Ruby’s facial expression doesn’t change, even though she looks up at me. Aside from the moment she saw me, sitting in her father’s office, it’s barely changed at all: a lovely, warm, nice-girl smile that looks like it belongs on the front of a book about raising perfect daughters.

It’s beautiful. She’s beautiful. But it’s also a little strange.

“What’s that?” she asks.

“We start over,” I say. “Both of us forget about this morning. The first time we ever met was in your father’s office an hour ago.”

Ruby exhales softly. It sounds like she’s relieved, but the girl is nearly impossible to read behind her façade.

“I think that would be for the best,” she says evenly. “My father frowns on drinking, either by his family or his staff. He’s a teetotaler himself. I’m sure some people would consider this job a months-long, full-time nightmare.”

She glances at me quickly, and for a moment, there’s something teasing and wicked in Ruby’s eyes, but then it’s gone and she’s all sweetness and light again.

“I’m sure some people would consider it that,” I agree. “But I’m thrilled and honored to be part of the Senator’s service detail, and I look forward to the unique challenges that this position will offer.”

I think I’m teasing her, just a little, though it’s so slight I can barely tell myself.

“Good,” Ruby says, and she’s smiling. I open the door.

We’re to the front door of the carriage house. The Senator said it was small, but it’s two stories, bigger than any apartment I’ve ever lived in before.

“Can I offer you a drink?” I ask. I have no idea whether there’s anything in here besides water, but this environment is so painfully, rigidly polite that I feel rude otherwise.

“No, thank you, I should be getting back,” she says, and tucks one strand of blonde hair behind an ear. “Besides, it might look improper if I were alone with you in your lodgings.”

I have to clench my teeth together before I tell her she’s welcome to come by any time and do more than look improper. Since this morning, she’s changed out of her ugly sweater and into a t-shirt that doesn’t do her any favors either, but it doesn’t change the fact that when I look at her, I can practically hear her shouting my name.

“That wouldn’t do at all,” I answer her, turning the knob. “We’ll have to be sure to guard against impropriety.”

“Certainly.”

“If you ever have a suitable chaperone, feel free to stop by,” I say. “Maybe we’ll have tea and scones and discuss suitable topics.”

Ruby glances at the main house, and I swear there’s a hint of a smile — a real one, not the sweet, innocent one — around her perfect lips.

“Then you’d better learn something about cross-stitch, knitting, or flower-arranging pretty fast,” she says, and for just a moment there’s an edge in her voice. “We ladies prefer not to trouble ourselves with weightier matters.”

Then the sweet smile is back.

“Please, make yourself at home,” she says. “And thank you again.”

“My pleasure,” I say, and open the door as she walks away.

After two steps, she turns, my hand still on the knob.

“By the way, they’re going to ask you to say grace tonight at dinner, since you’re a guest,” she says. “You might want to brush up, just in case it’s been a while.”

“It has,” I say. “Thank you for advising.”

“Of course,” she says, and walks away again.

I close the door behind me and try not to watch the way her body moves underneath her clothes as she crosses the lawn, her hips rolling from side to side.

Fucking quit it, I tell myself, and pull the curtains closed on the window. Of all the women in South Carolina, you had to find the last one you should go sticking your dick in.

It’s just a couple of months, Kane. I don’t care if she ties you down and hops on your dick, you push her off.

I walk into the main room of the carriage house, which is half-kitchen, half dining room, find a glass, fill it, and take a long drink of water.

Get through it. That’s all you do, and then you can go back to your real life.

Just get the fuck through it.

* * *

I spend a while in the kitchen, on my phone, trying to figure out how to say grace. My memories of it are fuzzy at best, and mostly from my grandparents’ house back in Wisconsin while we still lived there, when I was really little.

The problem is that I have no real idea what exactly the tenets of the Senator’s faith are. I know he’s regarded as a near-insane extremist by most of the people in Washington, D.C., and he’s got some pretty backwards ideas about… well, everything, but beyond that I don’t know what the man believes.

But in God is a pretty solid bet, as is in Jesus, so I settle on a simple pre-meal prayer that doesn’t get fancy, memorize it quickly, and then check out the rest of my new apartment.

It’s nice. Nicer than anywhere I’ve ever lived before, but it’s not hard to beat Marine barracks or the apartments where I lived in DC. They weren’t bad, but Secret Service is a pretty demanding job, so I wasn’t home enough to pay for more than the bare minimum.

But the carriage house has been redone recently, Ruby said. It’s got three bedrooms, a state-of-the-art kitchen, and redone bathrooms. The Burgesses are very old money, rich back when my ancestors were still peasants in Ireland and Germany, probably eating dirt and gruel.

And they put all my clothes away, even though I wish they hadn’t. It gives me the damn creeps to think of someone going through my stuff, judging it, then brushing it off and hanging it. I was furious and, okay, slightly drunk when I was packing, so most of my things were just crammed into suitcases.

Then I think of another reason I didn’t want someone else unpacking for me. I tossed half a box of condoms into a suitcase after ten minutes of deliberation. Because yeah, I took a vow of celibacy, no women while I’m on this job. Sure.

But I’ve also been Gabriel Goddamn Kane for almost thirty years, and that means I don’t exactly trust myself. No matter how fucking gung-ho I am about my newfound monk status, it’s good to have protection around just in case.

I’m not gonna fuck anyone. But if I do, I’m not gonna catch anything or get her pregnant.

I start going through drawers, hoping that maybe they got caught in some shirts or something, but no luck until I open my bedside table, and there they are. Neatly arranged and everything.

Well, fuck. I’m not in the Senator’s family. I’m not working seven days a week. He’s got no say over whether I go out, meet a girl, and have some fun, right?

Yeah, right. I’ve heard the shit people whisper about Burgess.

I slam the drawer shut, nervousness prickling up my spine. It’s day one and I’ve already run into his daughter while I was hungover as fuck, thought endlessly about running my hands up under her ugly denim skirt until she moans, and now his staff knows I’ve brought a shitload of condoms with me.

For a guy who’s supposed to be redeeming himself from a scandal, I’m doing a pretty piss-poor job of it.

* * *

At dinner, they seat me across from Mrs. Burgess, next to the Senator, and catty-corner from Ruby. Her brother Zeke is on my other side, and even though there’s a part of me that would much rather have Ruby next to me, it’s for the best.

Besides, I’d be shocked if her father allowed her to sit a mere six inches from a man who wasn’t her husband. I might touch her thigh by accident, and next thing you know, there’s sin everywhere.

“Your speech at High Country Bible College is next Wednesday, dear,” Mrs. Burgess is saying as she serves the Senator creamed spinach. “I think this Wednesday you’ve got committee in the morning, and then you’re flying back here from Washington in the afternoon to address the League of Concerned Ladies down in Charleston at their Annual Supper that evening.”

She sets down the creamed spinach, then takes a plate piled with pork roast, giving him two pieces. The man hasn’t served himself a single bite of food. I’m beginning to wonder if Mrs. Burgess is going to feed him, as well.

The Senator frowns.

“Are you sure?” he asks, watching her put food on his plate. When she finishes, he doesn’t even thank her, just starts eating.

“Well, no, and if you think that’s this Wednesday I’m sure you’re right,” Mrs. Burgess says, and takes a small, dainty bite of food.

“This is a wonderful meal, Mrs. Burgess,” I say, because I know my damn manners.

“Thank you, Gabriel,” she says. “How was your drive down from Washington yesterday?”

I make polite chit chat about nothing with Ruby’s mother. The whole time, Ruby’s words echo through my head: we ladies prefer not to trouble ourselves with weightier matters. I still don’t know if she was being serious or sarcastic, but every time I glance over at her, I think I see that spark in her eyes.

I don’t know what to make of it. I don’t know what to make of any of this. It’s one of the strangest dinners I’ve ever had, and I’ve had some strange fucking dinners.

But every so often, I catch Ruby looking at me, across the table.

The next couple of months are going to be sheer torture, one way or another, but I’d be lying if I said I weren’t looking forward to it, at least a little.