Page 45 of Hurry Up And Wait

KAVANAUGH

I flippedthrough the dossier on my new fiancée. She was beautiful, that was for certain. Long brown hair, sparkling golden eyes, the perfect lips that were made for kissing. Yeah, the senator had really outdone himself finding this one. There wasn’t a single thing he hadn’t thought of.

She was a second-generation Brit from a wealthy family. She attended Brown University and graduated summa cum laude with a degree in art history. I snorted at that little nugget of information. The most useless degree in the history of useless degrees. What the hell was she going to do with that? But it looked good to the senator. It was the perfect degree for the wife of someone like me—the son of a senator. After all, we had to keep up appearances.

And on top of those accolades, she also devoted an extraordinary amount of time to charities, spending many of her weekends elbow-deep in some cause for the needy. Commendable, but not the reason I would choose a wife. And then there was the fact that she had a dog, though I wasn’t sure how that fit into his plans yet, but I was sure it was considered in his decision.

“We’re here, sir,” the driver said, pulling up in front of the building I would be staying in when I was in town. The brownstone was historicaland probably fucking perfect on the inside. I already hated it. I wanted a manufactured home. Something slapped together by factory workers. Not because I liked the house, but because I wanted to stick it to the senator and maybe embarrass him a little in the process.

“Would you like me to get your bags, sir?”

“Nope. I just have the one,” I said, reminding him the only one I carried was in the back seat with me.

I already had the keys, courtesy of the driver when I got in the car. The whole fucking thing was a disaster, but I kept reminding myself it was for a greater purpose. I just had to suck it up. I flung the door open and stepped out, fingering the keys as I walked to the door. I fucking hated living in the city. Everything about it felt so wrong.

Despite it being night, I felt eyes on me everywhere. There was no underground silo with cameras up to keep an eye on the entrance, and there was no mansion to retreat to at the end of the night, filled with loud voices and beer. It was just this fucking townhouse and a woman I didn’t know waiting inside.

I headed up the stairs, each step feeling like a noose around my neck. I wanted to turn and run out the door, but that wouldn’t help the situation any. It was only for a few weeks, and I’d head home on the weekends just so I didn’t throw myself off the highest building to escape the senator.

From outside the apartment door, I could hear the sound of music from inside, but it wasn’t what I liked to listen to. I sighed as I shoved the key in the lock and opened the door to the strains of Tchaikovsky or whatever the fuck was playing. I dropped my bag in the entry and shut the door, taking in the opulence of my temporary home.

“Fuck me,” I muttered. Everything was covered in gold and rose colors. The floors were tiled and my footsteps echoed as I walked further into the home. A fucking chandelier hung in the center of the foyer, lighting the place up the like the Fourth of July.

I shoved my fingers through my hair as I entered the main room. I wouldn’t call it a living room since not a single fucking person alive would dare try to live in the space. The furniture was…well, it was unlike anything I’d seen before. I didn’t even want to touch it for fear I might dirty the pristine white cloth.

The windows were another problem. There were way too fucking many of them, and they took up too much of the walls. Without security, it was a walking nightmare. I headed out of the main room and into the open kitchen. It was a chef’s dream, not that I cared. I didn’t plan on cooking much. Beyond that was a bedroom so elaborately decorated that it could only be used for pictures. No person would actually be comfortable in the room. Hell, I would have nightmares just from the mirror attached to the ceiling over the bed. Who the fuck did that, anyway?

“Oh, you’re here.”

I turned and faced my new fiancée, my eyes skimming over her body. Yes, she was beautiful, but she was way too fucking put together. She stood in front of me in beige pants, perfectly pleated and cinched at the waist with a belt. The white top she wore accentuated her neckline, drawing my eyes to her delicate collarbone while also showing off her toned arms. I sighed at the outfit, hoping she wouldn’t actually be the robot I feared.

She shifted from one foot to the other, standing up straighter as she waited for me to say something. “I’m Olivia. Olivia Crawford.”

“Kavanaugh.”

She cocked her head at me. “Bradford, right?”

I shook my head once. “Don’t ever call me that.”

“Then what should I call you?”

“Anything but that,” I said, striding past her out of the room. “Where are you staying?”

“Um…that’s my room,” she said, motioning to the room I just left.

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. “You actually stay in that room?”

“Why?”

“Did you see it? It’s all…white.”

“I know. I hired the decorator.”

Christ. I ran my hand over the stubble on my jaw. “Just how long have you known you would be moving in here?”

“About a month.”

Fuck, a month. Looks like the senator was planning this for a while. “Where’s my room?”