On the Corner of Love and Hate Page 12

  “He’s snoring away under my desk. We had an early-morning vet appointment after the call with Javier. He’s still recovering.”

  “I was wondering why he didn’t follow you in here.”

  “I think he’s embarrassed about his cone of shame. He’s barely tolerating me today.”

  “Cone?” I began, but the reason dawned on me. “He was fixed today. Poor baby. I’ll get him some treats later and drop them off.”

  “Before I forget, how do you feel about this?” she asked, unrolling one of the sheets that she’d brought to my desk earlier to reveal some color sketches. Whenever I worked on a big project, I needed someone else to doctor them up because my rudimentary drawings weren’t going to win us any contracts. Nancy, on the other hand, had an eye for detail and was always ready to take on more responsibility and help out the team.

  EMMA THOUGHT: Nancy could be Cooper’s replacement. YES!

  “Excellent. I know that being an assistant is boring, but I have some ideas to get you more involved. I’m cautiously optimistic, but if this new plan works out—”

  She squeezed my shoulder. “I appreciate whatever it is: trust me.”

  • • •

  WHEN EVERYONE HAD CLOCKED OUT for the day, I called Cooper to ask him to come to my office. I felt a bit like a principal calling up a misbehaving student. I suppose, in a lot of ways, that was accurate. He asked if he should bring my father, but I insisted that this matter was best discussed just between us. If Cooper wasn’t amenable to my suggestions, there was no reason to involve Mayor Dad.

  Within a few minutes he was in my office, seated by the window across from my desk and staring out at the town below. “You really did get the best office in this building,” he remarked, placing a hand on the oak window trim. It didn’t sound like jealousy, more like reverence: something I wasn’t used to hearing from Cooper. From my office at the back corner of the building, you could see miles of trees that lined up as an infinity pool would. The gorgeous view certainly helped when you were a workaholic and always in your office.

  He turned to me, crossing his arms over his chest in a protective way. His light green shirt was unbuttoned at the collar and looked sharp against his gray dress pants. He would have looked business casual, since he was without the jacket, and relaxed if it hadn’t been for the tense position of his arms. His light brown hair was mussed in that just-so fashion that always made him look like he’d rolled out of bed after a night of fun.

  If he were going to be mayor, he would have to work on keeping his appearance a little more accessible. More everyday man, I noted. Cooper, for his part, was just sitting there and waiting. I didn’t know if he was waiting for a response to his comment or just for me to start.

  Clearing my throat, I pulled out the piece of paper that I’d worked on all morning. It was strewn with notes, some crossed out, some drawn over to make them stand out. They were important points that I just had to remember.

  “I’ve been thinking about our conversation from the other day,” I began, sliding my chair out and getting up from my desk to pace. I padded across the carpet without my heels on. The squishy feeling of the carpet helped me think. I glanced down at my hot-pink toenails against the navy rug, pausing to shore up my thoughts. “You asked me for help the other day,” I said simply.

  He nodded, and I watched his lip twitch. “I did . . .”

  Clutching the note in my hand, I glanced at it to make sure I was staying on track for this conversation.

  “I’ve been thinking. I wouldn’t forgive myself if I thought I could make a difference in your campaign and didn’t try. If I say yes to this wild idea of yours to help you, Cooper—as your campaign manager, by the way, not as your fake girlfriend—I’m in charge.” I rolled my shoulders back, injecting some confidence into my spine. This is like any other negotiation, I told myself. It didn’t matter that the person on the other end of that negotiation was Cooper or that my helping him could cloud our already strained working relationship. I couldn’t lose sight of the bigger picture.

  He straightened and smiled. “You’re in charge. Done.”

  “But no one can know it.”

  “What do you mean?” he asked, looking confused. His brows furrowed and his nose scrunched up as he worked out what I was saying. “You’d be the campaign manager, right? Everyone would know that you’re in charge. It wouldn’t exactly be something we could hide.”

  “Yes and no. I’ll be calling the shots, but as far as anyone on the outside would know, I’m not involved at all. We need people’s focus to remain on you: your goals, your platform, and whatever else we want them to pay attention to. I don’t want their focus to be on me. They’d skew my position as your campaign manager as giving you an unfair advantage somehow and come after me, you, and my father, and that’s not something that I’m willing to let happen. It’s bad enough that someone is putting this bullshit in the paper. I have a distinct feeling that this isn’t a onetime deal. They’ll continue digging, and when they can’t find anything, they’ll make stuff up. And I’m not going to risk my father’s twenty-six-year-long scandal-free career ending with him being slandered because they think he’s been pulling strings somehow.” I paused to let him take that all in.

  “Think about it: if we go public with me as your campaign manager, it could be read as Mayor Peroni trying to further his agenda without necessarily being the mayor. He’d just be the Stromboli to your Pinocchio.”

  Cooper nodded imperceptibly, and stood. “I can honestly say I have no idea what that means, but okay, I see your point—no one will know. What are the rules and regulations I have to follow, Captain?” he asked lightly, pausing in his circling to try to lighten the mood.

  This is off to a roaring start.

  I leveled him with a look that said, Sarcasm is not welcomed here. “Again, I’m in charge. Not you, not my dad, not my mother, not Governor Campbell or anyone from her team: me. We’ll confer with our families for important decisions to get their opinions, but not on everything, every day. If that’s what they wanted, they should have volunteered to do this themselves—and I’m the one running this campaign now.”

  “Okay, so you’re in charge. That’s easy enough—what else?” he said quickly, so much so I wondered if he was afraid I’d change my mind if he didn’t immediately agree.

  “You say that now. I haven’t even told you what I expect you to do.”

  Cooper waved his arm for me to continue, smartly keeping his sly remarks to himself.

  “You need to take a leave of absence from the CDO.”

  The words hung in the air. Cooper, at least before the campaign, loved his job. Almost as much as I loved mine, but something had to give. He wasn’t focused on anything here anymore, and it was showing. If he was serious about running for mayor—and winning—he would need to give something up.

  He looked uneasy, as if I had just ripped the rug out from under him. I suppose technically I had. “You mean—”

  “I mean, you need to take a bit of a sabbatical for this. Just until the election is over. It’s not that long. If you win, you’ll have to leave anyway. Plus, really, it will help me in the long run to be able to keep you one hundred percent focused on campaign work, not on campaign work and CDO work on top of it.”

  He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “That doesn’t make sense. Why wouldn’t you just keep me on because I’m here to help you? One less person means more work for everyone.”

  I laughed softly, shaking my head. “Cooper, when was the last time you were in the office for a full day?”

  He stayed silent, but I could tell by the puzzled expression on his face that he couldn’t come up with the answer.

  “August first,” I answered myself, pulling out a stack of papers and file folders. “This is everything that you’re supposed to be helping me with but, because of the campaign, you haven’t. Emails go unanswered, phone calls are transferred to me to work out because you’re pulled in too many directio
ns—unfortunately, the job that pays you has been what’s suffering. I’ve been cleaning up as much as I can, but if I’m going to help you win this thing, I need to hire someone who’ll be able to actually help me here. Not dump everything onto me at the last second. I need me time, too.”

  “You want me to quit? What if I don’t win? Then I’ll be unemployed!” he exclaimed, raking his hands through his hair. I could tell that convincing him might take a little bit of my own political savvy.

  “Not quit,” I explained calmly. “Take a leave of absence. That way, I can get the help I need in the interim and you can get the time you need to focus on the campaign. Besides, you don’t need to work, Cooper. You’re not exactly living paycheck to paycheck.”

  It was one of the perks of being a member of Hope Lake’s legacy family: Cooper had access to years of family money.

  “I know that, but I like to work,” he explained. “I like knowing that I’m a part of something that will outlast me.”

  “Nancy deserves a promotion, and if you step aside to let her have it, we can hire a new support person to help us out—just someone temporary until after the election. Nancy already knows this department inside and out; it’s a natural next move for her. Besides, you can spin it like you’re creating jobs and you’re not even the mayor yet.”

  A laugh bubbled up. “You’re brilliant sometimes. You know that, right?” he offered.

  “Let me finish my thought before you sing my praises. Let’s get back to the ground rules.”

  He nodded, pretending to get ready to jot down the list.

  “We’ll only tell people we trust implicitly about me running the campaign: Nick, Henry, obviously our parents, but no one else. That means we need to be careful with meeting each other, especially since you won’t be working in the office anymore. Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Cooper said, relief flooding his face. “This could be good for strategy, too. If people don’t know you’re working with me, they might gossip in front of you. Maybe we’ll learn a thing or two about what people are expecting from the campaign, figure out how to get their votes and cast some doubt about Kirby.” Though he was right, it didn’t sit well with me.

  “I’m not a fan of overt duplicity,” I began, uncomfortable about the idea of using my coworkers to influence the campaign. “Even though you’re not running against someone who plays fair, I think us being shady isn’t the right play here, either. For now we start with the facts, and right now, people think you’re not serious enough to do this. It’s not just your personal antics—which have to stop, Cooper, or I walk—but also the fact that you haven’t exactly been forthcoming about what your goals or plans are. There’s no substance. No platform. The constituents want meat and potatoes, not fluff and baloney.”

  Cooper was nodding at my every word. He looked like a bobblehead doll.

  “Are you listening or just agreeing to get me to shut up?”

  His eyes widened. “I’m listening. I promise I’m taking this seriously. What else?”

  “You need that girlfriend.”

  Famous last words.

  12

  * * *

  Two weeks later, I was still getting used to my new routine at the office. Here by seven, meetings beginning at eight sharp. With everything now going through me and no longer divided between myself and Cooper, I was at the office even longer than usual. Sometimes I didn’t leave until after eight. Then afterward, no matter how tired I was, I went home to continue working on Cooper’s life, campaign, and everything in between. It wasn’t bad per se, just different and a bit exhausting. Nothing I couldn’t handle once I got used to it.

  “Knock, knock,” Cooper said from my doorway. I looked up from answering an email to see him leaning against the doorjamb. His navy tie was loosened, and the top button of his shirt was undone. He looked a bit weary—red-faced and sweaty, probably from all of the walking he had done this afternoon. The fall heat wave we were having wasn’t helping the situation.

  “I need a break,” he groaned, taking a handkerchief from his pocket and blotting his forehead. He closed the door, leaning against it. “This is exhausting. You didn’t include time for lunch”—he checked his watch—“or dinner. Did you realize that when you made me this hellish schedule?”

  “Oh, poor Cooper,” I mimicked his whining tone. “It was just—what today?” I thought back to the campaign calendar I’d created. “Senior center, church council meeting, road crew updates with the mayor, and the Boy and Girl Scout meeting, right?”

  “You say it like it wasn’t exhausting,” he groused, frowning and clearly expecting sympathy.

  “It’s working, isn’t it?”

  “Speaking of working, I miss being here. No one seems to miss me,” he said with a sigh.

  Oh, but they were. The office wasn’t the same without him. At least not for me. I couldn’t quite place the feeling, but without him the place felt off. It was quiet without the throwing of the tennis ball, and I strangely missed seeing his hurricane of a desk now that Nancy was sitting there. Not to mention that his showing up here today had people talking and casually walking by my office on their way out the door to sneak a peek at him.

  “What are you doing here?” I checked the small pocket calendar that I kept in my purse at all times. His activities weren’t in my phone or anywhere in my laptop or on the work calendar. I kept them hidden away where no one could see them. Just in case. It was likely overkill, but I wasn’t taking any chances that someone would tie me to the campaign. “You’re supposed to be heading to senior bingo at St. Pete’s Parish Center right now, remember?”

  “Do you have anything to eat in here?”

  “No, and please answer the question. I’m very busy.”

  He pushed off from the door, coming to lean in front of me with his arms stretched out on my desk. “I wanted to talk to you about the bingo. Well, a lot of stuff that you’ve got me doing, actually. Especially with the seniors.” At that he smirked, rolling his lips together as he tried to fight back a smile.

  Oh, no. I knew that look. This was either very good or very, very bad.

  “Cooper, you promised to take this seriously. You being the bingo caller is a great way for you to be involved in a community event that hosts a lot of influential voters. They’re expecting you tonight. To listen to them about what they’d like to see done. Hear their gripes. Assess their needs. This is the ideal time for you to bring up your thoughts about their monthly activities and how you would be able to help them achieve their goals if you’re mayor. Talk about the proposal for building the outdoor theater in the park. That’s something they’d love to have here.”

  Not to mention the fact that the senior ladies’ group was very talkative around town. “If you brought any of this up, they’d disseminate it for you in a natural way. Keep them on your side.

  “We need them to love you.”

  Cooper threw his head back and laughed, deep and raspy. I watched his Adam’s apple bounce as he chuckled. “Oh, they love me, all right. They also think I’m ten years old.”

  It was my turn to curl my lips together. Mrs. Mancini, the leader of the seniors’ group, was a card. Widowed for many years, she prided herself on being a little off the wall. “They’re eccentric,” I told him.

  “They made me peanut butter and jelly this morning at the center.”

  “So?”

  “They cut the crust off.”

  “And?”

  “They gave me goldfish crackers.”

  “You don’t like goldfish crackers?”

  “Ask me what my drink was.”

  Playing along, I asked, “Cooper, honey. What did the nice senior citizens give you to drink?”

  “Funny. They gave me a big glass of milk. Whole milk! I don’t even know the last time I drank milk!” he said, exasperated.

  “I’m waiting to hear what the problem is? You’re still hungry, is that it? You said I didn’t give you time to be fed. I don’t see a problem wit
h them feeding you. It’s not gourmet enough? Snob.”

  He threw his hands up in the air. “Yes, I am starving, but that’s not the point. They’ll be at the church hall later and are bringing me macaroni and cheese for dinner.”

  “There you go, problem solved.”

  He continued, ignoring me. “They wanted me to play cards. One of them asked me if I was a Boy Scout. What does that have to do with anything? I thought I was supposed to be answering constituent questions and discussing my ideas. Are you sure we’re going in the right direction?”

  He’d hit the nail on the head. It was a part of my plan: to reintroduce him to the town as Cooper Campbell-Endicott, the mayoral candidate who cared about Hope Lake’s citizens—not just Cooper, Governor Campbell’s only son, or Cooper Endicott, codirector of the CDO. Or Coop, the guy who’d romanced half the town’s available female population and left a trail of broken hearts behind. That was the version we needed to make people forget or at least convince them that he’d changed. Or simply grown up.

  “I wanted you to start with the seniors because they’re influential. Going to bingo tonight will kill two birds with one stone. You saw some seniors this morning at the center, and you’ll get the rest tonight at the church hall. They talk, all day long. You can hear what they’re kvetching about. Use that to focus on what they care about. You’re showing people that you’re in tune with the community and that you’re actually interested in their day-to-day lives, which they appreciate and will talk about. That’s what we want.”

  “It just feels like it’s a waste of time. Why can’t I just ask them what they want?” he asked, rolling his eyes. “I basically ate with them, and now I’m going to call a few bingo games. How does that help me win the election?”

  I held up the campaign calendar. “It’s not a waste. It’s not overt but covert. Trust me.”