The Lying Season (Seasons #1) - K.A. Linde Page 0,17

thrown at me.

“You do your job,” I told him. “And I’ll do mine.”

Then I left the room to do just that.

I strode into the banquet hall decorated with dozens of large, round tables. Red-white-and-blue Mayor Kensington banners hung from the ceiling around the perimeter of the room. A painstaking adventure I’d witnessed earlier this morning.

Sticking to the perimeter, I angled toward the stage and saw the answer to the first problem. All the field interns were congregated in one corner, chatting rather than working.

I rolled my eyes. This would be fun.

“Bailey, Kolby, Marcel, Sonya.” I clapped my hands twice. “Let’s get moving. Headsets on and responsive.”

Their eyes rounded in shock, and then they immediately dispersed with mumbled apologies. It was like none of them wanted paid jobs at all.

“Interns are a go,” I said into the headset.

“Roger that,” Demi said.

I shook my head and then took a deep breath, continuing toward the stage. I had to put my feelings about the orchestra behind me for tonight. I needed them to do their job. They were getting paid.

I was nearly to the conductor when the short, squat man tapped his baton two or three times, and the orchestra moved seamlessly into their chairs.

“It’s a Christmas miracle,” I muttered sarcastically.

At least something was going right. One fire I didn’t have to fix.

I should have turned around right that minute and headed back to Demi. I was sure she could use some more help with the seating chart. Beth would want access to Leslie for photographs. Their messaging for the night needed to be on point. In fact, there were a dozen things that I could be doing at this moment.

Instead, I stared up at the orchestra. Their music was perfectly in harmony. It was gorgeous and so full. I knew why we’d hired them.

In the thirty or forty members they had sent for this ensemble, only three of them were young enough females who could potentially be Sam’s girlfriend—a tall Hispanic girl on cello, a pale blonde, and a mousy brunette, both on violin in the back.

I wondered which of the three girls was Sam’s girlfriend. None of them looked like me. None of them looked like his ex, Melissa, whom I’d unfortunately met. I had no way to judge from here. And even if I could, I shouldn’t. I didn’t really want to be the girl judging others on or off stage.

My stomach turned as I gazed a second longer. I was purposely torturing myself with not knowing. And I’d decided yesterday that I wasn’t going to do this. That I was going to be strong and not let myself think about it. It was why I wore my Upper East Side armor. I needed it. But I didn’t need the subsequent devilish personality that came with it. That was dangerous on so many levels for me.

With a sigh, I turned away from the orchestra and said into the headset, “Orchestra is rehearsing. Heading your way now.”

“Actually, Lark, the mayor just arrived. Shawn asked for you,” Demi responded.

I sighed with relief. That would be better than going to the back room to deal with last-minute fires while Sam was there. I didn’t want to be in the same room with him…even though I knew it wouldn’t be that easy forever.

“Got it,” I told Demi and then left the ballroom behind.

I set out to find the mayor. Even though I’d been working for Leslie since the beginning, my nerves still thrummed with excitement when I was in the thick of it all.

I slid on my game face as I entered the mayor’s inner sanctum. And found only madness.

Hair and makeup frantically applied finishing touches. Hairspray and setting spray clogged the small room. Christine ran Leslie through the final stages of her speech. She kept correcting emphasis on key words, marking them up, and then handing them back. My boss and Leslie’s campaign manager, Shawn, was listening with half an ear to the speech as he texted relentlessly.

“No, no, no. We’ve said five times not to use that word,” he said, glancing up from his phone. He was a trim six-foot-four black guy who always ran a hand over his short, cropped hair when he was nervous. Which was always. “The word feminism has negative connotation. Our audience might be fine with it, but if your opponent gets ahold of it, it’s going to be in every ad from now until November.”

Christine whipped her blue hair—which was shaved on the sides with long,