Page 7 of Hottie on Her Shelf
Was he whining? Yeah. Again, nobody could overhear. But of all the things Fitz didn’t like about being mayor, campaigning topped the list. Spending a month reassuring people that he was the best, the only man qualified to lead Swan Cove. The biggest reason voters punched his name on the ballot, though? His last name.
Fitz didn’t believe that was nearly good enough a reason. It left one hell of a bad taste in his mouth, but it was a legacy thrust upon him since birth. It’d disrespect the previous generations of Montgomery mayors, all the time and effort they’d lavished on steering the course of the town, if he just thumbed his nose and selfishly followed his own dreams.
“It’ll be even easier this time.” Derek flicked his wrist to swat away Fitz’s concerns. “With someone sharing the stage, you’ll get to talk half as much.”
That was a problem in and of itself. Half the time to listen. To interact. To make an impression. Why would Derek think that went in the plus column?
Fitz’s chair creaked as he sagged back. It didn’t make him feel better to yell at Derek due to the whole not-getting-through-to-him thing. The dressing-down wasn’t worth it. His time would be better spent grabbing coffee. Cleaning out his spam folder. Scheduling that emissions test for his car…
Derek jumped up, then double slapped the desk, beaming with confidence.
As if that would fix anything. “You’re still going to win, Fitz. A Montgomery always wins in Swan Cove. I’ll make sure history repeats itself.” By the end of that weak-ass motivational speech, he was at the door, hand already cranking the knob.
Guess Fitz had instilled a little fear in him after all. The morning wasn’t a complete loss.
The day had started…not badly. More precisely, it started in the shitter with the librarian’s throwdown.
It didn’t get any better from there.
Fitz remembered the relief he’d felt when gulping down his first mug of coffee. The always delicious turkey club from Monty’s Sandwich Shoppe was a good lift halfway through the day. The rest of it stank like the badger carcass their family dog dug up and dragged inside when he was a kid. Until a spring break trip to the Yellowstone hot springs, that had remained the worst thing Fitz had ever smelled.
First, there’d been the meeting with the water department. Then a grip-and-grin with a delegation from their sister city, Kleve, in Germany. And by delegation, he meant three giddy high school kids and six chaperones. They didn’t care about meeting the mayor. They just wanted to get out on a boat and spot some whales. Because, according to Gunther, “Everything is bigger in America—even the fish!”
Fitz figured he’d earned a metaphorical gold star in mayor-ing by not bursting their bubble and pointing out that whales were mammals. All in a day’s work of presenting the best possible face to Swan Cove and the world.
Basically, the day had been meeting after meeting after meeting. He was done.
Fitz cocked an ear. Didn’t hear a sound from the hallway—not at 5:01 in the afternoon. City hall emptied out faster than a dive bar when the lights turned up. He put his keys back in his pocket and hopped onto the flat metal banister of the stairs.
Then he rode all the way down. Even the loops at the landings.
Not exactly a specified perk of being the mayor. Not exactly something a thirty-two-year-old man should be doing in public. But he figured he’d make sure the day ended better than it started.
It worked. He plucked his keys back out, whistling as he pushed the wide exit bar to the back parking lot. Then his whistle petered out as did his mood. Because his parents were waiting for him at his car.
That couldn’t be good.
A quick mental run-through told Fitz that he hadn’t missed birthdays or anniversaries. If somebody was dead—Aunt Felicia, his sister Blake—he hoped to God they would’ve called with the news rather than waiting for his work day to officially end to conversate in the parking lot.
Fitz didn’t have a clue as to why they were there. Why they’d felt a parking lot freaking ambush was necessary.
It was never wise to go into a discussion with his parents without any game plan or foreknowledge. It guaranteed a loss—whether of time, pride, or both.
He casually tossed his keys in the air. Never let ’em see you frantically trying to strategize.
“Good afternoon. Little weird that you’re just standing out here. Did security ban you from the building? Catch you spray-painting ‘our son’s the mayor’ with a smiley face under the exclamation mark?” Fitz said.
Preston Montgomery winced, his small head jerk making it seem as though Fitz’s words had actually splintered a few cells of his brain. “Why must you be ridiculous?”
Better than the alternative. Dour. Grumpy. Permanently impaled by a stick up one’s ass. “It’s been a long day.”
At that, his mother hinged forward slightly, presenting her cheek to be air-kissed. Dutifully, Fitz kissed the cheek he knew got regular applications of bee venom, which had always confused him, since his mom had screened in their entire patio to avoid being “terrorized” (her word) by a single bee.
He shook his father’s hand next, since it was expected. Today, Dad wore his crimson Harvard crest tie. Must mean he’d been making the rounds up at the lab. Preston enjoyed intimidating all the MIT lab rats with it. Fitz, however, knew the MIT alums actually didn’t give a rat’s ass about his dad’s Harvard degree. Same as him.
“I imagine so,” his mom murmured. That was her MO. Caroline Montgomery especially liked to murmur in noisy restaurants to force the servers to apologize and lean in closer.
Fitz refused to play those games. So, he slapped on an innocent smile and asked, “You imagine what?”
