Bishop (Political Royalty Book 3) by Evelyn Adams Page A

up between them and the driver and he barely waited for the door to close before he reached for her hand. It was the only physical contact they’d allowed themselves since they arrived in South Carolina and then only in the safety of his car, behind the tinted windows. But just the touch of his hand on hers, his fingertips rubbing circles over her palm, was enough to send her heart racing the way it had when she was a teenager and making out was everything.
    “Morning, beautiful,” said Walker, the melted caramel of his rich Southern drawl warming her. “I thought we’d stick with the classics. IHOP, if it’s okay with you.”
    “Dessert that counts as breakfast? Absolutely.”
    He shifted on the smooth leather seat until his thigh rested against hers. They’d spend the rest of the day going in a thousand different directions but here in the back of his car, his body created a warm, steady presence, anchoring her in the midst of the crazy. Later, when everything went to shit, which it inevitably did over the course of the campaign, she’d have this time—these few stolen moments—to draw on. She felt the warmth of his hand, so different from hers, fingers twined as they built a sanctuary for each other, one moment at a time.
    Too soon the black SUV pulled into the parking lot of the IHOP and she let go of Walker’s hand. They’d never talked about it and she knew his security detail would keep their secret, but he never pushed it. He never gave them an excuse to think she was anything other than his campaign manager—no matter what they might suspect. She knew without asking it was part of the promise he’d made to protect her. His detail wouldn’t talk, but if they knew she’d slept with their boss, they’d think less of her. Walker made sure it never became an issue.
    The driver opened her side, while the other security guy opened the senator’s. The parking lot was still mostly empty, the glow of the halogen streetlights competing with the early dawn light. By the time they finished breakfast, it would be full light, but for now the cool, gray morning wrapped around them as if it were somehow part of creating the space that was just for the two of them. In an abundance of caution she still had trouble getting used to, one of Walker’s guys led the way into the restaurant while the other held the door and followed behind.
    She felt Walker’s presence behind her, urging her through the door, but he wouldn’t touch her, not even something as benign as a hand on the small of her back. They’d had breakfast in public, the candidate and his campaign manager, every morning since they arrived in South Carolina. They shuttled their breaking dawn meeting between the few places open that early and they never crossed a line. They never even got close. Anyone watching them would assume they were planning and talking business. They couldn’t know they never spoke about the campaign and that this short hour alone together was the best part of Haven’s day, the thing she looked forward to the most every single day.
    The hostess gave Walker a surprisingly warm smile considering the hour—but not considering the man—and ushered them to a booth. The security guys took a table a few rows away, but with the exception of a couple of people propped up at the counter sucking back coffee, there was no one in the restaurant to protect them from.
    Haven ordered some kind of pancake concoction that came stuffed with bananas and chocolate chips and covered with whipped cream, and a cup of hot tea. When she glanced from the waitress to Walker, she caught him smiling at her with a warmth that tightened her chest and made it hard to breathe for a moment.
    “Did you ever see that chipmunk movie?” he asked after he’d ordered bacon, eggs, and a stack of plain pancakes.
    “On cable,” she said, reluctant to admit she’d watched an hour and a half of the singing furry rats without the excuse of children to absolve her.
    “I