Page 10 of The Politician Bidder

The warmth in my chest cools so fast it leaves a hollow ache behind. I toss the note back onto the nightstand like it burned me.

Of coursethis is how it ends. Not with a conversation or a plan—just a professional courtesy and a penciled-in calendar event.

What did I expect? That the Governor of Tennessee would ditch his staff and cancel his meetings to cuddle in my bed and whisper sweet nothings?

I curse softly under my breath and shove the sheets aside. My feet hit the floor with purpose, not grace.

The wineglasses are still on the kitchen counter. My dress is in a crumpled heap near the door. There’s a faint ache between my thighs—a reminder of just how much I gave last night. Of how vulnerable I let myself be.

And for what? A note and a maybe?

I clench my jaw.

Not today. It’s Sunday, and I may as well go to the office. I can squeeze in some jail visits, too.

I march to the closet and pull out my armor—my favorite black suit. Tailored, sharp, lined in silk. It’s power in fabric form. I slide it on piece by piece, transforming. My blouse is crisp. My heels are tall. My hair goes up in a sleek knot.

Game face on.

There are kids counting on me. A teenage mom who’s been charged with truancy for missing too many days of school. Another who’s terrified he’ll be tried as an adult. And several others who just need help getting through the juvenile justice system so they can graduate from high school and lead normal lives.

My bruised ego and dashed dreams are meaningless when stacked up against all of their issues.

I grab my briefcase and head for the door. I won’t let myself cry. I won’t fall apart.

I take one last look in the mirror. No trace of last night’s softness remains. I look competent. Unflappable.

Untouchable.

Who has time for love anyway? I have work to do.

Chapter 8

Adam

I’msupposedtobefocused on the Tennessee Clean Energy Initiative, but all I can think about is the way Poppy’s hair fell over her shoulder when she leaned in to kiss me. How she tasted sweet as wine. How her laugh made me feel like I could still be the man I used to be.

I nod absently as my deputy commissioner drones on about carbon offset tax credits. I jot a note on my legal pad.

Poppy. Call again.

As soon as the meeting ends, I pull my secretary, Beth, into my office.

“Did you get in touch with her?” I ask, not bothering to clarify who. She knows.

Beth sighs, professional but sympathetic. “I’ve called. Texted. Emailed. I even sent a courier with a hand-written note.”

My brows shoot up. “You what?”

“It was on monogrammed stationery,” she says, straight-faced. “I assumed you wanted to make an impression.”

I groan. “And?”

“Nothing. She hasn’t responded. I think she’s ghosting you, sir.”

My shoulders slump. “Don’t call me ‘sir’ when I’m being ghosted. It makes it worse.”

Beth raises an eyebrow. “Maybe you should try something that’s not a calendar invite or a press-safe message. Somethingpersonal.”

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