Someone To Tempt
SOMEONE TO TEMPT
SNEAK PEEK
Iris
To the outside observer, this might look like any other Tuesday morning at the mayor’s office in Skylark, Colorado. It’s not. Because the mayor—that’s me—is waiting, not so patiently, for the most important meeting of her life to begin.
I straighten an already perfectly tidy stack of papers on my desk and lift an arm to take a sniff. Damn. Nervous sweat is the worst. Digging into the emergency stash of toiletries in the desk drawer, I triumphantly pull out a travel-sized deodorant. But when I flip off the lid, dried out clumps scatter over my navy blue suit.
Ugh. Ocean breeze scented snowfall. I stand up, hoping the crumbs will fall to the ground without incident, but no such luck. My skirt is dotted with the chalky white bits.
And why is it that women are stuck with names like lavender blossom and spring meadow, while guys are living their best deodorant lives with glacier punch and sharknado?
I’d like to glacier punch something at the moment, but there’s no time for toiletry ramblings.
I have exactly three minutes until the woman who holds the key to my political future arrives at the mayor's office—my office of the past five months. I need to make a good impression, something that’s eluded me with this particular individual. Former U.S. Senator Gloria Johnson makes me more nervous than a group of middle schoolers at their first coed dance, hence the anxiety sweat.
Today I need to wow, connect, and convince her I’ll make an excellent state senator, and hope she agrees to back me in the next election. It's an important first step if I want a career in Colorado politics, and I’m not sure I can manage it without her. Not with my limited connections and a family background I'd rather forget.
I rush over to the tiny closet in the corner of the room where I keep a spare outfit for times like this. Fortunately, there's never been a time like this because I'm always prepared.
And now that there is, I'm too nervous to do anything right. The skirt’s zipper catches, and my button-down shirt strains across my breasts as I yank it more forcefully.
Two minutes.
Voices float in from the other side of the closed office door. I've got to get this skirt off and the other one on before Jodi Moore, my assistant, walks through the door. She never knocks.
The zipper finally gives, and the silk fabric pools around my ankles. I flip off the dark pumps that match the skirt I was wearing, but not the beige one I'm about to tug on. Gloria won't notice my shoes if I stay behind my desk.
The door clicks open just as I've got the new skirt hitched up to my knees.
“What's going on out there?” I demand.
Jodi stares at me, mouth agape, before pulling the door closed behind her. “You’re half-dressed.” Somehow she makes it sound like she caught me doing naked cartwheels across the thick rug.
I yank the skirt the rest of the way. “Fully dressed now. What’s the deal? Is Gloria here?”
I'm discombobulated. Otherwise, I’d notice the gleam in Jodi’s teal green eyes.
"Oh, yes.” She preens. Preens. “Senator Johnson is here. Along with a half-dozen disgruntled residents."
My head snaps up. "Disgruntled? What are you talking about?"
"I guess they heard about you cutting funding for the community spirit budget."
"I haven't cut anything."
"But you're planning on it, and it's not going over well."
“First.” I hold up a finger, then curl it back into my fist when I realize I’m trembling. "How does anyone know about that plan? We’re still in the draft phase.”
Jodi shrugs. "It's a small town."
“Second, I'm not trying to mess with the town's community spirit. I'm all about community spirit."
She gives a disbelieving snort, as if I don’t care about this town, when I’ve spent every waking second trying to make sure it thrives.
I just happens to believe in practical solutions over feel-good fluff. "I'm trying to find a way to fund the library’s early learning literacy program since the state cut funding.”
"By sacrificing Skylark's reputation as one of the happiest towns in America,” she insists.
A couple of online articles give a town a made-up title and people go nuts. It just so happens those people aren’t responsible for the town’s budget.
"No one and nothing is being sacrificed," I counter through gritted teeth.
She pretends to study her nails, and I remember the moment last week when she asked to leave early to have them done to match the outfit she was wearing to the Apple Harvest Parade.
I said no, and this is payback. I’m certain of it.
"Can you schedule a meeting with the spirit committee for next week?” I glance at my watch. “Gloria is particular about punctuality.”
Jodi shakes her head with an exaggerated sigh. "How’s it going to look if you send away important members of the community? They’re concerned about the integrity of the town.”
Heat crawls up my neck, but I swallow it down. Jodi is thirty-two, a year younger than me, and has been in her position since her uncle hired her a week after her high-school graduation. Homer Moore spent over a decade as Skylark’s mayor, but suffered an unexpected—and fatal—heart attack six months ago. Jodi made a play to be named interim mayor, but the town council appointed me instead.
I love this town, but I’m not a Colorado native and only moved back a year ago when I was hired as Skylark’s director of community partnerships. I’ve tried my best to form a solid working relationship with the assistant I inherited. However, due in large part to her resentment over me getting the job she wanted coupled in larger part with my mother’s past relationship with her late father, it all went to shit from the jump.
But I underestimated her. She waited until this moment, when I'm meeting with the woman who could be the linchpin for the career I want, to really throw me under the bus.
"You're right." I finish tucking in my shirt and roll my shoulders. "I should be the one to talk to them. I'll explain it. They'll understand."
Jodi’s smile is smug. "Good luck with that.”
She doesn't straight up give me the middle finger, but I get the message.
And it's my own fault. My friends from book club told me I should fire Jodi when I became acting mayor, but I didn't want the history and heartache our parents caused to have power over either of us. I'm all about breaking cycles and doing things differently. But now it's come back to bite me in the ass in bigger ways than missing staplers or reports that I have to review with a fine-tooth comb because she's inadvertently–or intentionally–left out key pieces.
Sabotage is one thing, and I looked at rising above it as a personal challenge. Now that she's put my potential connection with Gloria at risk, the gloves are coming off.
I walk past her and open the door. There's a moment of quiet as eight sets of angry eyes focus on me.
Crap. I hope I don’t sweat through my shirt and end up with nervous pit stains . I should have picked black instead of pale yellow. My eyes meet Gloria’s. She raises a curious brow in my direction, and I offer a bright smile in return.
"I'll be with you in one moment, Mrs. Johnson. I need to ensure these concerned citizens know I'm committed to hearing what they have to say.”
Just like I'm committed to kicking my assistant's ass.
Several snorts of disbelief greet my words, but I’m also committed to killing them with kindness. "Can I get anyone a glass of water? Fun-size Snickers? I keep a stash in my?—”
"We want answers,” Marla Stewart, retired homemaker and chair of the Community Spirit Committee, demands. She takes her job seriously. “We want to know why you're ruining this town." Very seriously.
I automatically shake my head. "Marla, I'm not ruining anything. I'm trying to balance supporting our busy calendar of community events with other initiatives that need funding."
"The events are what make Skylark special.” George Mason, owner of the largest realty company in town, earns a round of nods from the peanut gallery with his comment. “If you have your way, we’re going to be known as the place where fun goes to die.”
Fantastic. My political legacy is going to be as the mayor who killed fun.
An hour later, the barrage of complaints that rained down like golf-ball sized hail have left me shredded inside and out.
"You didn't have to stay for all that," I tell Gloria as I slump forward in one of the chairs at the large conference-room table.
"Where fun goes to die," she murmurs with a grimace.
Gloria Johnson looks like a quintessential grandmother—snow-white hair styled in a neat bob, twinkling blue eyes behind understated glasses, and a face lined with experience. But there’s more to her than that. Her years in office were marked by pragmatic decision making and unflinching determination to do what she believes is right.
I make a noncommittal sound in my throat.
"It's a catchy tagline, but not one you want associated with your term as acting mayor, and definitely not one that will get you elected this fall.”
Her words pierce the veil of numbness covering me like a shroud. The same one I retreated to as a kid when things got too rough in our house. Shutting down my emotions and disassociating is hardwired into my system, serving me well in a variety of situations. Not this one, unfortunately.
I meet her gaze across the table. "I'm running unopposed.”
The undertone of steel in her laugh reminds me that she’s more than the president of Skylark’s local knitting club. Gloria is not someone to trifle with.
“Honey, if you think someone isn't coming for you after that set-up, you need more than mentoring from me to start your political career. Hop off the starry-eyed trust train and open yours to what's really happening here."
My mouth does this weird open-and-shut thing several times like I'm a fish on dry land gasping for air.
“I have a plan,” I tell her, like that makes a bit of difference. “I’m going to spend one elected term as Skylark’s mayor then run for state Senate. I'll be thirty-five when I'm elected, and I'll serve a four-year term in the Colorado legislature, which should coincide with Congressman Allen’s retirement plans. That congressional seat has always been held by someone from Skylark.” I force a smile. “I want to be the next woman to hold it, to follow in your footsteps serving this town.”
"I started by filling my late husband's seat when he was diagnosed with ALS,” she says, her voice steady. "Matthew Allen was elected because Reggie Moore had to shut down his campaign after the scandal broke. Hard to run on a platform of family values after…” Her voice trails off.
My stomach clenches. “The video of him and my mom leaked.” As if the affair wasn’t bad enough, the video revealed the former mayor’s penchant for Star Wars cosplay.
"I'll never hear the pew-pew of an interstellar gun,” she says with a shake of her head, “without picturing the two of them.”
“Which is why I asked for your help.” When Homer, Reggie’s brother became mayor after the scandal, the younger Moore served the town tirelessly and with no scandals attached to his name. But now Homer is gone, and things are different for me. I have a past in this town, even if it isn’t one I created. “I don't want to be associated with my mom’s legacy or her affair with former Mayor Moore.”
Mom hasn't been back to Colorado for over a decade, but I know she still considers herself a fun-loving free spirit. Only her version of fun left me and my brother without care or food half the time and made enemies of married women in every town she blew through.
“Skylark can't be the place where fun goes to die, Iris.” Gloria steeples her fingers on the polished cherry table. “I also cannot back a candidate who has a reputation for killing community spirit. Do you know why Skylark’s leadership first started actively investing in the town’s image?”
I do. As a way to distract the town from his brother's scandal with my mother fourteen years ago, newly appointed Mayor Homer Moore began instituting prescribed events to bolster community spirit and build a reputation for wholesome small-town fun.
In the last decade, we've gone from hosting the usual seasonal festivals and an occasional juried art show, to at least one event a month funded by the town for the purpose of bringing a smile to the faces of residents young and old. I’m not a fan of forced fun, but I’ve attended most of the events, at least in passing, because of my position. Thanks to social media and a bajillion lists ranking small-town life, plus the fascination with romantic movies centered around the very same thing, Skylark has grown in popularity. Our reputation and designation as one of the happiest towns in the country is a source of pride for many residents. But others, like me, have festival fatigue.
“Not every event brings in enough revenue to offset the cost associated with them. Plus, sometimes they prevent us from supporting the people who live here in a meaningful way. That's all I'm trying to do. Isn’t that what good politicians do? We take care of our constituents."
She inclines her head to study me. "You're a smart girl. I didn't expect you to show such Pollyanna tendencies."
"I'm not?—"
"This isn't Camelot, Iris.” She closes her eyes for a minute. “Politics is as much about impressions as intention. You have to get elected before you can do the work, and you aren't going to get elected in a town like Skylark if everyone thinks you're the grim reaper of fun."
"I'm fun,” I insist, but the words come out like a snarl.
She cracks a real smile. "Oh yes, that tone will convince people. Figure it out, Iris, and then we'll talk. Is the life of a career politician in the public eye truly what you want?"
I frown and force myself not to argue. Of course, it's what I want. Okay, maybe that hasn’t always been the case.
But once the members of the town council appointed me interim mayor, I realized this was how I could both do good and show that I am good. Prove to everyone in town that I’m not my mother. Sure, my biggest role model still subscribes to the belief that sex, drugs, and rock and roll are the only kind of fun worth having, but she was some kind of holdover groupie. Only instead of collecting famous notches on her belt, my mother collected married notches.
"I am fun," I tell her again. "And if I need to stay sunup to sundown at every event this town sponsors to prove it, I will."
She lets out what I can only describe as a disappointed sigh, confusing me all the more.
"Isn't that what you want from me?”
"I want you to do something for you . Something that lights you up and takes you out of your comfort zone."
Her blue eyes bore into me like she’s imparting some great wisdom, but for the life of me I have zero clue as to what lights me up. I think about my book club’s bucket list challenge. We’re meeting tonight, and I need to be ready to tell them what I'm going to do. I haven't been able to come up with anything that would rival our friend Sadie's choice of a challenge: losing her virginity. How do I compete with that?
My friends would tell me it’s not a competition, but…my brain doesn’t work that way. I thought about training for an ultramarathon, which isn’t nearly as interesting as sex, but it would showcase my strength and perseverance to the people in town. We’re in Colorado, and the freaky fit outdoorsy types like that kind of crap. But it's not exactly fun, and now it feels like fun is mandatory.
Gloria’s right. I don’t do fun.
“Speaking of fun…” Gloria glances at her watch. "I need to get ready for my dance class."
I offer a smile because it’s not going to help for Gloria to see how freaked out I am about all of this. “I didn't know you were a dancer."
"I'm not, but I love shaking my hips." She does a little wiggle that’s surprisingly sensual for a woman in her mid-seventies. "Salsa is my favorite," she says. "Find something you love that doesn’t have anything to do with the job or getting ahead. Do it because it makes you happy. You do, after all, live in the town voted one of the happiest in the country."
I hate that stupid slogan, but I keep the smile on my face. "I will, Gloria. I won't let you down."
"This is about you , Iris."
I try not to squirm under her steady gaze. I don't like things being about me. I'm not worth the attention. Sure, there are plenty of politicians who crave the spotlight. I want to make this about the town, not me.
I wait a few minutes after she leaves, a cloud of Chanel No 5 lingering in her wake, before following her out of the conference room. Instead of walking back to my office or past Jodi’s desk near the main staircase, I rush to the cramped staircase at the end of the hall. The air inside is stuffy, and my heels make the metal steps clang, the sound reverberating as I rush down.
It's like I can't breathe. I can't get the air in, and not because of what happened with the angry community members or Gloria's advice about having fun. It's the betrayal I feel from somebody who I should have known isn’t my ally.
I trusted Jodi. I thought we were on the same team, working together for the town. I thought we were doing good things and putting our personal differences aside. It turns out I’m the fool again, thinking I could trust just anyone.
I bust out of the back door of town hall and take deep gulps of the crisp fall air. I will not cry. I haven't cried since the day my twin brother got carted off to that camp for juvenile delinquents when we were seventeen. He told me tears are for losers, and I took his words to heart. It gave me something I could control, which I needed badly in the chaos of that summer.
Maybe an occasional hay fever flare up makes my eyes water, but I do not cry. Not when I watch sad movies. Not when my friend Sloane told me at the start of summer that she has cancer. Not when Sadie and former NFL legend Ian Barlowe announced their engagement. Nada.
I drag in another deep breath and keep my eyes forward as I exit the alley and march toward the crosswalk. I don’t have a destination in mind, and my keys are tucked in the bottom drawer of my desk, so I can't truly escape. But I can head for Cover to Cover, the book store Sloane Winslow owns on the other end of downtown.
Since her diagnosis, she's reduced her shifts to part-time, but she's always there on Wednesday mornings because it's the children's reading hour.
It's early enough that there isn't much traffic, so I don't worry about being spotted in my mismatched outfit and red-rimmed eyes. Until I notice one of Jodi’s many cousins walking toward me. Oh, hell no.
I pivot and dash across the street, only I don't notice the truck zooming in my direction. I have no idea how I missed it, but brakes squeal, and the vehicle stops inches from my kneecaps.
I know that bumper. I've been pressed against that bumper for a deep, passionate kiss.
My gaze raises to the man behind the wheel. When the hazel eyes that used to haunt my dreams meet mine, it’s like looking directly at the sun. My corneas burn and my vision goes hazy at the corners.
I press a hand to the hot hood of the old Chevy truck as Jake Byrne climbs out of it. The cherry on top of a shit show sundae of a day.
He looks different than he did over a decade earlier when he was the most beautiful boy I'd ever met. He’s become a man in the intervening years. The thick coat of stubble that covers his jaw makes those gray-green eyes look all the more distracting and his full mouth even more kissable.
Stop that, I command myself.
No thinking about Jake and kissing in the same sentence. We only shared one soul-shattering—not to mention panty-melting—moment before things went to hell, yet the feel of his arms around me remained seared on my memory for far too long.
Whatever he's doing in Skylark, I want nothing to do with it. With him. He might have turned my life upside down once, but I'm smarter now. If this morning is any indication, I don't need any help getting into trouble. I've got that covered all on my own.
I quickly fix my face and plaster a bland, tight-around-the-edges smile on it. Taking a step back from the car, I lift my hand.
"It's fine," I say, like Jake and I have no history. "Just watch where you're going next time."
He takes two steps toward me but stops and throws up his hand, exasperation rolling off him like a wave. "Are you crazy, Iris, or do you make a habit of jumping in front of moving vehicles?”
That word…crazy. All my emotions—the worry, regret, and self-doubt—coalesce into something different inside me. Something that feels dark and thick like sludge. I lean into that darkness and let it ooze through me. I may not like Jake Byrne, but he’s the one person in this town I don't have to be nice to. Might as well take advantage of it.
“Go to hell, Jake.” I start to flip him off, but realize that’s not a great look for the mayor when there’s an audience staring from the sidewalk. Instead, I lean in closer. “Or crawl back under whatever trustafarian rock you slithered out from? Polish the watches in your overpriced collection or count the zeros in your bank account. Whatever guys like you do when you’re not busy pretending to be real.”
He rears back like I’ve slapped him, and a swish of guilt creeps up my spine. I shove it down because I don’t owe him anything. Jake Byrne doesn’t get to breeze back into town—my town—like he owns the place. Like he still has any claim on my heart.
Nope. He doesn’t get my sympathy. Not today.
Find out what happens next!