Page 5 of The Politician Bidder

Outside, the night air is warm and damp. A line of cars glitters under the streetlights, but Adam leads me to the only one with a driver in a black suit standing beside it.

The limo. Of course.

“Want to grab a drink?” he asks, casual as can be, like we haven’t just reentered each other’s lives in the most bizarre way possible. “Just to catch up. The official date’s not until Saturday.”

I should say no. I’m wrinkled and frazzled and coming off a twelve-hour day of court and jail visits. But my mouth betrays me.

“Sure,” I say. “Why not?”

The driver opens the door, and I climb into a world I don’t belong in. The seats are buttery leather. There’s soft jazz playing through hidden speakers. A tiny bar stocked with more kinds of bourbon than I knew existed sits beside a silver ice bucket.

I perch on the edge of the seat like a kid waiting for the bell to ring. Adam slides in across from me, looking far too comfortable. His jacket’s unbuttoned now, his tie loosened just enough to show a hint of collarbone. And good God, he smells expensive—something like cedar and citrus with just a hint of whiskey and ambition.

I keep my hands in my lap.

He pulls out his phone, then flicks his wrist to check his smartwatch. Taps it. Frowns. Sighs.

I raise an eyebrow. “Have somewhere better to be?”

His eyes snap up, startled, like he forgot I was there. “What? No! I mean—sorry. It’s not that. I’m kind of always on call. Constant flood of emails and texts. It’s like drinking from a firehose.”

He winces, then rubs the back of his neck. “I promise I’ll schedule actual time off for our official date. Barring a State of Emergency or a call from the President, I’ll give my secretary strict instructions not to bother us.”

I nod slowly. “Sure.”

He gives me a smile, one of those campaign-ready ones. All perfect teeth and warmth and just the right amount of earnest crinkle at the eyes. Once upon a time, that smile would’ve melted me.

Now?

It makes me suspicious.

Because this isn’t the Adam I used to know. The guy I studied constitutional law with at two in the morning, fueled by pizza and dreams. The guy who once insisted we rewrite an entire moot court argument because he didn’t feel we were pushing hard enough for justice. The guy who used to talk about changing the world like he meant it.

This Adam checks his watch too often and talks like he’s been media-trained into oblivion. Sure, he’s popular. Sure, he’s charming.

But what’s he actuallydone?

I spend every day in courtrooms, trying to protect kids who never got a fair shot. I sit across from sixteen-year-olds in shackles. I fight like hell for every inch of progress. I know how ugly the system is.

And him?

He makes speeches. He cuts ribbons. He plays it safe. Mr. Middle-of-the-Road, carefully walking a tightrope to keep constituents on both the Left and the Right happy.

I glance at him again. There’s still something magnetic about him—his voice, his presence. But that spark I used to admire so much, the fire that made him special? I’m not sure it’s still there.

And the worst part?

I think heknowsit.

“I’m glad I saw you again,” he says, suddenly softer. “You look…” He hesitates, eyes sweeping over me. “Like you.”

I laugh once, dryly. “Yeah, well. This is me. Stained suit and all.”

“I like it,” he says, and I believe he may even mean it. But still, it’s not enough.

I pretend to stifle a yawn. “Well, I should be going. I’m exhausted and I have a long day of court ahead of me tomorrow.”

His face seems to fall for a second, but then the easy grin is back. “Of course. My secretary will be in touch to set up our date for Saturday. It’s nice having you in my life again.”

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