Love at First Fight - A Gallagher Girls Story

Chapter Twenty

I could take the time to describe the embassy to you. I could tell you how the carpet was made of plush and how the chandeliers were probably made up of solid gold. I could tell you that the fireplace was home to the most intricate carvings I'd ever seen, highlighted only by the flames that blazed bright within—the only light to that luxurious living area. I could list a lot of things that impressed me that night, but in the end, not one of them could measure up to the Ambassador's smile.

Okay, so he's a good looking guy. Nothing wrong with that. A girl is allowed to acknowledge the attractiveness of her ambassador, after all. Crimson tie too loose around an unbuttoned collar, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. His hair looked like it had endured a long day of pulling and tugging and stress, but none of these things were the defining factor in the Ambassador's attractiveness—oh no. It was that smile. It was the way he grinned at Macey when he saw her. It was the way he smiled at Scout, even when Scout was going to quite an extreme length not to smile back. That smile could win over any girl—and probably a fair amount of boys—in a second.

Well. Any girl except Macey McHenry.

He sat back, letting his arm fall across the golden rim of the sofa, a gleam in his eyes and a glass of scotch in hand. He sat in my mother's shadow, all of the fire landing golden across her skin, but still, that smile seemed to be the brightest thing in the room. "You can't blame me for wanting to do some good," he said.

"You could have done good outside of the political game," she told him, and the argument was too ready—as present on her lips as the red wine. It was late, both for him and for us, and there was no doubt in my mind that the appropriate hour had passed for these particular drinks. Then again, that rule probably didn't apply while one was spending an entire weekend with their ex. "You could have found other ways."

The scotch landed with a sturdy clink against the polished tabletop between us. He gave me a quick glance, and then a quick grin. "She never did forgive me for going back into politics," he said. "As soon as I ran for senate, she left the key on the hook, left her ring on the table, and was out of that apartment before you could say US of A."

Macey gave a laugh that, in every way, belonged to the politician's daughter. "I stood behind you for five months, jackass," she said, but her voice teased and there was an ease in her eyes that only came with good wine and good memories.

Alice was snoring on my left. Luke had left to find a kitchen while Matt and Scout sat at a table behind me, muttering something about broken ribs and broken promises. It wasn't a quiet room, by any means, but Preston's words were perfectly clear above the noise. "Oh, I know," he said. "Always standing right behind me, whispering in my ear—you're better than this, Preston. Don't sell your soul to these guys."

"Well, was I wrong?"

He chuckled. It was the most diplomatic sound I had ever heard and it made me wonder when the paparazzi were going to jump out and steal a shot. "Look at me, Mace," he said, holding his hands out to his sides. "Do I look soulless to you?"

The answer to that was an overwhelming no. I knew it. Macey knew it. I'm pretty sure that the entirety of Rome knew it. "I'm doing things—good things," he said. "I'm pulling stings in a world that I know and understand. If I were doing anything else, I wouldn't even know which strings to pull."

"Pulling strings is exactly what he did," she reminds him.

The he is implied, meant only for ears that know the stories and no one else. I had read the reports. I knew that we were talking about Preston's father. I knew that she was pointing out the fact that Samuel P. Winters—long time senator, temporary ambassador to Rome, and most importantly, Inner Circle—was a part of a long lineage of men who were responsible for pulling all of the wrong strings.