Vote for Love: The Box Set (Vote for Love ) by Celi Sara & Celi S

Author:Celi, Sara & Celi, S. [Celi, Sara]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Tags: Primary Season
Publisher: Lowe Interactive Media, LLC
Published: 2019-02-05T16:00:00+00:00

THE END

Eight months after the South Carolina primary

The photographers lay behind the line of cars parked across the street from Chez Patrice, New York City’s trendiest French bistro. I saw ten of them through the window at least, all poised to capture anything they might be able to twist. Idiots. They thought I wouldn’t see them when I glided out of the restaurant’s front door. Wrong. I knew them. I knew what I wanted. I’d give it to them, but only for a few seconds.

I had this down. The grand tease. The small glimpse. I’d mastered all of it.

And now that I’d finished my meal, it was show time.

“Thank you again,” I told the hostess as I walked toward her on the way out of the restaurant. “It was excellent, as always.”

“You’re most welcome. We hope to see you soon, Miss Van der Loon.” Her eye contact lingered longer than it should as I breezed past. She knew me, but she didn’t want to show it. Chez Patrice had strict, unspoken rules about how to handle the higher-profile clients who regularly dined on escargot and commiserated over crème Brule. Autographs, for example? In a word: don’t.

Those days, everyone in New York City knew me—or thought they did. Since February, I could have made a small fortune alone on the number of times my name had appeared in Page Six. Too bad I hadn’t figured out how to capitalize on it beyond the occasional Instagram sponsorship or designer dress for an event. “Infamous” had an interesting ring to it, however. Even I had to admit that.

I fastened one more button on my Burberry trench coat, tied the sash, took a deep breath, pushed opened the door, and stepped outside. From there, the Uber driver in his black car waited for me about a half a block away. Less than three hundred steps. No big deal.

My tan boots barely brushed the ground before the catcalls came.

“Miss Van der Loon, what have you been doing?”

“Did you enjoy dinner? What did you eat?”

Smile. Walk. Wave. This will all be over soon. Keep moving. Don’t stop.

“Did you see the latest from Washington?” called one of the photographers. “Patrick passed the paternity test. What do you think about that?”

“Do you have anything to say to Alex, his new girlfriend? They looked pretty cozy in St. Croix this last week.”

“Are you still heartbroken?” shouted another.

I’d heard it all before, and I’d probably hear it again. New York City’s tabloid photographers and gossip bloggers could be relentless and insatiable. They needed something to fuel the city’s social columns, and for most of the year, stories and blind items about me had been more reliable than snow in the wintertime. The perfect storm of the Van der Loon last name, DC intrigue, and the endless election cycle had kept them salivating.

“Have you made a decision about who you’re voting for? Howard Sayers, or Mike Kilgore?”

I sighed and considered if I wanted to answer this question. After defeating Patrick Blanco

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