gentleman. The amazing feeling is there again but I manage it much better,
expecting it this time.

“Thank
you,” I say as I look into his eyes. There are many reasons to thank him:
breakfast, my new job allowing me to travel the United States, the opportunity
to report on a presidential campaign . . .

“You’re
welcome, Charlie.” He squeezes my hand before letting it drop to my side.

He
motions for me to lead the way. The restaurant is housing more patrons than I’d
thought. I've been consumed with him for the last hour. Lost in thought and
focused on the path to the door, I fail to see a man abruptly push his chair
back into the aisle, hitting my hip with force.

“Oh.”
I groan as it connects harshly and I lose my footing. Colin’s arms wrap around
my waist, keeping me upright, pulling my back tightly to his chest. His face is
next to mine.

“Charlie?”
His breath is warm on my cheek as he whispers my name, the sound resonating
unexpectedly, a rousing siren to my long dormant heart. An absurd, illogical
force grips tightly and I’m its marionette, a puppet controlled, manipulated by
an unseen figure bound to its demands. Closing my eyes, I bask for an instant
in his embrace, the heat radiating from him to me fracturing my heart into
scattered palpitations.

Colin’s
breathing speeds momentarily before he reflexively pulls away, setting me
soundly on my feet and letting go.

“I’m
so sorry, I didn’t see you.” The man looks to me and then at the senator, his
face paling.

“It’s
okay. Please, enjoy your breakfast,” I say, trying to ease any angst he may
feel. I walk forward again, wishing to forget my unbidden and embarrassing
reaction to this relative stranger who follows behind closely, his arm hovering
protectively around my waist. The impact site, just below my hipbone throbs.
Subconsciously I rub it to sooth the sting, surely I’ll have a bruise by
morning.

Colin
pushes the door open and we exit together. When we’re alone in the lobby, his
arm gently moves against mine so I face him. “Are you okay?”

I’m
touched by the distress readily apparent in his gaze.

“Yes,”
I pat my hip, “lots of padding for protection.” I smile at my own joke, yet he
doesn’t look pleased or appreciative of my self-deprecating sense of humor.
 

“Charlie,”
he begins, but pauses almost immediately. I sense he’s struggling with
something, but when he starts again he’s back to business. “I’ll have Evan send
you all of the information so you’re comfortable with a Monday start. I’ll see
you the following week,” he gazes in the distance for a second, “in North
Carolina.”

I
hold my hand out to him one more time, not sure why, other than I want to draw
out this last moment with him. His hand is warm, firm and electric, very much
like his eyes that draw me in and hold me captive. It would be very easy to get
lost in them; lost in him.

“Goodbye,
Charlie,” he says, his blue eyes sparkling like the sun glinting off of the
ocean.  

“Colin,
have a safe trip.” It’s the first time I’ve said his name. I know it and I
think he may too, from the faint parting of his lips. “Goodbye,” I whisper,
pulling my hand from his, quickly turning to walk toward the exit of the hotel.
I don’t dare look back, knowing if I do I may do or say something I can’t
recover from.

The
sting of the cold January air is a welcome slap against my heated face,
breaking through the haze created by this crazy intensity. Imagined or real,
it's profound and disturbing. Holy shit; I’m going to work with him for months.
Now that I’m away from him, I’m rethinking my agreement; I need to stay away
from Colin McKenna.

“CHARLIE,
YOU’RE CRAZY
if you back out now!” Ali’s tone is sharp with her anger.

“Ali,”
I sigh, “I know my mental status is questionable and will be even more so if I
decline this assignment, but please, please consider what I just told you.” I
have spent the last thirty minutes filling her in on the press conference and
subsequent one-on-one time with Colin McKenna.

“That's
even more reason to go Charlie!” It’s her turn for exasperation. “Most people
don’t feel half of that intensity in a lifetime. You’re contemplating ignoring
it completely for a reason I can’t figure out.”

“I
just told you: I could ruin him!” I lean my elbow against the driver-side
window. Maybe it wasn’t the smartest idea to call Ali from the car, leaving
only one hand on the wheel.

“Oh,
please. Little Charlie Carter cannot bring down a presidential candidate. You
have done nothing wrong.”

“You
know that’s not true,” I say it on a whisper. It still hurts to think about.

“Would
you please stop beating yourself up over something that happened fifteen years
ago? You deserve to move past it, finally put it behind you. Please,” she begs
me for the millionth time.

“Okay,
I’ll try. I really will.”

“One
day at a time, remember? Just go, have some fun, enjoy meeting new people.
Maybe you’ll even get laid.”

“Ali
Carter!” I scream, but there’s a smile on my face.

“Come
on, Charlie. If you would just let yourself relax, you’d love it; trust me.”

“You’re
terrible, but I love you. Seriously, Ali, you’re really the best.”

“I
know.” She giggles and then gets serious again. “I love you, Charlie girl.
Promise to call and e-mail all the time so I know you’re okay?” She’s back to big-sister
Ali.

“I
promise.
Bye.”                        

I’ll
be at campaign headquarters in less than ten minutes. I left Colin three days
ago, rushing home to pack and get things settled for a lengthy time away. I
have second-guessed my decision to accept this offer one hundred times over the
last seventy-two hours. Even now, minutes out from my first day, the panic has
officially taken hold. On one hand I’m extremely excited; this is an
opportunity few people will experience. On another, it’s completely out of the
scope of my qualifications; the enormity of the endeavor and the people I’ll
work with are way out of my league. The fear of failure is almost crippling,
and years of self-doubt and insecurities threaten to strike, waiting for the
perfect time to break my confidence. I swallow down the angst, repeating my
lifelong mantra—one day at a time.

Campaign
headquarters is a one-story building that looks like any other you would find
in a business district. It’s an old structure, recently renovated to a modern
exterior with red brick and large floor-to-ceiling windows flanking either side
of a glass door. It stands apart because of the patriotic symbols strategically
placed throughout the exterior space. Campaign signs artistically line the
walk, a large United States flag proudly flies atop a large mast and a sign
etched into the glass door declares
McKenna
for the People
as a
greeting to anyone who enters.

Taking
a long, deep breath, I push through the door, conscious that my fate is
sealed—I’m really doing this. A young, snappy brunette sitting at a
receptionist desk says, “Good morning. How may I help you?” Her smile is
exuberant.

I
can’t help my answering grin; hers is infectious. “Hi. I’m Charlie Carter . .
.” Before I can finish, her hazel eyes grow wide as she jumps up from her seat.

“Ms.
Carter. Welcome. We’ve been expecting you.” She rounds from the desk to shake
my hand. “I’m Molly. Please follow me and I’ll take you back to Mr. Daugherty.”

“Oh,
I wasn’t expecting to meet with him. I thought he was gone this week.”

“There
was a last minute change to some plans.” She glances over her shoulder at me as
she rushes forward down a curved hall. The walls are the same brick as the
exterior, with rows of pictures lining the length—frozen memories of Colin at
some time in his life, most I suspect from the last five to six years. We’re
walking too fast for me to examine any of them closely; but the common theme is
his brilliant smile and breathtaking good looks.

Evan
is working on the computer when we enter, a phone cradled in his neck as he
types, holding a no-nonsense tone with whomever he’s talking to. There's no
sign of the humor I’ve heard underlying his voice. “I don’t care what it takes,
just make it happen, Smith. We need to get him before Davidson does. Next week.
Call me when it’s confirmed.” He turns to me as he hangs up. “Charlie.”
Standing, he reaches for my hand. “It’s nice to see you. Have a seat.” The
laughter is back as he waves at a chair.

Molly
disappears, closing the door discreetly behind her.

“Can
I get you anything? Coffee, water?”

“No,
thank you. I’m fine. I have to admit I’m surprised to see you here. I thought
you had already left.”

His
answer is lighthearted, as is his grin. “Colin had some unfinished business he
needs to take care of before leaving. We’ll be back and forth from Indiana for
a while before taking to the road for longer periods of time.”

Oh,
this is a change.
I purposefully switch gears so I don’t get lost in the
reasons why. “Were you able to review the information I sent with an outline of
the site? I incorporated everything Colin asked for, and I added some of my
ideas to make it more interactive . . .” I trail off, knowing I’m talking with
nervous energy.

“I
did. Your concept is exceptional; I’m impressed. My plan is to have you sit
with the leads in the office to learn their business and Colin’s so you have a
better understanding of his platform and campaign. As you get to know him,
you’ll find Colin is an exceptionally honest person; he’ll want the site to
mirror that.”

I’m
thrilled he likes my concept and excited to get down to the details. He
continues, “Technically, your domain is under the communications division,
which is managed by John Montgomery. John is responsible for maintaining
consistency in product development and messaging. He has oversight of all
printed materials, press releases, advertising and anything stamped with Colin
McKenna’s name or associated to him in any way. For now, I’ll be your lead, so
run everything through me and I’ll keep him in the loop.”