Max had been stunned when Wes suggested they share this apartment, after their disastrous stint as roommates in college. “You’re neater now though, right? It’s been twenty years,” immaculately tidy Wes had said. Max was not neater now, but he promptly hired a cleaning service to come to their apartment once a week to preserve their friendship. Thank goodness for Wes; these past sixteen months in the Senate had been stressful and lonely as it was; it would have been so much worse if he’d come back to this bland, generic, furnished apartment alone every night. At least now he had Wes to vent with whenever either of them needed it.

He wondered what Wes would say about Olivia. Probably make fun of him for sending her the cake, but it had worked, hadn’t it? As had the flowers—she’d texted him just after he landed in DC the day before. He’d been so relieved she didn’t hold it against him that he’d had to rush away at the end of their date because of breaking news. Times like that he definitely wasn’t as big a fan of his job.

Speaking of Olivia, he should text her. He scrolled back through their texts from the past few days.

Thank you for the flowers! Sorry I missed you—was out scouting for a good bakery in my neighborhood, and I think I found one. Haven’t tried their cake or pie yet, but the pastries were delicious. A rain check sounds good—next weekend works for me.

You’re very welcome, and I’m sorry again I had to run off. I had to just guess on your favorite flowers, I hope there were some you liked in there. I want details about this bakery—maybe you can tell me on Friday night?

Let me check my work schedule, but Friday night should be fine—excited to see what your “normal person” disguise is this time. Different glasses? Different hat? A wig???

He laughed out loud again at the thought of himself in a wig.

I wouldn’t know the first thing about where to find a wig, but then I do live in LA, don’t I? There must be realistic wigs everywhere. So far I’ve just relied on glasses/hat/no gel in my hair, but maybe I’ll do something wild next time. Stay tuned!

He turned on the TV as he waited for her to text back, and was flipping channels when he heard a key in the door.

“Hi, honey, I’m home!” Max shouted as the door opened. Wes walked in, suit and tie on, natty briefcase over his shoulder, and—bless him—a pizza box in his hand.

“Oh, thank God, I was starving,” Max said.

Wes dropped the box on the coffee table and disappeared into his bedroom to change.

“Didn’t occur to you to pick up dinner on the way home, did it?” Wes shouted through the crack in his bedroom door.

“I was going to order something!” Max shouted back. Okay, at least he’d been thinking about it.

Max stood up and got plates and napkins (Wes always insisted on this) and brought them to the coffee table. They had a kitchen table, too, but they almost never ate at it.

“Sure you were,” Wes said. He came out of his bedroom in sweats and a T-shirt and grabbed two beers out of their fridge.

Wes sat down on the couch and picked up the remote control.

“You’re not going to tell me you were attempting to watch preseason baseball when there’s basketball on, were you?”

Max sat down at the other end of the couch.

“It’s spring training, not ‘preseason.’ But no, I was actually looking to see if there was any soccer on.”

Wes flipped open the pizza box.

“Hey, thanks again for letting my cousin crash at your place last week when he was stranded in L.A.”

Max waved that off.

“It was no big deal; it was only for a night. Nice kid.” Max glanced at the pizza. “Broccoli on the pizza? Seriously?”

Wes gave him a stern look.

“You can’t work as hard as we both work and not eat vegetables. I should have gotten us a salad, too, but this is better than nothing.”

Max’s phone buzzed, and he picked it up from the table.

Now I’m already excited for Friday night

Shit, wait a minute—he was only going to get into LAX midday on Friday, if everything went well. He’d better temper her wig expectations. Maybe he could order new glasses or something instead.

Ok don’t get too excited—the wig may have to wait until I have extended LA shopping time. This is where being in DC the bulk of the time cramps my style. How’s your Monday going?

“Who are you texting?” Wes asked him.

Max picked up a slice of pizza and took a bite. Should he tell Wes about Olivia already? He laughed at himself—he hadn’t even kissed her yet, and he wanted to tell the world about her.

“Man, do you need to work on your poker face,” Wes said when he didn’t answer right away. “It’s a woman, that’s clear enough.”

Max shrugged, but he couldn’t keep from smiling.

“Yes, it’s a woman. Her name is Olivia. Olivia Monroe.”

Wes dropped his pizza back on his plate and turned to stare at Max.

“Oh no. She’s already a full name with you? You’ve got it bad. How did this happen? We only had recess for one week!”

Max laughed.

“I know, but it started a few weeks ago. You see, one night there was a water main break in my neighborhood, so I went to a hotel for the night. And at the hotel bar . . .”

Wes covered his eyes.

“No. Oh no. Don’t tell me that you, a United States senator, fell for some line from some woman at a hotel bar and took her back to your room, where all of your classified documents live in your electronics. Don’t they teach you better than that over in the Senate?”

Max picked up the remote and turned the TV back to spring training baseball.

“This is what you get for thinking so little of me. No, I did not fall for some line from some woman at a bar. I just met her at the bar, that’s all. And there was no line at all; I’m the one who started talking to her, not the reverse. And . . . we talked for a while, and she was funny, and smart, and interesting, and she kept making fun of me, and . . . it was great. That’s all.”

Max’s phone buzzed again.

Ok, I won’t expect a blond guy to show up at my door Friday then. My Monday is busy—tons of meetings with clients and potential clients. Now on my way to a local bar association thing to network, even though I wish I was on my couch watching bad reality TV

Wes waved his hand at Max’s phone.

“That little meeting at the bar was obviously not all, because if it was, why do you have that schmoopy look on your face? Did she take you back to her room after she got you to hit on her at the bar?”

Max rolled his eyes.

“Get your mind out of the gutter. No one went back to anyone’s room. I didn’t even get her last name—then, anyway. But then—last week when I was back in L.A., I gave a speech at a luncheon. I looked around the room when I was up onstage, and there she was.” He held up a hand to forestall Wes’s conspiracy theory. “She was not stalking me; she’s a lawyer, she just moved to L.A. to start her own firm, and one of the board members of the center has known her for years and invited her to the luncheon.”

Wes took the remote back and changed the channel.