Page 7 of The Politician Bidder

She nods, the smile gaining strength. “You used to draw constitutional flowcharts on napkins.”

I grin. “You used to correct them.”

A pause. Then I say, “Wanna ditch this place and eat pizza in the parking lot?”

She blinks. “You’re serious?”

“Completely. I’ll even steal the wine.”

And I do. Well—technically I ask the waiter to pack it to go. But it feels like a heist, and she laughs when I say that, so I count it as a win.

Twenty minutes later, we’re sitting on the curb of the parking lot behind the restaurant, my jacket spread out beneath us, a hot Jet’s Pizza box between us, and two fancy wine glasses in our hands.

“This is so dumb,” she says, laughing as she pulls a slice free, cheese stretching like taffy.

“It’snostalgic,” I correct. “Not quite as good as Gino’s, but close enough.”

She hums in agreement. “And significantly better than whatever that last dish was.”

“You didn’t actually taste it,” I point out.

“Please,” she scoffs. “A deconstructed ravioli? What the hell isthat?”

I chuckle. “We can agree that pizza always hits the spot.”

“Hear, hear!” she says, raising her wine glass.

We clink glasses and eat with our hands, grease and all, and it feels good. Easy. Familiar. The tension melts away, replaced by that old rhythm we used to have—back when the only stakes were finals and cold pizza was a luxury.

I lean back on my hands, looking up at the stars peeking through the city haze. Beside me, Poppy licks marinara off her thumb and laughs at something I said about campaign slogans.

And for the first time in a long, long time, I feel light.

Not Governor Boston. Not the potential presidential candidate.

Just Adam and Poppy, like old times.I want this night to last forever, but like all good things, I know it must come to an end eventually. But for now, I’ll just drink in the sound of her laughter on a perfect autumn night.

Chapter 6

Poppy

Idon’tknowhowwe got here.

I mean, yes, technically I do—we walked out on a five-star restaurant with a stolen bottle of wine, ordered a pizza like kids, and sat on the curb like we had nowhere better to be.

But emotionally? That’s trickier.

Because the man beside me, the one laughing at my impression of our old law professor, the one pouring wine into delicate glasses while we eat greasy pizza from a cardboard box—that man is Adam Boston. The man I used to dream about. The one I tried so hard to forget.

And he’s here. With me. Looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters.

His jacket is spread across the concrete beneath us, shielding us from the grit of the street, but his thigh still brushes mine. His cologne clings to the humid night air—amber and spice and something sharp I can’t quite name. The low hum of traffic fades beneath our laughter, and when I look at him, reallylook,I see him again. Not the polished governor or the man with the ever-buzzing smartwatch.

JustAdam.

Older. Wiser. But stillhim.

I lean in, just slightly, and he mirrors the movement, our bodies aligned like magnets. I can see every fleck of gold in his hazel eyes, every shadow of stubble on his jaw. His lips part slightly, and I don’t hesitate.

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