Loving the Secret Billionaire (Love at Last #1)(4)

“Oh…my…God.”

I turned to face her, arms folded across my chest. “You gonna beat him?”

“I’ll beat him.” Her voice was shaky.

“You don’t sound convinced.”

“The voters are the ones who need convincing.”

I couldn’t help but smile. “I’m close to being convinced.”

“Why?”

“You’re adorable.”

“What? That’s a terrible reason to vote for som—” She paused, breathing audibly. “What do you mean I’m adorable?”

“I like your passion. You believe in what you’re doing. Not to mention…” I tilted my head and frowned toward where I figured her stuff was. “You’ve got a good luck bunny tied to your bag.”

“Oh.” She paused. “So… I have your vote?”

“Tell me more.” I leaned against the door and waited for her voice to do that thing again. That strong, angry thing that got me worked up.

She swallowed audibly. “I’m the council member for the people.”

“What people?”

“People like me. People whose parents worked two jobs, but still couldn’t afford preschool or health insurance.” Her breathing was raspy, with that passion again and it did something to me. The more worked up she got, the more I wondered how it would feel to touch her. Was her chest moving up and down with the power of those inhales and exhales? Were her cheeks hot?

“Did you know they’re cutting eighty percent of funding to resources that affect our area’s low-income families? Afterschool programs, nutrition, libraries. It’s all being cut, while the power company’s getting a tax break. They’re talking about jobs, but the only work coming is temporary. Two years of employment, at best, while they shove that pipeline right into our backyards. Once construction’s done, the jobs are gone and families will have even less.”

“You a socialist?” I could feel her tense up, though we weren’t touching.

“I believe in giving a voice to those who are under-represented.”

“You sure avoid direct answers.” Now I was just pushing her buttons. Of course, she probably didn’t know that. “That’s very politician-like.”

“I don’t believe in labels.”

I waited for her to go on, but that was apparently it.

“Passionate. Like I said.”

She gave an awkward little half-laugh. “Like I said, I’m Veronica Cruz, Mr.…”

“Zach. Hubler.” Something rustled. “You holding your hand out?”

“Um. Yeah.”

I reached out, brushed her hand, and grasped it. Soft, small, a little shaky. We shook a couple of times and I let go with regret.

“Hello, Mr. Hubler.”

“Ms. Cruz.”

“Well, then. Are you planning on voting in the upcoming elections, sir?”

I swallowed. Yeah. About that. Shit. “Call me Zach. And, yeah, I’m planning on it.” After meeting her, I was. Although I wasn’t quite sure how I’d manage it without leaving.

“Okay. Wow. Great.”

The doorknob gave its familiar rattle, which meant she’d grabbed hold of it. I shifted away to let her through. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For helping me with Rylie. With the sign. And for not suing me.”

I laughed outright at that. “It was fun.”

She opened the door. “Fun?”

“Best visit I’ve had in a while.” Ever, possibly.

Her steps sounded on the porch, where she paused before continuing down the stairs.

I switched on the outside light, shut the door, and grabbed a beer before heading down to my lair.

Time to find out everything there was to know about Veronica Cruz.



* * *



Veronica

I was in a weird mood as I walked the four blocks to Main Street. It wasn’t until I made it to the bus stop that I realized what it was—excitement. And it had Zach Hubler written all over it. I had that giddy crush feeling. Over a man I’d just met.

If there was one thing I knew about running for city council, it was that you weren’t supposed to hit on the voters. But I liked him. And I had questions. Like, why was the outside of his house such a mess, while what I’d seen of the inside was pristine? If a little empty.

I couldn’t remember the last time I’d had this feeling—interest in a man.

The 21 bus to downtown pulled up and I smiled at Milton as he slid the door open for me.

“How’s the canvassing, Cruz?”

I sighed. “Weird.”

“You racking in the votes?”

I waved at Myra who sat in her wheelchair halfway down, the only other occupant heading into town at this hour, and settled into the first seat. “One.” I shoved back the fizz of excitement I felt at that pathetic proclamation and turned back to the issue at hand. “People trust Rylie, you know? He’s got money, he makes money, he helps other people make money. They don’t trust a 28-year-old, Guatemalan preschool teacher.”

“You hit the Tremont neighborhood today?”

“Yeah.”

“Different downtown,” he said, always the voice of reason. “Nobody downtown trusts anyone that earnest.”