Prologue

Liz

He lowers his mouth to mine, and at first I don’t react. It’s as if my brain is too busy trying to make sense of the noise in my head, and it can’t be bothered to process the impossible-to-believe. Because “Sam’s father is kissing me” is about as easy to digest as someone screaming, “Run, that Yeti is gonna get you!”

This has to be one of those crazy dreams I have. Like the one where I find myself having sex with the guy who cuts my turkey at the supermarket deli. I don’t stop it in the dream because I’m not really making conscious decisions.

But when Travis Bradshaw sweeps his tongue against my lips, I snap back to reality and push him away, shoving him hard with both hands. He steps away, his face twisted into a grimace, then he turns his back to me.

My stomach roils and fills with that sick feeling of too many emotions at once. Shame, guilt, betrayal, regret, anger, loss, and, yeah, disgust. This man, the father of the man I love, the politician I once respected—my boss—disgusts me. I can’t separate one emotion from another, and they all pile onto one another in a glob of paralyzing fear.

“How long have you known it was me?” I ask. Of all the questions and angry accusations swirling through my head, I’m not sure why that’s the first out of my mouth.

“A while.” He shoves his hands into his pockets and looks out the window. “I wasn’t looking for an affair, Elizabeth. I never meant for this to happen. But you and I just . . . we clicked. By the time I looked up your profile and saw who you were, I didn’t know what to do.”

“So you . . . what? Offered me a job?” The truth is a hard fist to my stomach. “It was never about you thinking I had talent. You never thought I was smart enough to work your campaign. You just wanted . . . what did you want? What did you think would happen?”

He spins back around, his face angry. “I would have given you anything. You wanted a job, so I gave you one. You wanted to feel important, so I gave you important work. You’re welcome, by the way.”

“You should have ended it when you found out who I was. You should have told me. You should have . . .”

“Should have what? Should have known that you would let me get you all hot and bothered and then go fuck my son?”

I throw my hand over my mouth. I’m really going to throw up. I didn’t know horror could cause literal nausea. I thought that was just something people said. “If I was turned on by our conversations—”

“If?”

“It was only because I thought I was talking to Sam. You knew this wasn’t okay and you let me . . . you had to have known I’d be upset when I found out.”

“I wanted to tell you the truth. That’s why I invited you to the cabin.”

But he was at the hospital, waiting for his first grandchild to be delivered. And Sam showed up at the cabin instead.

My stomach rolls. When I close my eyes, I see Sam looking down at me, telling me he loves me. Loved me. He couldn’t love me after this. I’ve lost him. “You ruined everything.”

“I’ve arranged for you to have a position as a staffer on Christine’s campaign. In exchange for your promise to never speak of this, I’ll pay you—”

“Pay me? I don’t want your money.”

“You could destroy me.”

A car door slams, and I draw in a horrified breath at the sight of Sam’s car out the window. “You’ve already destroyed me,” I whisper. I should run. I should get out of here before Sam walks in. But my feet won’t work, and I can’t seem to peel myself away from the safety of the wall.

The front door chimes merrily, only making the booming footsteps coming toward this office sound all the more ominous.

“You’ll take the money,” Sam’s father says. Any kindness or tenderness that was in his eyes before is gone now. These are the hard eyes of a calculating businessman. “And you’ll keep this quiet.”

The office door swings open, and the room rattles as it slams into the wall.

Sam’s eyes blaze with confusion and anger as he looks at his father, then me, then back. He takes three long steps and swings. There’s a horrible crack as his knuckles connect with his father’s jaw.

* * *

Sam

Dad takes a step forward, fists rising, but then he stops himself and stares at me. That special brand of paternal disapproval is clear in his eyes.

“Liz, leave us, please,” Dad says, never taking his eyes from me.

“Sam,” Liz says. My name sounds more like a squeak than a word, and yet there’s so much emotion packed into that single syllable that I flinch.

“Go, Liz.” My fist is on fire, a sharp contrast to the empty void in my chest.

“Just let me—”

“You’ve done enough.”

She flinches, then nods and scurries out the door.

“You ruin everything,” I tell him. The fire spreads up my fingers and into my arm in sharp tingles. “Everything.” I open my mouth to say more, but the numbness is fading entirely now, creeping toward my chest. I feel as if I might burst open if I say more, so I leave it at that, and I go.

Liz is out front, her face white, her arms wrapped around herself. “I didn’t know it was him.”

“But it was.”

“I thought it was you, then I thought it was Connor. I had no idea it was your dad.”

“You thought you’d been talking to Connor? Is that supposed to make me feel better?”