AN: I know, I know. Thank you for your patience. Thank you for being here. Thank you for your reviews. I appreciate you all!

You know when something just isn't quite right? I've been tinkering all this week, and it's finally kind of where I want it. Thanks to Meg, Mel, May, Ciara and Monica for going over this repeatedly, I owe you.

Chapter 3

•

Heartbeats

It's easy to dismiss the idea of Edward. I'm working—buzzing on a heavy mixture of cocktails and wine—and he's nothing more than a friend of a client.

Or so I tell myself.

When Edward returns to the sofas before Emmett does, my head and my heart are beating to two entirely different rhythms.

"Where did you do your undergrad?" he probes before he's even made himself comfortable, sitting in the armchair to my left. There's no acknowledgement of what passed between us moments ago, and the crest of the wave I've been riding breaks.

"Oh, Ann Arbor, Michigan."

Edward eyebrows raise.

"I know where Ann Arbor is." He pauses. "That's a very good school."

I incline my head.

"I know."

"Chicago isn't." He's matter of fact. "Don't get me wrong, it's good, but it's not a top ten school."

"No, it isn't," I agree, softly. Hesitantly, I elaborate. "It's nothing to do with doing badly, if that's what you're thinking. I'd been accepted for my postgrad, but I had some family issues that needed me to be closer to home. So here I am."

"Chicago is home?" he reiterates.

"I grew up in Irving Park."

"I see—thank you," he adds to a waitress as she places three drinks down on the low table in front of us, smiling brightly.

"I asked for what you had before," Edward tells me once she's left. He pushes a French Martini in my direction. "I hope you don't mind."

It surprises me, in a good way.

"That's… kind of you. You didn't have to."

"I didn't," he agrees. "But I did."

He takes a mouthful of his own drink—whiskey on the rocks, savoring it with relish, as a large branded ice cube rattles against the glass. I imagine it's probably needed after a long week in such a contentious job.

"Can I ask you something?" I venture.

"Go on."

"Do you ever regret going into politics?"

Edward sets his glass down firmly on the table, settling himself back again in his chair. If anything, he looks disappointed.

"Is that really what you want to ask me?" he challenges, almost teasingly. "Out of all the questions you could ask me? I was expecting something more interesting from a post-grad student."

"I guess it's a pretty basic question," I concede. "But the difference is that I want an honest answer—not the rehearsed spiel everyone else always gets. The truth."

He laughs, the timbre of it resonating.

"Fine. The truth? I don't regret it. But there are downsides—and those can change depending on the political season. Then there's the long hours. Tight schedules. Arguing over minor details on legislation for weeks at a time. My private life being raked over for entertainment. Often I end up sneaking away from my PA just to be able to breathe. Tonight, case in point. But I like representing the people of Illinois a whole lot more than all of that, so here we are."

"Spoken like a true politician." I smile. "Full of walking soundbites."

He smirks but doesn't dwell. "Do you ever regret it?"

I feign confusion.

"Regret what, exactly?"

"Doing what you do?"

"And what is it that you think I do?"

He's amused, his smile anything but benign as he leans forward and takes his drink in his hand, lifting it to his mouth again. "What do you want to call it? I wouldn't want to insult you."

"It won't insult me if there's truth to it."

"Tell me," he pushes. "I want you to say it."

"Why?"

"Because, I'm interested."

"I don't think that's a good enough reason."

"It's the only good reason."

I can sense that he's not going to leave the subject alone until I give him the answer he's seeking, even though I know he already knows. I can feel myself bending to his will, and I making sure to maintain eye contact when my resolve at playing this game disappears completely.

"I work as an escort," I admit quietly. "Is that what you want to hear? And do I regret it?" That one is easy. "No. Why would I?"

"Do you want to go into politics?" he queries, his voice matching my own in volume.

"Something like that. Behind the scenes. Policy, maybe. I've become much more interested in diplomacy recently—international relations…where are you going with this?"

Edward picks up his drink again, amber liquid sloshing slightly to one side in his tumbler as he does so.

"I just want to understand why someone, apparently smart enough to go to a superb school, would make a choice like this."

I swallow a mouthful of my martini, and from behind the glass I try to simplify an answer for him, because the truth is complicated.

"Why do most people do something? Drowning in student loans, poor parents—well, parent. I was working the bar at a dingy club until the sun came up, and for what? To rent a cockroach-infested apartment with moldy walls and eat instant noodles? It made me ill."

I close my eyes briefly, remembering the feeling of damp air in the tiny apartment, how it clung to my skin when I woke on winter mornings—grossed out at finding shoes and handbags covered in a fine film of mold and having to put everything unsalvageable in the trash.

There are other, bigger reasons too, but I didn't want to tell him those.

"I like sex," I tell Edward, unapologetically. "But I've no time or inclination for a relationship right now… It's a solution to all my problems."

He's silent for too long, and I wonder for a split-second whether I've been too candid. He shakes his head, letting out a breath of air.

"This is more like it," he says. "This is more interesting to me. There are risks. How do you navigate those?"

"Life's all about taking risks. It would be boring otherwise. You should know that, Senator. But to negate risk… I'm with an agency. I trust them to vet my clients, and this is all done under a pseudonym. My whereabouts are known by several people at any time… I'm not stupid. I protect myself as much as possible."

"So, your name isn't Maria?"

"No."

"I didn't think it suited you."

"It suits me enough on nights like these." I tut. "Is that all you've taken from what I said—my name?"

"Agency that vets clients and knows where you are. A false name that doesn't suit you," he reels off… "I mean, I can think of other names that would be more apt." His eyes gleam with mirth. "So, is everything about you a lie or just your name? Is anything you've told me true at all?"

I smile. "Now, that would be telling, Senator. Do you think I'm lying?"

He considers me in a way that makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. Anticipation flutters in my stomach as he returns his near-empty tumbler to the table.

"I'd like to think you're telling the truth," he says at last. "And if I'm right about that, you'll have to forgive me for being so blunt but… even with you 'negating risks', as you put it… I think you're being incredibly fucking naïve to the repercussions. The effect this could have on your professional life. In the future, if anyone finds out."

"And while I kind of appreciate your concern, I don't think you realize the type of clients I have want discretion, too " I rebuke, sharply. "They don't want to make the news, and honestly, I think they would be much more interested in them than me. Besides, this is hypothetical. I've made no decisions where I want my career to go. I probably won't have one."

"Why not? Where have you interned?"

I all but laugh in his face. As if I haven't tried—as if I have the luxury of time and money to allow for it.

"I haven't."

"You haven't?" he repeats.

I can't help but scoff.

"Do you realize how hard it is to land an internship? Do you know how many other people you have to compete against? I've tried… applied to so many offices—from local councilors, mayors, to senators just like you. Not even so much as a response, let alone concessions for family circumstances. And somehow it's always those with personal connections that seem to land them, regardless of academic achievements, anyway. Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're not wrong about that," he accepts. "I'm probably out of touch these days. But what are we doing when intelligent young women are forced to sell themselves because of that?"

"What are we doing? It's my choice," I bite back. "Nothing is forced here."

He shakes his head.

"No," he says, adamantly. "It isn't your choice."

"I can assure you, it very much is."

Edward is so close to me, I can see the small scar near his eyebrow, see the lines around his eyes, smell a hint of woodsy cologne. He wants to argue, to drive whatever point he's getting at home—but before he can, Emmett returns.

He sits down heavily next to me as Edward moves hastily back into his seat, rubbing a hand over his mouth.

If Emmett notices the underlying tension, he doesn't say anything. Instead, his arm winds its way back around me, his thigh pressing against my bare one, right where we left off. Only now, I'm in a completely different headspace.

"Sorry," Emmett apologizes with no further explanation for his absence. "Thanks for the drink," he says to Edward. "What are you doing here, anyway? Don't you have more important things going on?"

"Charity gala, a few blocks away. I'm hiding from my PA." Edward's eyes squeeze shut tiredly. His fingertips press against the lids momentarily before he looks at us again. "I just needed to fucking escape. Laurent is exceptional at his job, but he doesn't understand the meaning of winding down. Sometimes, I just want to have a few drinks and argue with exceptionally pretty post-grad students instead."

Emmett snickers. Edward tips his drink at me. I daren't let go of the breath I'm holding. I'm flushed. Irritated. Attracted. I don't want to exude anything else other than being professional, even in this line of work. Arguing with the friend of a client—and a Senator to boot—probably doesn't fit that definition.

"And that's why I could never hold public office. It's like being in a fucking zoo," Emmett quips. "One foot out of line and you'd be headlining every newspaper in America. How is Tanya, by the way?"

Edward grimaces.

"Filming in Australia for the next six months."

Emmett lets out a low whistle. "Jesus."

Of course, most people know Edward's wife: Australian TV actress turned rom-com movie star, Tanya Denali. She's popular—beautiful—her face staring out of magazines and multi-media campaigns advertising everything from Dior perfume to Chopard jewelry. A media darling.

"What's she filming out there?" I ask, calmness returning, my curiosity getting the better of me.

"A dramatization of kidnapping and murder in the outback," Edward reveals. "Based on a true story."

"Oh. That's very different from what she usually does. Very…intense."

"Very morbid," Emmett counters. "Who the fuck wants to watch that?"

"She's taking it very seriously," Edward tells us dully. "I was practicing her lines with her for weeks before she left. She's hated doing romantic comedies for years. This is a challenge for her. She says it's what she needs—also time back home, with her family, too."

Emmett snorts. "Not a thought for leaving you for six months though, huh? Aren't you family? And you have a campaign coming up in the fall. Where's her support for you?"

Edward waves off Emmett's concern.

"Don't get me wrong. The time difference is a fucking nightmare and the filming schedule is ridiculously long... But I support Tan's career. Just as she does mine. I'll fly out in a month or so, and she'll fly back. Not ideal, but it is what it is."

Despite Edward's words sounding supportive, his whole demeanor has changed—tension rolls off him. He beckons over a waitress on her way past, and asks for another whiskey—a double, this time and I can't help but winder whether there's trouble on paradise.

"That's a shame she's stepping away from rom-coms. I've actually always found her very funny. My guilty pleasure is watching My Sister's Wedding," I tell them, in attempt to drag the conversation into something lighter.

Edward's brow furrows. "I can't even remember which one that is. We don't have them in the house. Tan has a strict policy of not watching anything she's been in, so I don't either. She finds it cringeworthy. I don't disagree. Which one is that?"

"The one where she hires a fake boyfriend off Craigslist to attend her sister's wedding."

"Sounds fucking horrible," he replies.

My hand flies to my mouth, unable to contain my laugh. "I mean, it is, but there's just something I find really comforting about it."

"It's romantic clichés. My sister fucking loves them." Emmett nods. "A woman thing."

"How's Alice?" Edward asks Emmett. "I bet she's happy you and Jane are divorcing."

"Over the moon. She's wanted rid of her for years. Her exact words were 'thank fuck.'"

"I miss her," Edward says, grinning.

Emmett nods.

"You'll have to take her up on her offer to have you go stay with her. She's got spare rooms at the ranch." His head dips towarss me, his voice low enough so Edward can't hear. "Talking of… I think I would really love to take you upstairs now." He presses a chaste kiss to the side of my face, and when I look at him properly, I can see why his bathroom visit took so long; his pupils are blown, ringed by the clearest blue.

It makes my heart sink.

Part of me doesn't want to move—away from Edward, or the bar. I'm comfortable, and Emmett's drunk—and, apparently, coked out. The kind of combination where the whole night could turn into a disaster.

"Let me finish my drink," I placate him. "Then we can go."

Emmett winks at Edward, who's been watching our exchange with a slight curl of his lip. The waitress returns with Edward's drink, and there's a lull in conversation as he thanks her.

"Are you staying?" Emmett asks Edward after she's disappeared once more, his hand sliding along the curve of my ass. "I don't think I'll last long with this one."

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that," Edward says, tersely. "But no, some other time. I've got an early morning start and Laurent will no doubt be panicking if I don't reappear soon. I'll finish this off and be on my way."

"Well, hopefully I'll see you soon, man." They stand and shake hands as I finish off the last mouthful of my martini—tartness cutting through the sweet, much like our brief meeting had been.

"It's been interesting talking with you," I tell Edward sincerely, noting that everything about him is on edge: his eyes dark, his jaw jutted.

"Likewise," he responds, eyes raking over me. He extends his hand, my own meeting it, engulfed in warmth. He dips his head, his mouth coming close to my ear as he grazes lips against my cheek.

"Are you sure?" he breathes, so only I can hear. I know immediately he's referring to Emmett. I swallow hard, my lips tugged into a false smile.

"Good luck with your upcoming campaign, Senator."

He pulls back, and somehow, he's still smiling, but it doesn't reach his eyes. I've dismissed him, and whatever intentions he had. Just like that.

"Take care, Maria."

Emmett takes my hand, and then my waist, and I let him guide me, out of the bar and toward the elevators. I'm on autopilot as we step into one, only turning to catch a glimpse of Edward sitting back down in one of the chairs, arms braced on his knees. He looks morose as he lifts the tumbler to his mouth and knocks the contents back.

It's the last thing I see before the doors to the elevator slide closed.