was the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard. “That’s not a real job.”
“It is now. Instead of calling my office, concerned and engaged citizens may contact Miss Breedlove, who will listen to their concerns and organize them so they can be presented to me.”
That headache started to throb again. “You’re not serious.”
“Oh, yes, I am. That should keep Miss Breedlove busy and off the cable news networks, and it will show that I am attentive to the concerns of the people and want to give them a point person to contact.”
“And anyone with an ounce of sense will see it for the ploy it is. This isn’t a campaign issue. Listening and replying to constituents is a job for one of your staffers.”
Jane shook her head. “It’s a ploy, but it’s a ploy that will work.”
“This was your idea, wasn’t it?” He pinned her with a stare that had her squirming slightly before she nodded.
“Since you’re the one she handcuffed herself to, you’re the one who needs to be seen listening to her first.”
“And when the campaign is over?” he asked his father.
“Miss Breedlove can go back to whatever cause brought her to my office in the first place.”
Meaning he’s not going to listen to a single thing she has to say. This was more than just a ploy. It was a step above an empty publicity stunt. It was inherently dishonest and that bothered him. They were above this kind of trick. “I get the impression Aspyn is a true believer. She’s going to expect this to be an honest offer. When she finds out it’s not, the backlash could be staggering.”
“It is an honest offer,” his father supplied. “Of a job. Beyond that, we make no guarantees, so we’re not being dishonest in any way.”
Political splitting of hairs. “Only in spirit.”
His father sighed. “Good Lord, Brady, you sound like Ethan and his quest for truth and justice. You understand the bigger picture. Just find the girl a desk and let her channel her energies in a different direction.”
Brady tried one last attempt at reason. “If we do this, it sets a dangerous precedent and every activist in the country will find a politician to handcuff themselves to.”
“It’s a risk I’m willing to take.” He nodded at Nathan, who shoved papers across the table at Brady. “Mary Aspyn Breedlove, age twenty-seven, foreign-born to American parents but raised in the U.S. in a variety of hippie-type communes. Some college work—mainly in Sociology before she dropped out to annoy people full-time—and a long history of do-gooding and activism. Miss Breedlove has no criminal record and a current address in Arlington. I’m sure you’ll enjoy working with her.”
In other words, Aspyn was officially his problem now.
Aspyn peeked out of the blinds and groaned. Still there. She flopped back onto the futon and heard it creak ominously in protest. Ugh. She felt like a prisoner. The video had gone viral with a speed she couldn’t wrap her head around, and the nation had arrived on her doorstep shortly thereafter. Technically it was Margo’s doorstep, since she lived above Margo’s bookstore. The bookstore was hopping now, and Margo was thrilled with the free publicity and additional business Aspyn’s new notoriety brought—even if Aspyn herself had to take time off and Margo’s niece brought in to help instead. From her tiny apartment on the second floor, Aspyn could watch the crowds and the press mill around out front. A small demonstration was organizing across the street, showing support for this new “movement” she supposedly—if completely accidentally—started.
She should be proud of what she’d accomplished—especially since it had required so little effort on her part. This kind of attention was every activist’s dream, but sadly, it wasn’t quite for the reasons she’d hoped for when she chased down Brady Marshall.
She’d turned her phone off last night, put an autoreply on her email account and settled in to wait it out. Thankfully the stairs up to her apartment were in the back room of the bookstore, so at least no one was knocking on her door.
Except that someone was …
She rolled off the futon ungracefully and crossed to the door, wondering who Margo had let up. Whoever it was, she hoped they brought food with them. And, to be honest, she was a little bored and could use some company.
Confusion reigned when she opened the door to find Brady. Here. At her door. Why?
“Mr. Marsh—I mean, Brady. Hi.” She ran her hands over her hair and tried to smooth down the curls. Be casual. “What brings you here?”
“I came to talk to you.”
Was that a good thing or a bad thing? “Okay.”
Brady smiled, adding a heart stutter to her body’s strange reactions to his presence. “Could I come in?”
I’m such an idiot. “Of course. Please.” She stepped back and held the door open. As Brady moved past her, that scent that she remembered so well tickled her nose and she inhaled deeply.
He seemed relaxed and unconcerned, unlike the man she’d seen on TV the last couple of days. At the moment, he didn’t seem angry about the media firestorm raging around him, but why else would he be here? “I was a little confused to find a business at your address. I guess it’s convenient to live above where you work.”
“It is. And it’s cheap,” she added with a small laugh. “I’m sorry about the mess.” She skirted around him to grab an armful of clothes and books off the futon and tossed them into the closet. “I’ve been rather homebound.”
“Since I just fought my way through that crowd, I fully understand why you’re hiding up here.”
“I would think your arrival here would only stir them up more.”
“Oh, it did.” He didn’t elaborate, but his face showed his exasperation with the situation.
Yeesh. Did that mean she was about to get an earful?
“Please, sit. Can I get you something to drink? Juice? Water? Herbal tea?” Stop babbling. She just couldn’t get her head around the fact Brady was here. The only people more confused about his presence would be the reporters outside.
He looked completely out of place, sitting on her rickety futon in his impeccably tailored suit and conservative red power tie surrounded by colorful batik cushions. Slivers of sunshine peeking through the slats of the blinds refracted through the glass beads of her curtain and sent tiny rainbows dancing over his skin.
Brady declined her offers with a small shake of his head. He seemed completely relaxed, leaning back and balancing one ankle on his knee. “It’s a bit of a circus out there.”
His mild, conversational tone didn’t help her relax any as she perched on the opposite arm of the futon, as far away physically as she could be without sitting on the counter of her kitchenette. “Definitely. I mean, I’m glad people are trying to find their voices, and that the media is showing that search and desire, but I wish …”
The corner of his mouth turned up. “They’d
