This was a great idea. She’d volunteer at the food pantry, and get some networking and do-gooding in all at the same time. And tomorrow, she’d do something wild like go for a walk in her new neighborhood. Maybe she’d find that bakery Alexa had told her about. And she was definitely not going to think about Max Powell.

When she got back from the bakery the next morning, a ham-and-cheese croissant in her hand, and a chocolate croissant in her purse for later, there was a vase full of bright spring flowers on her doorstep. She picked them up and stared at them, and then plucked off the note taped to the side of the vase.

Sorry I had to run last night—can I get a do-over? I leave for DC this afternoon, but maybe we can see each other again next weekend? I had a great time last night—hope you have a good week.

Max

Well. Maybe she’d been wrong about that “emergency” after all.

Chapter Four

Max sank down on the couch as soon as he let himself into his DC apartment on Monday night. He was starving, but too tired to search through their fridge for food. Congress had started back up again with a vengeance after their week of recess—he’d been racing from place to place all day, with four overlapping committee meetings, a meeting with some lobbyists, and then all the usual business on the Senate floor he half paid attention to. It must have been equally as busy over on the House side; his roommate and friend, freshman representative Wesley Crawford, wasn’t even home yet.

He and Wes had been friends since college. They’d been an unexpected pair, he the rich white kid from Beverly Hills, Wes the Black athlete from the Central Valley, but somehow their friendship had stuck ever since. They’d taken very different paths to get here—Max had gone straight to law school and become a prosecutor, then the L.A. district attorney; Wes had become a teacher, then moved to the school board, and then ran for the open House of Representatives seat in his hometown two years before.

Max had been stunned when Wes suggested they share this apartment, after their disastrous stint as roommates in college. “You’re neater now though, right? It’s been twenty years,” immaculately tidy Wes had said. Max was not neater now, but he promptly hired a cleaning service to come to their apartment once a week to preserve their friendship. Thank goodness for Wes; these past sixteen months in the Senate had been stressful and lonely as it was; it would have been so much worse if he’d come back to this bland, generic, furnished apartment alone every night. At least now he had Wes to vent with whenever either of them needed it.

He wondered what Wes would say about Olivia. Probably make fun of him for sending her the cake, but it had worked, hadn’t it? As had the flowers—she’d texted him just after he landed in DC the day before. He’d been so relieved she didn’t hold it against him that he’d had to rush away at the end of their date because of breaking news. Times like that he definitely wasn’t as big a fan of his job.

Speaking of Olivia, he should text her. He scrolled back through their texts from the past few days.

Thank you for the flowers! Sorry I missed you—was out scouting for a good bakery in my neighborhood, and I think I found one. Haven’t tried their cake or pie yet, but the pastries were delicious. A rain check sounds good—next weekend works for me.

You’re very welcome, and I’m sorry again I had to run off. I had to just guess on your favorite flowers, I hope there were some you liked in there. I want details about this bakery—maybe you can tell me on Friday night?

Let me check my work schedule, but Friday night should be fine—excited to see what your “normal person” disguise is this time. Different glasses? Different hat? A wig???

He laughed out loud again at the thought of himself in a wig.

I wouldn’t know the first thing about where to find a wig, but then I do live in LA, don’t I? There must be realistic wigs everywhere. So far I’ve just relied on glasses/hat/no gel in my hair, but maybe I’ll do something wild next time. Stay tuned!

He turned on the TV as he waited for her to text back, and was flipping channels when he heard a key in the door.

“Hi, honey, I’m home!” Max shouted as the door opened. Wes walked in, suit and tie on, natty briefcase over his shoulder, and—bless him—a pizza box in his hand.

“Oh, thank God, I was starving,” Max said.

Wes dropped the box on the coffee table and disappeared into his bedroom to change.

“Didn’t occur to you to pick up dinner on the way home, did it?” Wes shouted through the crack in his bedroom door.

“I was going to order something!” Max shouted back. Okay, at least he’d been thinking about it.

Max stood up and got plates and napkins (Wes always insisted on this) and brought them to the coffee table. They had a kitchen table, too, but they almost never ate at it.

“Sure you were,” Wes said. He came out of his bedroom in sweats and a T-shirt and grabbed two beers out of their fridge.

Wes sat down on the couch and picked up the remote control.

“You’re not going to tell me you were attempting to watch preseason baseball when there’s basketball on, were you?”

Max sat down at the other end of the couch.

“It’s spring training, not ‘preseason.’ But no, I was actually looking to see if there was any soccer on.”