Page 42 of The Illusion of Power (Passion and Politics #1)

SELENE

D espite Cal’s warning, I did in fact stay up too late putting finishing touches on my speech.

When my alarm for the day goes off, I wake up bleary-eyed and regretful, wishing for coffee and a few more minutes in bed.

Knowing only one of those things is within the realm of possibility for me, I toss aside the bedding and stride over to the dresser on the other side of the room where my phone is still blaring.

I shut off the alarm and then check my texts, smiling when I see a good luck message from Monique and a confirmation from Nichelle that my point of contact at TED x Women received the speech I sent over in the wee hours of the morning.

I respond to both of them before heading into the bathroom.

After I’m showered and moisturized, I find myself taking longer than necessary to decide on an outfit.

My teeth dig into my lower lip as I consider the three choices in front of me.

The first two are not too different. Tailored pantsuits in colors and silhouettes I tend to favor that will pair well with a simple silk blouse.

The third is a bit different.

It’s a soft cream with light brown pinstripes and a more relaxed fit.

The blazer is longer than the ones I usually wear, with the hem hitting at my mid-thigh, flowing into the matching fabric of the wide-leg pants.

What sets it apart, though, is the corset with the sweetheart neckline that cups and lifts my breasts, creating an amount of cleavage that the media will deem as obscene if I follow Monique’s suggestion and leave the blazer open.

As I run the tips of my fingers over the lush fabric, I wonder why I bothered to include the option in the first place.

Then I hear it, the answer to the question hidden in the deep rumblings of male voices just down the stairs, for them.

I packed it for them, hoping it would grant me access to the soft, decadent place where the warmth of their attention washes over me, moves through me, makes me feel seen and understood.

Acknowledging that truth makes the time I spent considering the other two pantsuits feel like a waste of energy.

I hang them back in the closet and make short work of unwrapping my hair and putting on some basic makeup before getting dressed.

I allow myself a quick minute to take in the outfit in the full-length mirror in the corner of the bedroom and then rush out the door before I change my mind about leaving the blazer open.

The moment I’m outside of my room, my heart starts to thud against my ribcage, beating harder with every step I take down to the first floor, where Cal and Beck are waiting for me.

I pause on the last step to catch my breath and end up losing it altogether at the sight of them at the counter, shoulder to shoulder.

Neither of them are wearing the jackets to their standard black suits, so there is already an aching intimacy to this scene that melts into a forbidden sacredness when Beck passes the mug in his hands to Cal.

He takes it, turning it until his mouth is aligned with the place where Beck’s lips just were.

A tiny, shocked gasp tries to leave me, but I bite it back, not wanting to call attention to myself and lose a chance to observe the two men I can’t help but wonder about.

Last night, after the show of affection that had surprised me but seemed at home between the two of them, I found myself wondering if there was something more to Cal and Beck’s relationship than the professional and platonic front they present to the world.

I spent the few breaks I allowed myself from my speech questioning if they’d ever gone beyond a friendly touch, if they’d kissed, made love, if they’d shared a woman the way they had shared me in my dream… .

“Selene?”

I jolt at the sound of Beck calling my name, and the gasp I had been holding back decides to leave me then, which earns me two tilted heads and four folded brows.

“Everything alright?” Cal asks, handing the mug back to Beck, who sets it on the counter. All thoughts of caffeine forgotten because I’m standing here acting weird. I force myself back into motion, striding across the room with a smile.

“Yeah, everything is fine. I was trying to remember if I’d sent my speech off.”

The lie comes easily, and both men nod, allowing the tension to melt out of their frames.

As I approach, they both step back, making space for me between them.

Cal is on my left, and the heat and weight of his gaze is a familiar burn on my skin.

Beck’s is less familiar, but no less intense, searing my right cheek with calm focus.

“Did you?” he asks, sliding a mug I hadn’t even noticed in my direction. The coffee inside is the perfect shade of brown, indicating the presence of the two small splashes of creamer I take mine with.

I wrap my hands around the body of the mug, enjoying the warmth against my palms as I bring it to my mouth. “Hmm?”

One corner of Beck’s mouth tips up as he watches me drink, but it’s Cal who speaks, posing the question as he produces a plate seemingly out of nowhere.

There’s an assortment of cut fruits in a small bowl to keep them from touching the toasted slice of sourdough bread, topped with mashed avocado, scrambled eggs, and sriracha.

“Did you send off the speech, Selene?”

I blink at the plate, stunned by its sudden appearance and the fact that everything on it is an exact replica of the breakfast I make when I have time to cook at home.

Since we’ve been traveling, I haven’t had a single rendition of it that’s come close, but somehow I know that won’t be the case with the meal in front of me.

“Yes, I sent off the speech,” I say finally, closing out that point of discussion before moving on to a new topic. “You didn’t have to cook again, Cal.”

“I didn’t. Beck did.”

“Oh.” My surprise is evident in my voice, and Beck seems to tense up when I set my gaze on him.

We’re growing more comfortable with each other every day—the evolution of our relationship helped along by the events of the dressing room and Cal’s quiet influence—but we’re both still being careful.

Measuring every word, revealing the hearts underneath our hard exteriors with slow, deliberate movements, which is why I feel so bad when the following words out of my mouth are, “I didn’t know you cooked,” instead of ‘thank you’ or some other expression of gratitude.

Cal barks out a laugh, and Beck’s brows lift high, reaching for his non-existent hairline. He shakes his head, but I’ve seen him upset enough times to know that he’s not mad. Confirmation comes in the form of his low chuckle as he rubs his chin.

“I can do the basics. Toast bread, scramble an egg.” He shrugs. “I hope it’s to your liking.”

“I’m sure it will be.”

“You should sit down and eat before the bread gets soggy though,” Cal tells me, picking up the plate and taking it over to the dining table.

Beck grabs my coffee and puts one gentle hand on my hip to turn me away from the counter.

I comply immediately, melting slightly at his touch and wanting to protest when he takes it away.

They get me settled in with my breakfast—leaving me with strict instructions to finish the whole thing in preparation for the long day ahead—and set about securing the house for our departure.

By the time they’re done with their duties, I’ve washed and dried my plate and both mugs.

Beck comes to escort me out the door to the car, insisting on carrying my laptop bag and my purse.

Cal is already waiting behind the wheel, and there are two uniformed officers in the squad car in front of him.

They lead the way to the venue, and thankfully, the ride is uneventful.

When we arrive, I’m swept away by a team of people who move far too quickly for Cal and Beck’s liking. I can tell by the clipped cadence of their strides as they follow us to the green room, where a hairstylist and makeup artist are waiting.

“Mrs. Taylor, you’re already perfect. I don’t even know why they needed me here,” she gushes by way of greeting as I sink into her chair. There’s a twang to her words that makes it clear she’s a born and bred Texas girl. “I’m Paris, by the way.”

“Nice to meet you, Paris.”

Usually, I’d opt to shake her hand, but she’s already turned towards her work station, shuffling through brushes and makeup palettes we both know she won’t need.

She rounds the chair, obscuring my view of Cal and Beck, and places gentle fingers on my chin, tipping it upwards.

I fight the urge to bristle at her touch, even though I hate having unfamiliar people touch me.

She turns my head to the left and the right, sparkling brown eyes assessing me.

“I think we just need some gloss and a little highlight. You’re so stunning in person.

I mean that’s not to say you’re not that way in photos,” Paris rambles, tapping a clear gloss onto a clean palette that’s strapped to her wrist. “Just that you’re—” she pauses, scanning my face again, this time to see if she’s offended me.

“Prettier in person,” I supply, hoping to put her at ease. “Thank you.”

“I can’t believe you came so prepared,” she muses, swiping a fresh brush over my bottom lip. “I thought I was going to have a blank canvas to work with, had a whole look planned for you. Now, I’ll have to tell my mama I only got to put some lip gloss on you.”

“And highlighter,” I add, rubbing my lips together at her silent instruction. “I’m sorry I didn’t leave you any work to do. I wasn’t sure if they’d have someone here capable of doing Black hair or accurately matching shades on melenated skin.”

Paris’ head bobs up and down as she swipes highlighter across my cheekbones and nose. “That’s real. Some of these girls around here would have you going out there looking a hot mess, but not me. I would have got you right, Mrs. Taylor.”