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anxiety.
The panic that always simmers just under the surface rises quickly. I clench my
fingers around the edges of the table. The underside of the wood is rough
against the pads of my fingers as I press them desperately into the grain. I
might be sick. His hand rests on mine and my eyes swing open to find his. The
skin underneath his fingers burns with heat; I can feel it shoot up my arm and
into my chest. Hyper-aware of his close proximity, my breath hitches in my
throat.
    I
hear his sharp intake of breath; his eyes close infinitesimally and darken.
“Charlie,” he whispers, concern echoing in his voice. I sense there's something
else there, another unnamed emotion I can’t quite capture. Staring shamelessly
at his beautiful, etched face, I’m immobilized by fear.
    The
waiter interrupts, saving me from further embarrassment. “Is there anything
else I can get you?”
    Colin
looks to me, and I shake my head emphatically. I can’t put anything else into
my quivering stomach.
    “No,
we’re fine. Thank you.” Colin’s eyes remain locked on mine, his voice filled
with concern.
    “I’m
okay,” I say without explanation, thankful he doesn’t comment further. I try
very hard to get my heart rate under control, taking slow deep breaths to keep
the panic at bay. Closing my eyes briefly, I repeat the thought: if he knew, he
wouldn’t have asked me to be here.
    I
fixate on his left hand, still lingering over mine on the table. It’s the first
time I’ve taken the time to notice there's no wedding ring and no indentation
of one on his finger. I wonder about that. He's beyond gorgeous, successful and
a gentleman; I’m surprised he isn’t married. And then I blush, realizing I’ve
basically flirted with him for an hour and it didn’t occur to me to look before
bantering with him.
    “My
wife died,” he answers my unspoken question, removing his hand, rubbing his
finger gingerly as if in memory of the ring that once was.
    “I’m
so sorry, I . . .” My voice trails off as I gaze into the fire.
    “It
was years ago, Charlie. I don’t like to talk about it.”
    I
chance a look at him. His eyes are dark. “I’m sorry,” I whisper, as if it will
make it better. He tilts a side of his mouth up in a sad half-smile.
    “Will
you leave today to begin your campaign?”
    “Yes,
we’re leaving as soon as breakfast is over.”
    “Oh.”
I wasn’t expecting that. “And if I accept, when will I join you?”
    “Will
you accept?”
    Staring
deeply into his eyes, I contemplate his offer. Sincerity lays heavy in the deep
luminous pools and I know my answer.
    “Yes.”
    His
response is a broad, heart-stopping grin. “Good", he says, jumping right
in to discuss the details. “I’d like you to spend a week at my campaign
headquarters here in Indiana, and then meet me and the others.”
    “Who
are the others?”
    “Evan
Daugherty; you met him yesterday, he's my campaign manager. John Montgomery is
my communications manager, and Ella Montgomery, manages my volunteers. Evan
travels with me at all times, John and Ella periodically, depending upon the
circumstances. You’ll tour with Evan and I; it’s constant travel and work. You
will have your own personal quarters,” he says.
     “I’ll
need to go home and get my things together. I’d like to start on Monday. Will
you have Mr. Daugherty send me the information as it relates to the location of
the campaign headquarters and the travel plans? I’ll also want an outline of
your expectations for the blog and social media sites; how do you envision the
chronicle of your campaign? With your input, I’ll put together a proposal as it
relates to Internet communication and advertising. If you approve, we can have
most of it up by the end of the week.” It feels good to put aside the curious
connection I feel to this relative stranger.
    “Yes,
absolutely.” He glances at his phone, which is vibrating against the
tablecloth. “McKenna.” He picks it up, and his voice is