Page 8 of Hottie on Her Shelf
“That your day was long. That it felt long, rather. What with starting with such a crushing disappointment.”
How did they…?
Damn it. Why was Fitz even surprised?
Of course Derek had called them. Derek was first and foremost Preston’s toady. His spy. Legit on his dad’s payroll. Secondly, he looked out for himself. Doing his best for Fitz barely netted a bronze medal.
He had two choices: tap dance with them until they admitted that Derek had ratted out the confidential conversation of an elected official and a constituent—which would change their end game not at all—or…
…get on with the inevitable.
Fitz pocketed his key. “I’m frustrated at the last-minute timing of the addition. Less time for me to prepare to run against her. But I’m not disappointed. Democracy in action is a beautiful thing.”
“Bullshit.”
Tapping his toe on the asphalt, Fitz said, “You’re literally standing on city property, Dad. Maybe keep your monarchial leanings under wraps while you’re here.”
“Democracy is fine. I call bullshit on you not being upset about the events of the day.”
No doubt. Preston Montgomery wasn’t big on tuning into the nuances of feelings. Something bad went down for his son, ergo Fitz must be pissed/crushed/etc. In his own way, Preston was sure of it because he cared.
How messed up was that?
“I was caught off guard, I’ll grant you that. The more I think about it, though? It’ll be fun. A race isn’t much to get excited about when you’re the only one running. I need that competitive spirit to kick in to get me to do my best.”
Oftentimes, Fitz would make pronouncements like that simply to stir the pot with his parents. To try and prove to them that their side of an issue was not the be-all and end-all. Because, man, they used a crane to get up on their high horse about almost everything.
He meant this one, though.
Did he like the idea of doing more campaign homework? Nah. Not one bit. Fitz had slogged through a master of public policy at Stanford. He didn’t shy away from hard work, but he hated memorizing budget stats and tourist stats and economic stats because, well, stats. He wanted Swan Cove to prosper. He just didn’t give a rat’s ass about all the numbers that told the story.
On the other hand…
Did he like the idea of the mental chess match he’d be thrown into against his beautiful—no denying that the librarian was beautiful—opponent?
Yeah. He did.
Fitz liked her…sass, too. The way Hallie Scott hadn’t let being a mess hold her back from standing up for what she believed in was impressive.
A throat-clearing from his dad brought Fitz back from his reminiscing. Right. Parents were here to rip him a new one. Better get on with it.
For a split second, those sandy brows drew together as if Preston were about to unleash one of his classic rants. Or, what his dad referred to as ‘not letting a teachable moment slip by.’
Then his forehead smoothed. He clapped Fitz on the back. “That’s entirely the wrong attitude, son. We taught you better than that. You’re in a competition every day. With yourself. To be better than you were the day before.”
Ah, to be fifteen again and to willfully eye roll and damn the consequences! That was such a load of—
Didn’t matter.
Fitz knew what they expected to hear. Spouting it was the fastest way to get them out of his parking lot. Because his dad’s posturing came from a good place. Preston didn’t pick on him to be a hard-ass. He genuinely wanted his son to be the best version—well, not of himself, but of the man Preston believed that he should be.
He clasped his hands behind his back. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
After clicking her tongue, his mother said, “I can’t think how you allowed this to happen.”
“What?”
She slid her ever-present pearls through her fingers (one strand for day, double strand for night. Fitz didn’t love that he knew that. He also hoped that whoever his future wife was, wherever she was out there, she didn’t wear pearls at all). “How could you let an interloper onto the historically one-person mayoral ballot?”
