Meet You in the Middle Bonus Content
The deleted scenes you’ll read below were cut due to space constraints (my original draft of Meet You in the Middle was too long). You will, however, recognize certain passages that survived and were incorporated elsewhere into the final book (some things I just couldn’t bear to lose!) I’m so glad this content will finally see the light of day, and that all you Ben & Kate fans will get more of your favorite couple.
Disclaimer: The deleted content you’ll read here has not been professionally edited, so if you catch a typo, just pretend you didn't. 😉
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This first deleted scene originally took place before Kate went to Ben’s apartment to make him dinner (chronologically, this would occur between Chapters 17 and 18). If you’re interested in learning more about the Capitol hideaways, here’s some additional reading that shares more about the history—and salacious details—of the secret offices: Secret Offices a Senate Tradition; The Closely Held Secrets of Hideaways; Ted Kennedy gives video tour of famous hideaway.
CHAPTER 17.5
It’s a little more than a week later, and I’m at the Capitol building for a joint hearing that’s just wrapped up. I’m about to head back to Hart when I scroll through my messages and see Ben’s text: Call me when your hearing’s over.
I wonder if it’s about tonight—or as I’ve been referring to it, D-Day. Also known as Dinner Day.
I’m pretty anxious about it. There’s been a noticeable shift in our dynamic since the dinner with my mom, a simmering undercurrent of tension that coats every one of our interactions like pollen in springtime. I see or hear from Ben every day, whether via spontaneous stop-bys, lunches, texts, or when he seems to magically finish up work the same time I do so he can walk me home, which seems to be happening with increasing regularity. I tell myself I’m letting him because it’ll get my mom off my back, but I’m not sure who I’m trying to fool. Those walks are the best part of my day.
Stephen’s taken to calling us ‘friends without benefits’ and it’s excruciatingly accurate. It’s bizarre, this romantic no man’s land I’ve found myself stranded in. I’ve never had a guy best friend before (a straight one, anyway); is this what it’s like? Constant flirting with no hope of it leading anywhere? If so, I’d like to unsubscribe. Delete my account. I’m so sexually frustrated, I could scream.
Maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe Ben is just that type of guy who’s naturally flirtatious and makes every girl feel like they’re the only girl in the world. It’s like that scene in Titanic where Jack takes Rose below decks to slum it up in steerage, and he has to let that little girl who’s in love with him down gently. “You’re still my best girl, Cora,” he soothes with his patronizing yet devastatingly handsome Leonardo DiCaprio smile.
Am I Cora?
The idea of being in his apartment tonight unchaperoned is totally freaking me out. We’ve always had the comforting security blanket of the office swaddling us, the watchful eyes of onlookers there to keep our fragile boundaries (and my libido) in check. Will the professional façade fade away once we’re behind closed doors? On his home turf, will Ben suddenly be able to see through our flirt-fog and realize what’s really going through my mind when I look at him?
God, I hope not.
Me: What’s up?
Ben: What are you doing between now and dinner?
I check the time. It’s only 3:30; plenty of opportunity to get some work done before end of day.
Me: Heading back to the office to catch up on emails
Ben: I’m over here too, come keep me company
Me: Where’s here?
Ben: Hammond’s hideaway
I freeze, thumbs hovering over the screen.
The aptly named hideaways are private second offices assigned to each senator in the Capitol building, just steps from the Senate floor. They’re so private, in fact, most people don’t even know they exist. They’re most frequently used as a place to hold off-the-books meetings away from the prying eyes of staffers and constituents, or to save our bosses a trip back to their offices between votes. They’re allocated based on seniority, which basically means freshman senators are given windowless basement hideaways no larger than a shoebox while veterans are lavished with sprawling, multi-room suites with views of the Mall. Hideaway assignments and locations are some of Capitol Hill’s most closely guarded secrets, but I happen to know that Hammond took possession of the late Ted Kennedy’s famous sanctuary, widely considered to be the grandest hideaway in the entire Capitol.
Do I want to see it? Hell. Yes.
Instead of texting him back, I press Call.
He answers on the first ring. “Hey.”
Lord, he has a sexy phone voice. It’s deep and throaty and totally obscene. It should come with an MPAA rating. E for explicit. May cause impure thoughts. Mature audiences only.
“So you’re just working from Hammond’s hideaway for the day?” Like that’s no big deal, and not super nerdy-cool.
“Kind of.” I hear rustling papers in the background. “I had a meeting with Bill over here today, and I just decided to stay. It’s so much quieter, I thought I could get more done. But it’s almost too quiet. A little spooky, actually.” He lets out a short laugh. “But it wouldn’t be quiet if you were here.”
Ha. “So you’re there in Hammond’s hideaway, alone, right now? By yourself?”
“No one here but me and the ghosts.” He pauses. “Wait, is that what it’ll take to hook you? All right, if you come over, I’ll tell you the story of how British soldiers lit their torches in this exact fireplace when they invaded during the war of 1812, and how Dolley Madison barely escaped with the articles of the Constitution under her arm.”
“I’m coming!” I practically shriek. “How do I get there?”
He laughs, his voice husky in my ear. “I see I should have led with that, then. Stay put, I’ll come grab you. Be there in a few.”
He hangs up before I get a chance to ask how he knows where I am.
I wait for him on a bench outside the hearing room, toes tapping the tile in excitement. When I spot him striding toward me from down the hall, I jump up and meet him halfway. “Hey.”
“Hey, you.” I catch a glimpse of his boyish smile before he wraps me in one of his patented full-body hugs. When he releases me, he keeps a hand on my back and pivots us in the opposite direction. I let my eyes roam over him as we walk to the elevator, noting the subtle light green check of his shirt, and suppress a smile.
He’s been wearing green constantly. At first I thought it was just my imagination, that I was reading too much into it, but there’s no way this much green can be accidental. Green ties, green checked shirts—I even noticed green socks one day. It’s like our secret language—albeit one neither of us acknowledges. I would tease him about it, but I’m afraid if I do he’ll stop wearing green altogether—and that would be a national tragedy.
He smiles at me while we wait for the elevator. “Hi.”
I smile back. “You said that already.”
“Well, I’m saying it again.”
There’s always this veneer of nervousness when we first see each other, like we’re being naughty or doing something we’re not supposed to. In my mind, it’s because we both know our interactions strain the boundaries of friendship.
But maybe that’s just me.
“How was your hearing?” Ben asks as we ride the elevator up.
“Oh, fine. Long. I’m spent.”
He looks concerned. “You’re not too spent to make dinner, are you? Because if you rain check me after I’ve been looking forward to it all week…”
I laugh. “I’m more mentally spent than anything. Cooking isn’t work for me. Don’t worry, your dinner is safe.”
“Thank God.” The elevator dings for the third floor and he motions me out in front of him.
“I’m really excited to see this hideaway,” I confess eagerly. I’m like a giddy teen about to meet her favorite boy-bander. “I’ve only been to Carol’s once.” And it was awe-inspiring, one of those humbling moments when I appreciated how cool my job really is.
He looks amused. “I had no idea you were this nerdy.”
“Oh, I wear my nerd badge loud and proud.”
“Well, you’ll be disappointed to learn that Hammond doesn’t even use it very often. He likes to be seen, wants to rub elbows with everyone, not be hidden away. He’d rather take a meeting at a restaurant than in his office.”
What a travesty. “I’m so fascinated by the hideaways. There are so many rumors about them.”
He gives me a wry look. “They’re not rumors.”
“How do you know?”
“I read it in one of those Behind the Beltway books. LBJ used his hideaways as a love nest. He had women meet him there to ‘take dictation.’” Ben wags his eyebrows.
“Ew, really?”
“Afraid so.”
As we’re talking, Ben’s leading us through a labyrinth of hallways and unmarked doors. Meanwhile, I’m practically vibrating with anticipation; I’m about to set foot in a place steeped in Camelot-era historical significance.
He finally stops in front of a tall wooden door, brandishing a set of keys. “Are you ready? Take a deep breath.”
I’m way ahead of him. I sound like an asthmatic in the middle of an attack. “You have your own keys?” I’m impressed. “I guess I haven’t been hanging out with the right people.”
He grins. “Stick with me, kid.”
He unlocks the door and I take a couple steps inside, then gasp. “Wow.”
The first thing I see is a million-dollar view visible through the large picture windows: a stunning bird’s-eye panorama of the Mall, Washington Monument, and Lincoln Memorial.
When I catch my breath, I take in more of the details: the white-washed walls, the varnished wood floors with lush rugs rolled out on top, a regal marble fireplace standing sentry in the center of the room. Multiple archways showcase vaulted cathedral ceilings and ornate woodwork trim. Two couches border a low wooden coffee table, and several wingback chairs bookend drop-leaf side tables, stately lamps perched on top. I feel like Stefon on Saturday Night Live, because this hideaway has everything.
I sprawl out on the stuffy-looking but surprisingly comfortable couch. “Do you think there are actually ghosts in here?”
He raises his eyebrows spookily but doesn’t answer, then heads to a mini-fridge set back in the corner and pulls out a couple of water bottles. It’s one of the things I’ve noticed about him, his innate good manners. He doesn’t say Water’s in the fridge, help yourself; he goes and gets me one, every time, without being asked. I don’t think he even knows he’s doing it, which is probably the sexiest part.
I’ve got this virile man-god standing in front of me, and his manners are what turn me on. Go figure.
He’s in the middle of a long swig when I blurt, “So how many women have you brought up here?”
I regret the words the second they’re out. I wish I could shove them back down my throat.
His eyes widen as he swallows his mammoth gulp, then coughs. “I’m sorry?”
“Oh, come on, you can tell me,” I goad like we’re bros in a locker room, though I’m slowly dying inside. Why am I still talking? I don’t want to know this.
He looks insulted. “Is that really what you think of me?”
I shrug blandly, hating myself for bringing this up and pouring cold water on the flirt-bubble we were in—but I do notice he hasn’t answered the question.
He lets out an annoyed breath, then heads to a table that’s tucked into a corner and sits down heavily, displacing a bunch of papers littering the top, and snaps his laptop open.
He’s angry. Why is he so angry? His reaction seems a bit outsized for someone who canoodles with leggy brunettes on the regular.
“Touch-y,” I say under my breath. Sheesh. It was just a question.
Silence falls thickly over the room. He starts aggressively annotating a sheet of paper from his stack while I think about googling ‘male PMS.’ This whole passive-aggressive silent treatment thing is infantile.
Well, whatever. He’s overreacting. I pull out my laptop and start responding to emails, and before I know it, an hour’s passed. I think the tension’s burned off some because when I went to use the (private!) bathroom, I balled up a paper towel and chucked it as his head, and when he pegged it back at me he was smirking.
I yawn and stretch, needing a break from staring at my screen. My heels have long since been kicked off, and I pull my legs onto the couch, tucking them under my knees. Ben is frowning at a piece of paper, pen in hand, computer open in front of him.
I take advantage of his distraction and treat myself to a leisurely head to toe perusal. What is it about a man in a suit? It elevates their allure exponentially. He’s shed his coat, throwing it carelessly over a chair. His shirt is neatly tucked into his navy suit pants, and he’s sporting a brown leather belt matched to brown leather shoes, both polished to gleaming. His tie is loosened, as usual. He’s leaning over the table, sleeves rolled up, the tendons in his forearms flexing as he moves and shifts. A heavy-looking watch hugs his left wrist, and he’s fiddling absentmindedly with the pen in his hand.
He looks…edible.
“I can feel you staring.” He doesn’t look up.
Caught. My tongue darts out to lick my lips. Deflect.
I go with the first thing that pops into my head. “Where do you buy your clothes?” Not better, Kate. I groan internally.
He cuts his eyes to mine. “Why do you want to know?”
“I’m just curious. Do you have to get your suits custom made?”
He sighs, leans back in his chair and starts massaging his neck. “Did you ever think that maybe I am a normal-sized person, and you just might be small?”
“I am not small. I am 5’8”. I’m an above-average sized female, actually. You are a giant.”
A shadow passes over his eyes.
“Well, thanks for reminding me. I haven’t heard you make a joke about my size in, oh”—he checks his watch—“about five minutes. I’d almost forgotten.”
I’m about to make a crack a joke about what a delicate flower he is today when I catch the look on his face.
He’s actually hurt.
I’m taken aback. Is Ben sensitive about his size? Math genius, strapping athlete, everyone’s-best-friend Ben—insecure? He’s never seemed anything but confident and comfortable in his skin; the idea that my teasing might actually bother him never even crossed my mind. And honestly, has he looked in a mirror? If I had his body, I’d be walking around shirtless 24/7.
I watch him thoughtfully as he arches his back, stretching, then rolls his neck.
“Here, let me.” I stand and walk over to him, settling my hands on his shoulders—my version of an apology—and pray I don’t spontaneously combust from all the touching that’s about to go down. As soon as I start kneading, he slumps over in his seat like a dead body and lets out a slow groan that has me wondering what other noises he makes.
Pretty quickly I realize my mistake. His neck is so tight, it would require superhuman strength to make a dent in these knots. I’m putting all my muscle into it, but I may as well be trying to drill into solid rock. I dig my thumbs into his neck and it seriously hurts my poor phalanges. I’m basically just pinching his skin like a moron at this point. Should I jab my elbow in? What would Phoebe Buffay do?
“What are you, made of steel or something? Can you even feel this?”
“Mmm, ‘sgood,” he slurs. His head is sinking lower and lower into a position that looks like it might permanently damage his spinal curvature.
“Are you drooling?”
“Probably.”
I laugh and groom some hair that’s falling over his ear. “You need a haircut.” I’m so brazen. I’ll find any excuse to touch him.
It’s another thing that’s changed since the dinner with my mom—the amount of physical contact between us has skyrocketed. Although a casual observer wouldn’t bat an eyelash at our low-level PDA, compared to how we behaved before? We may as well be publicly fornicating on the steps of the White House.
I doubt he’s doing what I do, though—dissecting and overanalyzing each touch to death while lying in bed at night. I obsess over every one of his hugs, hands-on-the-back, teasing pinches, and playful hair ruffles like a lovelorn thirteen-year-old. Ben, on the other hand, seems to take my touch completely in stride. A hug from his grandmother probably elicits a stronger reaction. It’s exasperating in the extreme.
“I know,” he acknowledges, looking guilty. “I keep putting it off. I have no time.”
“I could cut it for you.”
He finally drags his head up and slants me a suspicious look. “Do you know how to cut hair?”
“No. But how hard could it be?” I flash him my winningest smile.
He snorts. “Oh, sure, like I’m going to let you near me with a pair of scissors.”
“Come on, what do you think I’m going to do to you?”
“Take off a chunk? Semi-bald me? Give me a Mohawk?”
I roll my eyes. “Don’t be so dramatic. I’d never do anything to ruin my view of this pretty face.”
He goes still underneath my hands. Did I just say that out loud?
I squeeze my eyes shut, mortified. It’s not even what I said, it’s how I said it that’s the real problem. I sounded like a moony-eyed, slack-jawed schoolgirl with a crush. Before I can even process my humiliation, I feel a blush creep up my neck.
He’s turned and is watching me now, clearly delighted by my embarrassment. “Wow. That is one impressive blush.”
I retreat to the couch and sink down onto it, pressing my palms to my cheeks. “It’s very rude to call attention to someone blushing, you know.”
That just makes him smile wider. “Can’t help it,” he says honestly.
I grab a pillow and hold it over my face, blocking his view of me. I’m slowly dying.
I hear his soft chuckle. “So tell me more about my pretty face?”
“No. I’m tapping out on this conversation. In fact, I’m no longer here. I’m invisible. You can’t see me.”
He snorts. “Okay.” He stands and starts rounding up his papers.
I peek out from behind the pillow. “Where are you going?”
“You mean, where are we going? And the answer is, to get a haircut. And then, we’re having dinner.” He holds out his hand to help me up. “Come on, Blushy.”
I gather my things, muttering to myself about rude boys and stupid bodily functions.
“I’m going to have to come up with some other things to bring about that blush,” he taunts as he holds the door open for me.
“Don’t even think about it.”
WATCHING BEN get his haircut is an exercise in exquisite torture, as it requires so much looking and not nearly enough touching. When we arrive at the men’s salon he frequents, he has me direct the stylist how I like it, which of course makes me drunk with power. My critical role as ‘supervisor’ provides me with the perfect excuse to stare at him for twenty glorious, uninterrupted minutes. Still, Ben catches my eye in the mirror more than once, smirking like he can read my mind.
By the time it’s over, my body is on fire with repressed urges: to stroke the back of his freshly razored neck, brush the stray hair from his shoulders, climb into his lap and spin around in the chair. His hair cropped shorter has an almost magical effect; he looks mature and professional and polished, not like the ruffled teddy bear I’m used to. I can’t decide which Ben I prefer.
Both are exceptional to look at.
I can’t stop sneaking peeks at him on our way to the grocery store. He looks…dashing. He’s linked his arm through mine in that chivalrous gesture guys learn at third grade cotillion, and I’m currently finding it hard to wipe the goofy smile off my face.
I haven’t told him what I’m making, and when we get to the store, he keeps peeking at my list, trying to pester me into spilling the details.
“Limes, huh? That for the margaritas?”…
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This next deleted chapter would have come right after Kate and Ben’s gun range date, dinner, and kissing scene back at Ben’s apartment. In my original draft, Ben takes Kate to the airport the next morning, as she’s flying to North Carolina to attend her new baby sister’s christening. While she's there, she has a heart-to-heart with her dad about Ben.
CHAPTER 23.5
As promised, Ben’s at my door the next morning at 5:20 on the dot, to-go cups of coffee in each hand. He’s chipper and fresh as a daisy while I’m a grumbling, ill-tempered zombie. I blink up at him, bleary-eyed.
“It’s five AM. Aren’t you ever grouchy?”
He chuckles and drops a kiss to my cheek. “Slept better than I have in ages, actually. You all ready to go?”
He presses a coffee into my hand and grabs the bag I have propped by the front door, wheeling it into the hallway while whistling to himself. Whistling. It would be annoying if it weren’t so damn cute.
On the way down to the car, he quizzes me on things I’ve packed, confirms I’ve checked in and my flight’s on time, and has me double check that I have my ID, all like a proper boyfriend would. It’s so…normal. Like we’ve been dating for years and not less than twelve hours.
When we arrive at the airport, he makes me promise to text him when I land, then takes my face in his hands and kisses me. It’s our first real kiss of the morning and my body responds almost too eagerly, picking up right where we left off last night. The addictive sensation of his mouth pressed to mine is a flashing neon reminder of why I spent all night tossing and turning. I murmur a happy noise, my body slackening against him. He swallows my moan and intensifies the kiss, wrapping his arms around me and pulling me closer. I feel every firm angle of him through his clothing before his tongue teases into my mouth, obliterating my thoughts. In a parallel universe, clothes are being torn away and we’re testing the resilience of our mattress springs. In reality, our ardor is escalating to a scandalous level for a curbside Kiss & Ride. Oh, the things airport security must see. When he pulls away, I have to grip his shirt to steady myself.
“Yowza. That was an aggressive kiss for six AM.”
“Well, it needs to last two days. Can’t have you forgetting about me.”
Unlikely, since I’m pretty sure he just got me pregnant.
“I wish you were coming with me,” I blurt, then flush with embarrassment. Wherefore art thou, filter?
He smiles, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Next time I will.” He kisses me again, chaste this time, then squeezes my hand. “Now get outta here before I go full caveman and throw you back in the car.” He winks and smacks me on the butt like we’re teammates.
When I make it inside I turn to wave at him and he’s still standing outside the car, hands shoved in his pockets, watching me with an inscrutable expression on his face. I have to physically force myself to keep walking.
I’m in so much trouble.
Once I’m on the plane, I conk out almost immediately and don’t wake up until the kindly older woman sitting next to me shakes me awake as we’re about to land. And then I’m in Dad Country.
Saturday passes in a blur of family. My dad’s parents also made the trip, so I get some good grandparent catch-up time in between holding baby Annabelle and trying to keep up with Alexis, who drags me from activity to activity with the frenetic energy of a pit crew member. My afternoon is spent drowning in a sea of dolls and princess dresses. In between, I help Melanie in the kitchen, prepping massive family-style dishes for the post-christening afterparty they’re hosting at the house.
Ben and I text throughout the day and each incoming ding makes my heart leap. He sends me a shot of the Mall with the caption: Never realized how quiet and relaxing my runs used to be. I send him back the middle finger emoji and a pic of Alexis and I playing dress-up. He counters with a snap of a pathetic-looking burrito and the caption: Missing you (and your tacos). In return, I send him a photo of the massive feast we’re cooking, to which he responds simply: Mean. By the time I fall into bed in the guest room, I’m so exhausted that I pass out with my phone on my chest.
On Sunday I jolt awake to Alexis standing three inches from my face, heavy breathing and peering at me with a blank stare straight out of Children of the Corn. Any romanticized notions I’ve had about kids disintegrate when I witness the Herculean amount of effort it takes to get two pintsize humans fed, dressed in church finery and out the door. By the time we get to the ten AM service, I feel like I’ve run a marathon.
The party afterwards is full of people I don’t know, from Melanie’s extended family to their local friends to my dad’s work colleagues. It’s loud and overwhelming and the house is bursting at the seams. Midway through the party, I miraculously find myself in possession of a sleeping Annabelle and decide to steal outside for a moment of peace with my new sister.
I sink into a deck chair and stare at her, admiring her perfect rosebud lips and the impossibly long eyelashes fanning her cheeks. How strange to be holding my infant sibling when I’m old enough to have my own kids.
“Hiding out?”
My dad’s voice rings out behind me as he shuffles down the patio stairs, knees cracking with each step. He likes to joke that he has the joints of an athlete; that is to say, used and abused. He’s in great shape at forty-six, lanky and trim from regular racquetball matches and pickup basketball games with his ‘gentleman’s league.’
“I’m more at home at the kids’ table.” I nod across the lawn toward Alexis and her friends, who are climbing all over the outdoor playset like ants.
He sets his drink down on the patio table and grabs my phone, snapping a pic of me and Annabelle. “Ooh, that one’s a keeper. I’m going to send it to myself.”
“I love her,” I sigh, stroking her downy-soft hair. “Can I take her home with me?”
“I think Mel might notice.”
He drags a chair over from the table and sits down next to me. He studies the photo for another minute, smiling, then starts swiping through my camera roll.
“Well, well, what have we here?” He turns the screen towards me. On it is a silly selfie Ben insisted we take outside the gun range to ‘commemorate my triumph.’ I’d retorted that it was to celebrate winning our bet. “Is this a secret boyfriend you haven’t told me about?”
The irony of his statement is not lost on me. “Kind of.”
“Aha! I thought I saw you giving your phone a goofy grin!”
“Settle down, Sherlock. It’s very new.”
He sits back in his chair and crosses his legs in a way that just screams Dad. “Tell me about him.”
“Let’s see,” I say, shifting the baby to my other arm. My entire right side has fallen asleep. How do moms do this all day? “I met him at work. He’s a legislative director for Hank Hammond.”
“Hank Hammond of Ohio? Republican?”
“The very same.”
His eyes widen. “The plot thickens!”
I can’t help laughing. “I know. I didn’t see it coming either.”
“I always knew you’d switch sides eventually,” he says, eyes gleaming. “Girls always marry their fathers.”
“Okay, no one said anything about marriage. And I’m definitely not switching sides. In your dreams.”
“Does this suitor have a name?”
“He might.” I grin coyly at him.
“Playing this one close to the vest, are we?”
I laugh and relent. “I’m just kidding. It’s Ben.”
“Benjamin. Good strong name. Tell me more about this Ben.”
His feigned casualness makes me smile. This whole conversation is very on brand—he always jumps right in as if I was just here yesterday.
“He’s very smart. A numbers guy. I hesitate to tell you this because you’ll get too excited, but he’s mainly focused on tax reform. He’s working on your tax breaks right now.” Like my dad has ordered them up at a fast-food restaurant and Ben’s working the window.
“I love him already.” He squints at my phone screen. “This guy works on taxes? Huh.”
“I know, right? He’s an accountant in a football player’s body. A hot nerd. It’s a lethal combination.”
“Takes after your dad, then?” He winks at me.
“Ew, Dad.”
He waves his finger in a circle. “Continue. I like what I’m hearing so far.”
“All it takes is showing you the money, huh?”
“That and, does he treat you like gold? That’s what really matters to your dear old Dad.”
“When we’re not about to kill each other, I’d say yes, he does. He’s…” I trail off. How to describe Ben in a nutshell? “He’s very thoughtful, and protective, and a gentleman. And just an overall good person. He’ll be a great dad.”
My own statement startles me. It’s the type of observation you don’t even realize you’ve made until it’s staring you in the face, impossible to downplay. Ben will be an amazing dad. I know it with rare, soul-deep certainty. Are these the thoughts lurking in my subconscious?
I glance over at my dad and he’s wearing a pensive expression. Realization dawns. “That wasn’t meant to be a dig or anything.”
“I didn’t take it as one.”
I pretend not to notice the tightness in his smile. Just when I think it’s all water under the bridge between my dad and me, a rogue wave takes us both under.
“Anyway, I’m sure you’d really like him,” I say, glossing over the awkwardness. “He’s an athlete too. We run together. He’s—” I’m about to say built when I remember I’m talking to my dad—“uh, a big guy. Like I think he moonlights as a gladiator or something.”
My dad straightens his spine. “How big are we talking? Surely I could beat him up.”
“No. For sure no.”
He looks deeply insulted.
“I’m sorry!” I say, laughing. “I’m not exaggerating, though, he’s large and in charge. Ask mom, she’ll tell you.”
“So your mom has met him? He can’t be that new, then.” He looks at me with keener interest. “What did she think of him?”
“Oh, you know mom. She’s busy planning the wedding. He had her number from the get-go. He charmed her to death.”
He chuckles. “So he’s smart, charismatic and a man among men, and he’s putting money back in my pocket. Why do I sense a but coming? What’s the problem?”
“Besides the killing each other, you mean?”
Before I can elaborate, Alexis calls out for us “WATCH HER!!” and we wave and shout our encouragement as she attempts to traverse the monkey bars. Not for the first time, I marvel at how little her childhood resembles mine. Just the idea of shouting for my dad to watch me—and having him actually be there to do so—is foreign to me. She’ll never wonder about her dad’s place in her life. She’ll never feel that nagging inadequacy that tailed me like a shadow. I wonder how different I’d be if I’d grown up that sure of my place in the world. Is this why I can’t trust that things between Ben and I will work out? Am I predisposed to believe every man will disappoint me?
Before I can conceal my depressing thoughts, my dad cuts his eyes to me and I know he reads everything written on my face. Instead of glossing over it, though, I decide to just let him see it, Kate unvarnished, warts and all. Burying my feelings seems like all I ever do. And maybe that’s something Ben’s inspired me to do, to put it all out there instead of keeping it bottled up inside.
He clears his throat. “So, you were saying? The problem with this guy?”
“Right.” I look down at the baby and try to settle my swirling emotions. “Do you think a relationship can work if you have different belief systems? Like, really different? I mean, sure, we like each other now, but once the newness wears off and we don’t agree on any big issues, then what? It feels like we’re just ignoring the elephant in the room. I’m terrified of getting invested in something that’s just going to crash and burn. Frankly, I’m terrified that I’m already too invested.”
When I glance over, he seems to be carefully weighing his words.
“Don’t be shy. Whatever you’re thinking, just say it. You’re the only outside observer I can ask.”
“Outside observer, huh? Ouch.”
“I just mean you haven’t met him.”
He scratches the back of his head, combing his fingers through thick hair that’s more salt than pepper. “You’re thinking that by dating this person, you’re inviting unnecessary conflict into your relationship. Is that right?”
“Yes! That’s exactly it! See, you get it.”
He’s nodding. “We may not be able to control who we develop feelings for, but we can control what we do about it.”
“Yes! Thank you for validating me. I’ve been second-guessing myself like crazy.” My vehemence startles the baby and she jerks a little in my arms.
“Well, don’t thank me yet. I haven’t given you my opinion.”
He picks up his drink and swirls it around, the ice making a soft tinkling sound against the glass. Scotch and soda. Another thing I’ll always associate with my dad.
“If you think you’re going to find your perfect match and they’ll be a carbon copy of you, with all your same opinions, then you’ll be waiting until you’re taking a dirt nap.”
“A dirt nap?”
“Yeah, you know. Dead.”
“What a lovely visual.”
“Look, when you choose someone, you’re choosing to be with all of them. The good, the bad, and the ugly. No matter how perfect a match you might think you’ve found, you’ll still have to compromise and learn to appreciate each other’s differences. You think Mel and I agree on everything?”
I lift a shoulder and let it fall. “You guys seem like you’re on the same page.”
“That doesn’t mean we never argue. We’re human. None of us can be boiled down to just one thing, right? We’re all the sum of our parts. You’re not just your political views, and neither is this guy. If you make a decision based on that alone, you could miss out on something great. And I know a little something about making wrong decisions based on what you think your life’s supposed to look like.”
The smile he casts my way is weary and resigned. A light breeze sweeps across through the backyard and I shiver, goose flesh rising on my arms.
“Look, you’re the only who can decide if this guy is a good match for you. But for what it’s worth, I think you need someone who challenges you, who’s not afraid to go head-to-head with you. Who pushes you outside your comfort zone. Whether it’s this guy or someone else.”
“He had me pretty far out my comfort zone on Friday night,” I mutter.
“Do I even want to know what you’re referring to?”
I laugh in spite of myself. “He dragged me to a firing range and made me shoot guns.”
His eyebrows dart up. “You shot a gun?”
“I know. It was a bet gone wrong. It’s a long story.”
“Now I’m even more curious to meet this guy. Although now that I know he’s a gun owner, I’m going to need a full name for a background check.”
“I’ll save you the effort, you won’t find anything. He’s a total straight edge. A Boy Scout of the highest order.”
The baby sneezes herself awake—maybe be the cutest thing I’ve ever seen—then wails in indignation. I bring her to my shoulder and coo, patting her back.
My dad’s still studying me. “You really like this guy. It’s all over your face.”
I groan as I rub tiny circles on Annabelle’s back. “You know, just once I wish someone would tell me what an amazing poker face I have.”
“Well,” he says, reaching out to take the baby, “they’d be lying.”
* * *
This next scene is a bit of an alternate/extended version of the scene where Ben and Kate eat lunch together at work and run into John Conrad. Chronologically, it's mid-Chapter 17.
...
I sink into my chair and level a glare at Ben. “What was that all about?”
He frowns, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “What was what all about?”
“Are you PMS-ing or something? You were so rude to him.”
“I don’t have time to make small talk with every Tom, Dick, and Harry who wants to stand over you and drool.”
“He wasn’t drooling,” I hiss, glancing anxiously at the lunch line. I think John’s pretending not to watch us. “He’s my colleague. Kind of like how you’re my colleague?”
He makes a face. “He’s such a politician.” He says politician like others might say Satan.
“Um, hello? We work for politicians.”
“We might work for them, but that doesn’t mean I’d want to date one.”
Whoa. “Who said anything about dating him? He’s my coworker.”
“Pretty sure I just heard you agree to go out with him.”
“That’s to catch up on work. He’s been out of town.” I don’t know why I feel the need to justify this.
“And that’s why he was hovering over you, attempting to flirt? Poorly, I might add.”
“He wasn’t flirting with me,” I hiss. “And keep your voice down.”
“You’re right, I would hardly call what I just saw flirting. It was painful, is what it was.” He cracks open his water and takes a long drink, emptying about half the bottle in one swallow. I bet he’s one of those guys who can shotgun a beer in four seconds.
“So you’re the authority on flirting, then?”
“You could say that.” He caps the bottle, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Oh, really? Give me your best, then.”
He chuckles. “Darlin’, that’s just the point. When I flirt, you won’t even know it’s happening.” His eyes catch and hold mine.
“Oh, you’re so smooth,” I manage, doing my best to ignore the hot pulsing in my stomach.
“If I’m smooth, then that guy is slick. He reeks of desperation.” He stuffs the last of his sandwich in his mouth, which he’s polished off in about three bites. “And his pants are too tight,” he adds around his mouthful.
A laugh bubbles out of me. “What’s in that water? You’re totally off the rails today.”
“I bet he has his campaign slogan all picked out. Probably even has bumper stickers printed.”
“Cut it out.”
“I could never be with someone who wanted to run for office.” He sneers like the idea causes him physical pain.
“Me neither.”
“Oh? Not interested in picking out china patterns for the East Room, then?”
“Not a chance in hell. And not interested in running for office myself, either.”
“Undiagnosed narcissists, all of them.”
“My thoughts exactly.”
A slow grin stretches across his face. “Well, would you look at us? Agreeing on something.” He nudges me with his knee under the table.
Our eyes lock. The corners of his mouth edge up, like we’re sharing a secret. The small smile lodges in my sternum, the glow of it spreading outward until I feel my toes curl.
We’re having a moment. No doubt about it.
A group of men stream past our table and one claps Ben on the shoulder, interrupting our strange little interlude. There’s a flicker of annoyance on his face as he introduces me to them, but I model appropriate etiquette for meeting one’s colleagues and greet them amiably. No hunger-induced crankiness with this group, apparently.
When they leave to join the line, I shake my head. “How do you have so many friends? It’s very annoying.”
“I told you, I’m awesome. People like me.”
“Let me guess, you were voted Friendliest in high school.”
He grins. “Guess again.”
“Most athletic.” He shakes his head. “Most likely to ace the math portion of the SAT. Most likely to start a Young Republicans club. Biggest eater.”
He’s laughing now.
“No, wait, I got it. Scariest. Most likely to flatten someone.”
His shoulders are shaking.
“Forget it, I give up. I hate guessing games.”
“Best eyes.” He wags his eyebrows at me.
“Darn it,” I groan. “I totally should’ve gotten that.”
He’s moved on to his banana now, still laughing as he peels it.
“Where’d the eyes come from, anyway? Some sort of weird genetic mutation?”
He points to his mouth and chews for a moment, then swallows. “My dad. Same eyes.”
“Seriously? There’s another set of these out there? Watch out, ladies.”
The words tumble out of my mouth reflexively, the verbal equivalent of a doctor’s rubber mallet to the kneecap. I clamp my lips shut.
He detects my agitation instantly, clearly delighted. “Huh, so Kate likes the eyes. That wasn’t just the beer goggles, then.”
My face heats. He’s breaking the cardinal rule.
As if by tacit agreement, neither of us ever mentions my night of drunk and disorderly conduct. I don’t know if it’s out of respect for me, or if he’s just as disturbed by that night as I am—maybe both—but we avoid the subject like Stephen avoids carbs. It’s like the Voldemort of events—The Night That Must Not Be Named.
“Eh, they’re okay.” It could be the world’s greatest understatement.
“I believe you said they glowed? Like a green light, was it?” He’s watching me with interest. They’re certainly glowing right now.
“I was drunk when I said that, so. Doesn’t count. Anyway, I meant that they’re Kermit the Frog green. Grinch green. Shrek green.”
He chuckles as he moves on to his cookie. He breaks me off a piece and passes it over before I see his eyes skate over my half-eaten chicken parmesan and pause.
“Stop undressing my lunch with your eyes.”
“You mean these lady-killers?” He raises an eyebrow at me, first one, and then the other. “Come on, just one tiny bite.” He gives me sad puppy dog eyes, and darn if I don’t want to give in. His eyes are truly irresistible. My own personal kryptonite.
“This is my whole lunch, you know. Your ‘tiny bite’ would finish this off. Do I need to start bringing you leftovers or something?”
He bangs twice on the table and I nearly spasm out of my skin. “Finally, you took the hint! Geez. Could I have been any more obvious? I practically had to spell it out!”
“You want me to bring you food from my freezer? You’d rather eat my leftovers than buy fresh food?”
“Yes!”
I burst out laughing. “That is so weird. You are such a weirdo.”
“You bring food for George!”
I pause mid-laugh. “How do you know I bring food for George?”
I see a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes. “He told me?”
I narrow my eyes.
“Fine, I saw you give him cookies one night. I was very jealous.” He quickly changes the subject. “You know, it’s the weirdest thing. I thought I was fine with the constant takeout, but ever since I saw your Hoarders freezer I can’t stop thinking about home cooking. Especially my mom’s. She’s an amazing cook.” He casts a wistful glance at my chicken.
Homesickness. Now there’s a look I recognize.
I deliberate for a moment. “Well, I did sort of offer to cook for you, so I suppose if you were still interested…”
His eyes light up. “Am I still interested? Are you kidding? Hell, yes!”
I can’t help but laugh at his enthusiasm. It’s contagious. “Okay. Any preferences? Beef, chicken, pork, fish?”
He looks overwhelmed. “It’s like picking a favorite child.” He thinks for a second, then brightens. “I like them all.”
“That’s very helpful.”
“Honestly, I’m just thrilled to be cooked for. I’m happy with anything.” He sure looks thrilled. His face is so lit up, he could power the district’s electrical grid.
“How about type? Italian? Asian? Mexican?” His spine straightens when I say Mexican. “Of course, how could I forget the queso? Hmm, tacos, fajitas, enchiladas...” I arch an eyebrow.
“I’d rather you pick so it’s something you like too,” he says, a little shyly. “But I do have one request.”
“What’s that?”
“Will you cook at my place? Instead of yours?” The casual way he asks makes my stomach drop to my knees.
Me—in Ben’s apartment? Where I’ll see all of his personal, private things? Where his intoxicating scent will be concentrated in an olfactory-straining superdose? The butterflies start swarming again. I need to evict these butterflies.
I must look thrown because he leans toward me, lowering his voice. “I have an ulterior motive.” My stomach folds in on itself.
“Oh? What’s that?”
When he grins, he’s like a kid with a shiny new toy. “If you cook at my place, I’ll get to keep the leftovers.”
* * *
And finally, the #1 request I get from readers: more Ben! The original epilogue I wrote was nearly twice as long, and again, I had to cut it down for space (I hated doing it!) So here you are: more from Ben’s perspective!
EXTENDED EPILOGUE
…
We still push each other’s buttons, but it’s collaborative, not combative. We spend our days riling each other up and our nights making love. Sometimes we barely make it past the front door. I’ve never been so turned on by every facet of a person; as obsessed with her brain as I am with her body.
Left to my own devices, I can be a bit intense, a serious workaholic. Before, I would come home and have a hard time shutting off. Now, I look forward to leaving work behind. Kate has the unique ability to tease me out of a bad mood, distracting me from a rough day with just a smile. I even gave her a new nickname: the Distracter-in-Chief. I’m a lighter, happier person because of her.
She gives me a hard time about all my secrets, but she’s constantly surprising me. For example: Kate’s a cuddler. If I watch TV with her at night, it means hours of uninterrupted touching. She snuggles. She massages my shoulders. She absentmindedly plays with my hair, scratches my back, strokes my leg. I’ve never been much for TV (aside from sports), but touching leads to other things, so you better believe I keep that DVR locked and loaded.
Also, I’m kind of addicted to Madame Secretary. Don’t tell anyone.
Another thing that’s come with time? She’s stopped fighting me and started indulging me. For my birthday I requested she take a self-defense class with me, and thankfully, she agreed (with only a minor amount of razzing about my overprotectiveness). I’m able to breathe a little easier knowing she could take someone down in a fight, though my constant low-level anxiety about her safety is something I’m still getting used to. I suppose the irrational fear that something will happen to her is all part of being in love.
It was a combination of these sentiments that drove me to ask Kate to move in with me one night while we were lying in bed. It was only a couple months into our relationship but we spent almost every night together; it seemed like a foregone conclusion.
She’d smiled. “You’ll never get rid of me then.”
I tightened my arms around her. “That’s the idea.”
“It sounds nice…” she said carefully, then paused.
“But?”
Sometimes I had no idea what would come out of her mouth. This was one of those times. You’re too messy? You don’t put the cap on the toothpaste?
“You’re going to laugh at me for being old-fashioned, but…” She took a deep breath. “I don’t want to live with anyone before I’m married.”
I’d drawn back, surprised, though I shouldn’t have been. If there’s one thing I’d learned about Kate, it was to expect contradictions. Progressive in so many ways, and completely traditional in others.
Little did she know it was just the opening I’d been waiting for.
“So what would you say if I asked you to marry me right now?”
She stared at me for a long moment before answering.
“I’d say, calm down, cowboy. It’s too soon to talk about marriage.” Then she’d kissed me, as if to soften the blow of her rejection.
Despite her words, I knew she had to be thinking about it as much as I was. We spent nearly every waking moment together—and most of our sleeping ones, too. The idea of marrying her didn’t scare me in the least. Hell, I would’ve proposed that night at the gun range if I thought she’d have said yes.
And so began Operation Tease Kate about Marriage (followed closely by Operation Watch Kate Squirm). I dropped comments into conversation whenever opportunity struck.
When she grumbled about the lack of proper cooking utensils in my kitchen, I replied casually, “No sense in buying things now. When we’re married, what’s yours will be mine.”
When I booked dinner reservations on OpenTable, I clicked ‘celebrating an anniversary’ just to watch her face go red and flustered when restaurant staff congratulated us.
When we headed to a wedding weekend for a sorority sister of hers, I booked our hotel under ‘Mr. & Mrs. Mackenzie’ and waited for her to twitch. At the reception, when well-meaning but conversationally unimaginative guests would ask us if “We were next?!”, I’d cross my fingers and say conspiratorially, “Don’t ruin the surprise!”
Each time, she’d give me the side-eye, and I’d pretend not to notice. It was a shitload of fun.
Recently, though, her reaction’s been different. Gone is the deer in the headlights look, replaced by an expression I can only describe as wistful.
I first caught it during our Christmas trip to New York. We’d spearheaded a dual-family affair—she and I, plus my parents, had traveled north to spend the holiday with Beverly, Shelby, Dan, and my new nephew, Lucas. It turned out perfectly; we were able to celebrate with each other and our respective families, while giving our parents a chance to meet. At one point, after Kate had rocked the baby to sleep, I’d murmured in her ear, “So how long until we get ourselves one of these?”
I’d expected an eye roll, a flippant retort. Instead, she’d looked up at me, eyes soft, and didn’t say anything at all. That look spoke louder than any words she could have said.
I couldn’t buy a ring fast enough.
...
I hope you enjoyed this extra glimpse into Kate and Ben! ❤️💙