After a long time, I finally unwind myself from Gabriel and stand on shaky legs. I’m still tipsy, but more than that I feel dazed, almost high, until Gabriel also gets up and kisses me again.

I take a deep breath, and suddenly remember where I am and what a bad idea it is.

“I should go,” I tell him.

“Now I agree with you,” he says, sneaking one more kiss.

I put on my skirt and underwear, find my bra, and after a quick search of the kitchen my shirt turns out to have slid partly under the microwave stand. I’m sure I’m disheveled and smell like sex and sweat and whiskey, and I know that I should care, but I can’t be bothered.

I’m sated and sleepy, and more than anything I want to stay there, with him, instead of going back into my parents’ house where everything I just did comes with a heavy price.

He sees me to the door. We kiss again, and just before I leave he drops a kiss on my hair, and it’s strangely different. There’s no lust or desire in it, but it’s sweet and protective. Almost more of a blessing than a kiss.

“Give me a wave when you’re in your room,” he murmurs.

“Will do,” I say, and leave.

Thank God I’ve walked this line a thousand times and don’t even have to think about it as I head back to the house, creep behind the rosebushes, and get back through the pantry window. After I get in I stay in that tiny, dark room for a long moment, just listening.

Outside, a couple of guards walk by, talking about something or other, but there’s no noise inside the house. I exhale, trying to get my breathing under control, and then make my way upstairs to my bedroom. I shut the door softly and creep to the window, parting the curtains.

A single slat on Gabriel’s blinds lifts, and I wave at it. The slat jiggles, and I can’t help but grin like an idiot as I shut the curtains, put on my pajamas, and then lie down in my bed.

I can’t believe I just did that.

And I’m definitely, definitely going to do it again.

* * *

Strangely, the next couple of days are kind of fun. Nothing changes, outwardly — we have the same conversations, about yeast rising and our favorite icing flavors when we were kids and what kind of photo filter I should put on a picture of flowers, but there’s something charged about them, an undertone of something thrilling that makes me nearly giddy.

We have a secret. We have a really great secret, a secret that no one knows but us, and so we’re acting like teenagers around each other no matter how much we try not to.

At the same time, it’s even harder. Getting to have him at night, not just the sex but the being alone, getting to be myself, makes it nearly impossible to keep my hands off him during the day. I nearly drag him in a closet just to kiss him about a thousand times, but somehow, by some miracle, I hold myself back.

I don’t think anyone notices. I get a few weird looks from my mother, but she’s always glaring at me for one reason or another, so I don’t think it counts.

And I go back. Two nights in a row I can barely wait for all the lights to be off before I’m heading out of my room, down the back stairs, through the kitchen, out the window and into Gabriel’s apartment, where the second night we don’t even make it all the way up the stairs.

Afterward, when we’re breathless and sated, we drink whiskey naked together in the dark. I finally ask him about the Marines, about Afghanistan, about whether it’s true that he still wakes up shouting sometimes, and it is. He shows me the scar from the tube that drained his punctured lung after an IED went off and broke half his ribs.

He asks about my family, slowly draws out the details of my relationship with Lucas, the complicated entanglements I have here. I tell him that I know I need to leave, that I’m trying, I’m working on a plan.

Gabriel’s quiet for a moment, shifting his whiskey glass in his hand. I’m sprawled half across the couch and half across him, because even though this is the fourth time he’s even seen me naked, I’m oddly comfortable around him. It just feels right that we’re doing this.

“Let me know if you need help,” he says.

I bite my lip.

“Thanks,” I say. “But I need to do this myself.”

He smiles down at his glass.

“I thought you might say that,” he says. “Stubborn.”

I just shrug, smiling. He’s not wrong.

* * *

I’m just dozing off, the rumble of the tour bus finally lulling me to sleep, when there’s a delicate hand on my arm.

“You look tired,” Lilah, Mason’s girlfriend, says. “Are you sleeping okay?”

My eyes fly open and my stomach lurches, because I haven’t been sleeping okay, I’ve been having sex with my bodyguard and then hanging out naked until two or three a.m. for the past couple of days.

“I know the campaign is stressful for everyone,” she says, smiling beatifically, taking her hand from my arm.

“I’ve had a little insomnia lately,” I admit. “I’m sure it’ll go away.”

“Have you tried warm milk and honey?” she asks, tilting her head to one side. “My mom used to give me that when I couldn’t sleep.”

“Thanks, I’ll give it a shot, I say.”

“And don’t stress so much, I’m sure your father has his race completely locked up,” she goes on, softly. “Nothing to worry about. Plus, I heard you and Kyle...” she smiles again and winks.

That’s weird, I think, even as I smile back at Lilah with the overly sweet, fake smile that’s my default. Lilah’s my former sister in law, and even though her family completely disowned and disavowed Lucas, it’s strange that she’s acting like she doesn’t even remember him.

“You know how it is,” I say, attempting chumminess, or something. “I start thinking about one thing, and next thing you know, I can’t turn my brain off.”

She nods, her brown hair floating over one shoulder.

“I sure do,” she says. “But try the milk, it really works.”

On her other side, Mason says something to her, and she turns away. I lean back and close my eyes again, but I’m not about to go back to sleep.

Is Lilah happy about Kyle?

Is it strange that my ex-sister-in-law thinks it’s great that I’m allegedly dating again, six months after the divorce?

I take a deep breath. On my other side, Joy squirms in her seat and bumps me, her nose in one of the ‘wholesome’ mystery books she’s permitted to read.

The one time I visited Lucas’s family home since he left, everything of his was gone. Pictures — even family pictures with him in them — his things, even his books and DVDs. Like he never even existed, so maybe that’s what this is. She’s forcing herself to forget that she ever had a brother and that I was ever married to him.

I seriously have to get out of here, I think, and then I drift off to sleep again.

* * *

This rally is pretty big, and Gabriel’s afraid that my stalker might be here, somewhere in the crowd, so we’re following a modified version of what he calls the Outdoor Gathering Action Plan, or OGAP. It turns out that Gabriel is very fond of acronyms, which he blames on his time in the military.

“All right,” he says, ten minutes before the rally starts, crossing his arms. “Give it to me.”

People are swirling around us, but I raise one eyebrow anyway. Gabriel frowns.

“OGAP,” he says, all business.

I clear my throat, because apparently, this is no time for flirting.

“Exits throughout the hall, the usual places, with the exit signs,” I say. “If there’s a riot, get to the bus, which will have a guard and can be locked. If I get grabbed, fight back. If I’m being carried, go limp. If he’s got a weapon, do what he says to buy time.”

Gabriel nods once, officially. Right now, he’s perfectly serious, completely professional, and not even checking me out a little. I’d almost be offended, but my life might depend on this, so it’s fine.

“Active shooter?” he says.

“Hit the ground, get behind something if I can,” I say. “When he’s apprehended, get to the bus.”

The bus is bulletproof. My father’s had a few death threats over the years, though none were ever serious.

“If we get separated?”

“We meet at the stage door past the stairs.”

“If I’m down?”

A chill runs through me, but I ignore it.

“Stay low, get to the bus.”

Finally, Gabriel smiles at me, a sparkle in his eye. There’s a gap in the people rushing around, and for a few seconds, no one’s in earshot. He steps closer and suddenly he’s towering over me and my stomach flips, heat rushing through me.

“And if you get lonely and want someone to make you shout his name?”

I do my best not to smile and fail.

“Why would I get lonely?” I murmur, looking up at him. “You’re perfectly good company, and you live in my back yard.”

Good lord I want to kiss him, but the moment is over, people are walking by again, and he takes a step away from me, back to perfectly professional.

“I think our bases are covered,” he says, nodding once.

You can cover my bases if you want, I think, my pantyhose feeling extra warm and uncomfortable.

Ruby, that doesn’t even mean anything.

“Sounds good,” I agree, making myself look at his face, and not the way he fills out his suit. Which is well.

“And don’t forget, I’m right here if anything happens,” he says, his voice dipping to a lower register. “Anything at all, I’ve got you.”

I have the feeling he doesn’t just mean because I’m your bodyguard, but I don’t know what to say. Then we get called to prayer anyway, so it doesn’t matter.

* * *

The rally isn’t interesting. It’s a whole bunch of people waving signs in the audience while I sit dutifully behind my father as he preaches about his good, wholesome American values and how great America is, how we need to get back to our real American moral center, etc.

A couple months ago I actually listened once or twice, and I was kind of surprised when I realized that nearly everything he says at these rallies — everything that makes the crowd lose their minds — is basically meaningless. He never says what he means by a moral America, or what he’s gonna do to get us there. He just says it should exist and everyone loves him for it.

So I do what I usually do: tune out and try not to ogle my bodyguard. Did I mention that he’s wearing a suit, and that he’s wearing the hell out of it? He is.

After the speeches, my father takes questions. I’m half thinking about sitting on Gabriel’s lap as I take his tie off, half thinking about whether I could somehow use my mom’s Perfect Wife blog to somehow make enough money on the side to move out.

And then I hear my name.

“—has moved on and found someone new in her life already, is that true?”

My heart slams into my throat, and I sit bolt upright in the second row. Why the hell is someone asking questions about me?

Unless that’s him.

At the exact same time, my father and I both glance to the side of the stage, where there’s a flurry of activity, just out of sight of the audience. The security guys are all rushing around, Gabriel pointing and telling them where to go. He’s clearly taken charge of the situation, and I take a deep breath, calming a little.

My father turns back to the audience, folksy smile in his voice, his drawl suddenly exaggerated.

“Now, y’all know I prefer to keep my family’s business private since they didn’t ask to be a part of this,” he says, politician smile wide as can be. “So all I’ll say is that my daughter Ruby is very happy, and may have some big news soon.”

What?!

For a split second I lose control of my face, and my mouth drops open. I don’t know what he’s talking about, unless he’s somehow known about Gabriel and me the whole time and is telling everyone, right now, except that doesn’t make any sense because I don’t know what news...

Kyle. Obviously. Jesus, I’d nearly forgotten about Kyle but that has to be what my father means.

He just told a crowd of people that he thinks I’m getting engaged soon, and he has to mean to Kyle.

I think my own lungs are trying to strangle me, because sitting on that stage, perfect smile on my face, I can barely breathe. I feel like I’ve turned to stone or something, only I have to force myself not to rage-cry, and I don’t think stone ever does that.

I hate him, I think, over and over again. I hate this. I hate him.

And if he thinks I’m marrying Kyle, he’s as wrong as he’s ever been.