“You’ll find something,” Hanna says. “I know you will.”

“Are you all set for this weekend?” I ask to change the subject.

Hanna beams. “I think so. I can’t believe it’s finally here.”

“Well, let me know if you need anything. I’ve got plenty of free time on my hands.” I press a kiss to Hanna’s happily flushed cheek and then head back to the front of the bakery, where I find Mr. Bradshaw, Sam’s father, standing at the counter, a cup of coffee in his hand.

“Mr. Bradshaw. How are you this morning?”

“It’s a beautiful day. I think I smell the first snow in the air. Haven’t seen your mother around headquarters much, Elizabeth. Where’s she been keeping herself?” He hands several bills to Krystal, who blushes prettily under his attention. “Keep the change.”

“She’s been busy helping with my nieces,” I tell him. “Between having twin girls and running a business, Hanna needs all the help she can get. But I know Mom’s a supporter, and you have her vote.”

He smiles, and his eyes crinkle in the corners. My mind goes to Sam. Will he age like this? The distinguished salt-and-pepper hair, the deep voice that gets huskier with age? Suddenly, I’m struck with the image of waking next to Sam when we’re in our fifties, and my heart squeezes a little.

Stop making him out to be something he’s not, I warn myself, but I’ve been getting a lot of those thoughts lately. I’ve been catching myself thinking of him in relationship terms, which is absurd, since he hates my guts. It’s just everything with River makes me think maybe Sam might . . .

No. Nothing but hurt down that road.

“Della said you resigned from your position at the preschool,” he says. “I hope she wasn’t the reason.”

I stiffen a little, but hopefully he can’t tell. “Of course not,” I lie. “It really wasn’t my thing. I wanted it to be, but the truth is I still don’t know what I want to be when I grow up. I need to find that thing I’m good at, I guess.”

“Sam tells me you helped write the grants for the preschool and the new playground equipment.”

Sam told him that? “That’s true.”

“Well, I was on the committee that selected the recipients, and your application was far and away the best we received.” He studies me for a minute, then shifts. “You know, when you volunteered at the office last spring, I always admired the perspective you brought to getting my message out to the public. I was sorry not to see more of you.”

“Oh, I’ve just been busy.” I made myself scarce after the Super Summer Screw-Up, but since we all agreed to keep it quiet, Mr. Bradshaw doesn’t know why I stopped volunteering.

“Well, it takes a village to run a gubernatorial campaign. I’ll tell you what,” he says. “Come by headquarters if you’re interested. We’ll put you to work and see if you’re a good fit.”

It surprises me that he thinks I might make a positive contribution to his campaign. Everyone assumes I’m ditzy, but this respected politician thinks I’m good enough to be part of his team. “I would love that.” Seriously. Just like that, my day goes from meh to amazing.

“Great,” he says, giving that charming politician grin. “You’ll be working with my son-in-law. You know Connor, right?”

Chapter Four

Sam

I’m twenty-seven years old and still intimidated by my old man. Facing him for the first time since Asia walked in my door and threatened to destroy his campaign, I feel like the little boy who shattered a window with a baseball. Only worse. Because I don’t have ten grand, and if I want to get Asia off my back, I’m going to have to get the money from my father.

I’d stand in line to get punched in the nuts before volunteering to have this conversation.

“You wanted to talk?” Dad asks when I step into his office.

I close the door behind me. My father pours us each two fingers of brandy and hands me one before sitting down.

“Thanks.” He has no idea how much I need this. I take the seat across from him and swallow half of mine down, while he messes with his phone. “I have a problem.”

If he was distracted before, I have my father’s full attention now. He’s that kind of dad. He might have one hundred and ten too many obligations on his plate at any given moment, but any time one of us kids has a problem, we get his absolute attention. Normally, I’m grateful for that, but right about now I’d like to be invisible while I confess what I’ve done.

“What is it?”

I roll back my shoulders, preparing for battle. Might as well rip off the Band-Aid. “A couple of years ago, I got a girl pregnant.”

Dad stills and his face goes serious. “Didn’t I teach you to always, always wear a condom?”

“Yes, sir.” As much as I want to look at my feet or my drink, or anything but the disappointment in his eyes, I hold his gaze. He did teach me the importance of wearing a condom. And he taught me to hold a man’s gaze while speaking. So I do. “I was drunk and maybe it broke, or maybe I forgot. I honestly don’t know. I don’t . . . remember.”

“I suppose she’s back to collect money for the baby now, huh? Jesus. Why didn’t you tell me sooner? We could have had this taken care of.”

I’m not sure what he means by that—not sure I want to know what he means. “There is no baby. She got an abortion.”