2. 930 AM
TWO
9:30 AM
ENEMIES FACE OFF
T he café is one of those trendy ones, packed with wealthy looking people in expensive clothes. Their conversations blend with the hiss of the espresso machine as I walk inside.
I spot him immediately, sitting in the corner with his back straight, phone in hand, and wearing a smart designer suit and tie. His mocha hair is tangled effortlessly in a smart style that emphasizes his square jawline. He’s handsome, if you like that sort of thing, but it’s a shame his character doesn’t match his looks.
Lincoln Caldwell.
The man who seems to exist solely to ruin my life.
Crossing the room, I stop just short of his table and place a hand tellingly on my hip to demonstrate my irritation.
“Enjoying your morning, Lincoln?”
His smile widens. “Sophia Tucker. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
I slam my phone down on the table in front of him, displaying the headline. “Don’t play coy. We both know you’re behind this.”
I watch as he slowly leans back in his chair and, without responding, picks up his coffee and takes a leisurely sip.
Jerk. Asshole. Schmuck.
I have so many words for this man, and none of them are flattering.
“You give me too much credit. I’m grateful, though, if it means less effort for me to get Mayor Weston reelected.”
My hands drop to my sides and clench into fists.
Would it be wrong to smack the smug smile off his face on the day of the rally and election?
“This is a new low, even for you. Manufacturing lies to discredit-.”
“I didn’t manufacture anything,” he interrupts, placing his coffee down. “I just… encouraged a closer look at how you’re spending donor money. Isn’t transparency important to you? Surely, if you want to be mayor, you need to make sure you’re always honest?”
“Just like Weston is?” I snap back, my blood boiling, but I refuse to let him see me lose control.
Maybe coming here and confronting him wasn’t the best idea. He’s always rubbed me up the wrong way.
Ass. Bonehead. Scumbag.
I might need a thesaurus before the end of the day to look up more alternatives for the fucking dickhead.
“You’re so desperate to win, you’ll destroy anyone who gets in your way. It isn’t even about Weston being mayor, it’s about your reputation and need to be the man who controls the seat of power in local government. You can’t stand the thought that I could win by being honest, while you might be defeated and left out in the cold. We all know Weston is corrupt and shouldn’t be in government, but if he isn’t reelected, you lose. Think about the people of this district, for once, and not yourself.”
I’m done wasting my precious time on this reprobate. He’s shown his true colors, and I intend to do everything in my power to win. I won’t rest until I destroy him. Ha! He thought I was going to run away with my tail between my legs at his creative journalism. No, he’s just unleashed hell upon himself. I’ve had enough.
My thoughts turn to the letter burning a hole in my desk drawer at the campaign office. I received it three weeks ago, but not wanting to fight my campaign in an underhand way, I hid it. However, I’m not sure I have a choice anymore.
I swivel on my heel, preparing to leave, but at the last moment, I turn back to face him.
Leaning toward him, I threaten, “This isn’t over, Caldwell. Not by a long shot. You want a war. You’ve got it.”
Lincoln’s gaze flickers as he watches me. There’s something unreadable in his expression, but then he shifts in his chair and runs his tongue over his lips. “Good luck, Tucker. You’ll need it.” His voice remains casual as he picks up his phone and gazes nonchalantly at it.
As I storm out of the café, I can feel the heat of his stare on me, and I’m left with the unshakeable impression that, rather than being amused by my anger, he was impressed.
Why does that send an unexpected shiver of pleasure through my body?
Dick, Dimwit, Blockhead.