Chapter 21 Olivia
Olivia
It’s been a long day of spirited debates and smiling for photo ops so much my face hurts.
I’m emotionally exhausted. I’ve never attended a summit like this where I assumed everyone was on the same page.
As it turns out, there are people in this world who have little to no concern for their neighbors.
Food insecurity is such a strange term to me.
We should call it what it is—hunger. Our system is broken, but I have no idea how to fix it.
No matter how much money we allocate to help those in poverty, most families are like mine, growing up paycheck to paycheck.
A single medical emergency or sudden job loss can cause crippling debt.
Sure, I can feed all school-aged kids through programs, but what about their parents?
Mothers often sacrifice everything to ensure their children come first. It always feels like the rich get richer and the rest of us are fighting for the bare minimum.
I’m sick of it. This is a much larger problem than I could ever tackle in a single term.
Before I get ready for bed, I send a quick text to Aubrey.
I know you’re not drinking, but do you want to join me for a quick bite downstairs? I was thinking maybe the little Italian restaurant where you went to get your ginger ale last night. They’re open until midnight, and bruschetta sounds good with a glass of wine.
Aubrey
I’m really tired. Rain check?
Of course. Sleep well. Call me if you need anything.
I should message Isaac, but he’s likely busy with his team preparing for tomorrow’s events, and I decide to let him text first. Grabbing my purse, I make my way down to the lobby, surprised to find the restaurant is nearly empty.
As I slide onto a stool at the bar, the bartender stops polishing his glasses and comes over. “Good evening, Governor Harris.”
I recognize him, but can’t quite place where from.
He’s younger, maybe twenty-five, with thick, short black hair and tattoos peeking out from his collar.
I definitely would’ve remembered meeting him—he’s undeniably attractive.
Why on earth would Aubrey not want to come back here, if nothing else, for the slutty little mustache he has going on?
I’ve been staring a bit too long and rush out, “Oh, um, I’m sorry. Have we met?”
“No,” he chuckles, then offers a bright smile.
“Not officially. We spoke on the phone a few weeks ago.” I glance down at his name tag—Jamie.
For the life of me, I can’t recall talking to a single Jamie in the past month, especially one from the hotel.
As if he can sense my confusion, he explains, “James Wilson. I work for the Prime Minister.”
“James! Hi. Sorry, yes, I remember you. You’re part of the communications team, right?”
He dips his chin. “Yeah, but I also work evenings here.”
His admission reminds me of my college days, where I often worked multiple jobs to pay my rent—my scholarships only covered my tuition and books. I’m worried Isaac isn’t paying his team a livable wage, and James may be stuck in the same situation I was.
“So, what can I get you tonight?”
“I’d love a glass of white wine. Maybe Pinot Grigio? I don’t have a brand preference, so whatever you have open is totally fine. ”
“Of course.”
Despite my request, he pulls a fresh bottle from a lower fridge and a stemless wine glass from the ones he was polishing.
He slides the glass over to me, then fills it, and it’s definitely not four-ounces, filling the glass halfway.
The stress from the day must be written all over my face to earn the heavy pour.
“Thanks, James. Or should I call you Jamie?” I ask into my glass as I take a drink.
“I prefer Jamie, if that’s all right.”
“Well, Jamie, I hope you don’t mind me asking, why…” I gesture vaguely to the bar.
“I don’t mind at all,” he laughs. "I promise, my job pays well, but I’m hoping to save enough to move to California.”
“Ah, so this is a bribe,” I tease, lifting the wine.
He shakes his head with a bright smile. “Hardly. My father lives there, though I wouldn’t say no if you were to offer me a job. I admire all of the work you’ve done, even before running for Governor.”
“Thank you.” I blush at the praise. “Are you from Ottawa?”
“My mom and I are, but my dad’s in San Francisco.” There’s sadness in his tone, and even though I’m curious, I don’t ask a follow-up question about his parents. Parents divorcing is never easy, no matter how old you are. “Is this your first time here?”
“Not my first time in Canada, but first time in Ottawa. I’ve visited B.C. and Nova Scotia before. I’m hoping once the snow lets up, I’ll be able to explore a little.”
“Sorry, but you won’t have a chance to sightsee while you’re here. Rumor has it, we’ll be snowed-in until the end of the conference.”
My eyes fly wide. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”
“That the storm won’t be clear until the last day of the conference.”
I check my app, and sure enough, there’s an alert for severe weather. “Shit.”
“Could be worse. You could be the Prime Minister.”
Glancing up, my brows furrow. “Isaac? I mean, Prime Minister Banks?”
“Yeah, the hotel is booked, and he made sure all of his staff, as well as hotel staff, had rooms. I tried to give up my bed, but he insisted he would just stay in the lobby.”
I bark out a laugh. “You’re not serious.”
“Go see for yourself.”
Isaac and I are two of the youngest here, so it’s been nice to talk to someone closer to my age.
I’d stay longer, but I need to figure out what the hell is going on with Isaac.
I make a mental note to return tomorrow night to visit with Jamie.
Even with the shitty weather, Isaac shouldn’t be sleeping in a hotel lobby.
If anything happened to him…
I gulp half of my wine, and Jamie charges it to my room. Then I slide off the stool and make a beeline for the lobby. He calls after me, “Have a good night!”
I spin in place to tell him, “You too,” before powerwalking to find Isaac.
I spot him on his phone with a blanket draped on his lap, seated in one of the large chairs across from the front desk.
As I approach, he glances up, my favorite dimple appearing the moment he sees me.
I don’t have time to swoon at his boyish grin and lay into him. “What are you doing?” I whisper-shout.
“I was just texting you.” He tilts his phone to show me, and sure enough, he was drafting a text to me.
Crossing my arms over my chest, I narrow my eyes on him. “The bartender said you’re sleeping out here?”
“The hotel is fully booked.” Isaac shrugs, and while his smile falls, his eyes are still bright.
“Can’t you room with Tim? Or someone else on your staff? You’re the Prime Minister, for fuck’s sake.”
“Everyone is already doubling up, sharing beds, couches are full… I’d rather my staff get a good night’s sleep. So, I’ll be taking a little nap out here in the lobby each night.”
Such a martyr.
Okay, fine, it’s actually really sweet.
I glance over to the reception desk, then back to Isaac. “One sec.” Making my way over to one of the available attendants, I ask her, “Would you be able to provide me an extra key to my room?”
“Of course.” She begins typing something into the computer. “What is the room number?”
“612. It should be under Olivia Harris.”
“Ah, yes. I’ll just need to see your ID.” I show her my driver’s license, then she creates a keycard for me, sliding it across the counter when it’s ready. “Is there anything else I can assist you with, Governor Harris?”
“No, thank you.” I head back to Isaac, who I doubt has taken his eyes off me since I wandered over to the reception desk.
I settle into the chair beside him and check that no one is watching as I discreetly hand him the card.
His brows pinch, and there’s no harm in keeping a little bit of mystery.
All I tell him is, “Room 612,” then stand, sling my purse over my shoulder, and head toward the elevator bank.
Glancing over my shoulder, he hasn’t moved, but I also don’t think he’s figured out it’s my room.
One of the elevators pings before the doors open, and I step inside.
Once I’m to my floor, I walk briskly to my room, hoping I have enough time to clean up a little before he comes.
My heart thumps wildly in my chest, and my hands are a little shaky as I open the door.
With Aubrey and Tracy next door, there’s no way in hell Isaac and I will do anything more than sleep.
We’ll have to keep it a secret, but if one of us sneaks out early enough each morning, it should be fine.
If we get caught, I’ll claim he slept on the sofabed.
Then again, when have we ever been able to keep our hands to ourselves?