Across the Aisle

  Table of Contents

  At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage for details.

  For Chris Cornell, a generous soul who made everyone in his orbit feel special and loved.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Discover more romance from Entangled… The Un-Arranged Marriage

  Kissing Games

  The Best Kept Secret

  Always a Bridesmaid

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Copyright © 2022 by Stephanie Vance. All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce, distribute, or transmit in any form or by any means. For information regarding subsidiary rights, please contact the Publisher.

  Entangled Publishing

  644 Shrewsbury Commons Ave

  STE 181

  Shrewsbury, PA 17361

  rights@entangledpublishing.com

  Amara is an imprint of Entangled Publishing.

  Edited by Erin Molta

  Cover design by Charnavoki Valery at 99designs

  Cover photography by Still AB/Shutterstock

  ISBN 978-1-64937-134-8

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  First Edition May 2022

  At Entangled, we want our readers to be well-informed. If you would like to know if this book contains any elements that might be of concern for you, please check the book’s webpage for details.

  https://entangledpublishing.com/books/across-the-aisle

  For Chris Cornell, a generous soul who made everyone in his orbit feel special and loved.

  I miss him.

  Chapter One

  As she hurried through the door of The Capital Grille, Dallas McGrath prepared herself for lunch with her father. She’d developed her conversation strategy during her Uber ride—talk as little as possible, even when provoked. It would be challenging, but she could do it. Unfortunately, she hadn’t factored in being ten minutes late.

  “I had to get started, so I ordered you the kale salad with the dressing on the side,” he barked in greeting.

  She seethed inwardly as she sat across from him in the leather upholstered booth. He knew she hated kale. This was his passive-aggressive, or maybe just aggressive, way of telling her women should eat salads and men should eat steaks.

  “Thanks Dad,” she said between gritted teeth.

  She met his gaze as he scowled at her over the rim of his glass. If someone could truly pierce another with their eyes, William McGrath’s brown ones would have skewered her.

  “And you’re late because?”

  Hi, Dallas. How are you? Good to see my only child.

  Dallas inserted those words into the conversation. Just for fun.

  “I got motorcaded on the way over here.” Everyone in Washington, DC used the word “motorcade” as a verb.

  “That’s a ridiculous excuse, Dallas. Dignitaries shut down traffic with their motorcades all the time. Perhaps you should have left a little earlier.”

  Great idea. Because I wouldn’t want to miss a minute of this.

  As if hearing her thoughts, William McGrath’s legendary rage and impatience rolled over her like a tidal wave. She would have been miserable if he actually lived in DC. As he flew in from Dallas only a handful of times a year, it worked out just fine.

  She picked up a roll and slathered more butter on it than she wanted. Small rebellions always helped get her through any meeting with William McGrath. Meanwhile, his eyes roved around the room, a habit of his that meant he was looking for someone or something to network with. Dallas gazed around, too, contemplating who he might target for his “Mr. Jovial CEO” act. The oppressive room, with its dark wood, dim lights, and general feel of understated power didn’t intimidate her as much as it once had, although she still felt out of place. The Capital Grille catered to DC’s old boys’ network, not young female lobbyists like herself.

  William McGrath fit right in. In his Brioni suit, he radiated the ruthless business power of a self-made man. He wore a white shirt and a blue-and-red-striped power tie that would work in both Republican and Democrat offices. Gold cuff links engraved with the McGrath Agriculture corporate logo and a tie clip shaped like a sheaf of wheat completed the ensemble. He must have been hoping to run into someone big, like a cabinet secretary or a member of Congress.

  “Who were they, anyway?” he asked, after he apparently couldn’t find anyone more interesting than her.

  “Who?”

  “The dignitaries.”

  “I think the flags were Peruvian,” she said.

  He snorted. “Peru.” His derisive tone suggested that, since the country couldn’t be of any use to him, it might as well not exist.

  Before she started an unnecessary and likely unsuccessful defense of Peru, the waiter arrived and set their food on the table; the kale salad for her, and the tenderloin for her father. He grabbed his knife and sliced off a thick piece. Blood oozed onto the plate and into the best damned mashed potatoes in the city. It looked and smelled delicious, especially next to her musty-smelling kale. He chewed with gusto, swallowed, then attacked his next bite.

  Dallas watched, fascinated by the palpable glee he took in devouring his food. She’d once asked her grandfather why her father always looked as though he were conquering his meals instead of eating them.

  “He didn’t have as many meals as he wanted growing up,” he’d said in a thick Irish brogue that belied the fact he was second-generation Irish. “We spent a lot of time out in the fields harvesting to get meals on the table.”

  “You must be really proud of him now.” Her father had built McGrath Agriculture, Inc. from the one farm he grew up on to be the second largest agrobusiness in Texas.

  Her grandfather had looked over fields of wheat that extended to the horizon, and squinted into the sun. Then he raised his hand to shield his eyes, and perhaps to hide his expression.

  “To get where he is today, your father focused on business growth, not crops,” he said, with a slight h
int of disapproval. Then he shrugged in that Gaelic way that meant There’s nothing to be done about it.

  “In the end, though, he’s just looking for more food, and I can’t blame him for that.”

  Dallas stored that information in her heart and dredged it up whenever her father started annoying her. She dredged it up a lot.

  “What are you staring at?” he barked.

  “Nothing, nothing at all. So, how are things at McGrath Agriculture?” she asked, trying to steer the conversation toward something she knew he cared about. Although she was sometimes envious of the company’s hold on him, Dallas couldn’t argue with his pride over his work.

  He brightened up as if she’d just handed him a puppy, but his voice stayed gruff. “Very good. We’ve acquired another farm on the West side and are branching out into potatoes. I’m sure it’s changed a lot since you were last there. When was that again?”

  Dig, dig, dig. Twist, twist, twist. He sure was handy with that emotional knife today.

  “Dad—”

  He raised his hand. “Sorry, I know you don’t like to talk about your time in Texas.” He made it sound like she’d done prison time instead of grown up there.

  “Anyway,” he continued. “How’s your job with UFRA? Any success yet with EPA’s pesticide regulations?”

  Dallas sighed, second-guessing her decision to not store up any small talk. Apparently they’d reached the “what is Dallas doing to not embarrass me” part of the conversation earlier than usual. He’d always made it clear that DC’s premier agrobusiness trade group, the US Field to Restaurant Association, had hired her as a lobbyist only because she was William McGrath’s daughter. At least her father only implied it. UFRA’s CEO, Matt Thomas, had no qualms about saying it outright whenever Dallas disappointed him.

  “We haven’t cracked that yet, but we’re working on it,” she said. “Matt and I have a meeting with Congresswoman Martinez this afternoon to talk about a legislative solution. I wrote a one-pager about it if you want to know more.” She fished a paper out of her briefcase and handed it to him, hoping it would pass his scrutiny. It irked her that her palms sweated and her heart pounded when he looked it over. She was a twenty-eight-year-old woman handing him a work product, not a toddler handing him her crayon rendition of the farm.

  “I’ve included information about the small farmers in the district,” she said, thinking back to her grandfather. “Maybe we can use that as an angle?”

  He looked at it and smiled. Her stomach unclenched.

  “This looks fine. It might help.” He folded the paper without doing more than scanning it and put it in his suitcoat pocket.

  She gave herself a mental high-five.

  “And Matt told me about the meeting,” he continued. “I’m joining you two. We need to be sure we get the message just right,” he said.

  She groaned, inwardly.

  Great. Swell. Fabulous.

  When the check came, he signed the credit card slip, made a notation on the receipt, and stuck it in his thick wallet already full of other meal receipts. Even lunch with his daughter counted as a tax write-off. He looked at his watch.

  “We’ve got about two hours before the meeting with Martinez. Let’s get back to your office and strategize with Matt.”

  Chapter Two

  Across town in the NoMa neighborhood, Grant Pierce sat at one of Indigo’s outside picnic tables with his sometimes mentor, sometimes nemesis, and always boss, Cynthia Kim. The low-key restaurant, with its understated facade and walk-up order window served some of the best Indian food in the city.

  “Here’s to your one-year anniversary at Food for All!” Cynthia exclaimed, toasting him with a glass of Mango Lassi. He thunked his bottle of orange soda against her plastic glass.

  “I can’t believe it’s been that long,” he mused, as he picked up his fork to attack his overflowing plate of the day’s special, the always savory Indi lamb chops. Grant tracked Indigo’s social media channels for the sole purpose of learning when the chops were on the menu. Then, no matter where he was in the city, he’d make his way to NoMa. It could be across the city in Georgetown, across the Hill in Navy Yard, downtown in Dupont Circle, across the river in Anacostia—it didn’t matter where. He’d figure out a way to get to Indigo before they sold out.

  Across from him, Cynthia sliced into a potato-stuffed samosa. Steam, along with the enticing scent of cardamom, poured out. An inquisitive bee hovered nearby, which she waved away.

  “Time flies when you’re having fun. I’m sure we’re a vast improvement over Senator Halston’s office, right?” she hinted.

  “Absolutely!” Grant wasn’t lying. He’d enjoyed his years on the Hill—first for his hometown congresswoman, then for a committee, and finally as counsel for Senator Halston. But after five years of seventy-hour work weeks and low pay, he’d been ready to move on.

  “Well, I’m glad you decided to join us instead of returning to Portland,” Cynthia continued. “A lot of people hightail it back to life outside the beltway once they leave the Hill.”

  “You know what they say about DC—you’re here for either a few years or for life,” he laughed. The political types moved in and out of DC in waves, depending on who was in Congress or the White House. Underneath it all, however, beat the heart of a thriving city unrelated to who held the reins of power. Grant had heard that beat and planned to listen forever.

  Cynthia grinned. “You make it sound like a prison sentence.”

  “Some people think it is, but not me. It’s really—”

  A simpering voice at the end of the table interrupted them.

  “Would you mind handing me a napkin?” Grant turned to see an attractive young woman with a “come hither” expression. Her freshly applied lipstick, flirty hair toss, and the fact that she had a stack of napkins right in front of her clarified that her interruption had nothing to do with napkins. Grant ignored the woman’s hoard and gallantly offered up one of his own with one of his patented dashing smiles.

  “Anything for you, fair lady,” he said.

  “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver,” she breathed. Then she paused as if expecting more chitchat. Grant caught her disappointed look before he turned away.

  Cynthia snorted. “They also say DC is the ugly people’s Hollywood, but that doesn’t seem to apply to you,” she said.

  Grant waved the comment away. Cynthia made this kind of satiric observation all the time, and it meant nothing. Even he had to admit he got more attention than other men in the city, which he chalked up to both his natural charm as well as his west coast laid-back attitude. DC women were probably tired of the Type A personalities and poindexters surrounding them.

  As if reading his mind, Cynthia asked, “How does DC compare to Portland? Significantly more pretention and less tie-dye, I’d guess.”

  Grant waved his fork around the outdoor space. “Actually, this isn’t all that different from Portland’s food cart scene.” He took another bite of his lamb chop. The garlic curry sauce and melt-off-the-bone meat left him drooling for more.

  Cynthia sighed. “I’d love to see more carts in DC.”

  “I think the weather might be a problem,” he said, shifting his body away from napkin-lady and toward the industrial fan near the end of the table. The fan tried valiantly to wave away some of the humidity with limited success. It succeeded, however, in dissipating the citronella-scent that permeated the outdoor space.

  Grant slapped his neck. “Not to mention the mosquitoes,” he continued.

  “I don’t think you’re one to cast aspersions. Doesn’t it rain every single minute in Portland?” Cynthia asked, slapping away a mosquito herself.

  “That’s a deception Portlanders use to keep tourists away.”

  Cynthia laughed. “Well, like I said, I’m glad you braved the weather challenges of DC to move here. You’ve been a r
eal asset. That pilot program we got in the appropriations bill was all you.”

  Grant raised his eyebrows in surprise. He’d worked for years, both on the Hill and for FFA, to get the Farmers Fixing Famine pilot program up and running. It meshed perfectly with Food for All’s mission to bring healthy food to low-income communities, which is one reason he’d accepted the job. But Cynthia rarely gave universal compliments like this. They always came with a qualifier.

  Cynthia patted his arm, and he braced himself for a “but.” He’d learned in the last year that her pats on the arm meant she was about to drop what she considered a pearl of lobbying wisdom, wrapped in maternal solicitousness, with just a hint of condescension. Her odd combination of motherly support and ruthlessness always kept Grant on his toes.

  She must have understood his expression. “No, seriously. I know we haven’t always seen eye-to-eye on lobbying strategies. I thought bringing your Portland naïvety to DC seemed like a bad idea. But some of your…unusual…strategies have worked. The grassroots phone campaign that lit up the Capitol switchboards was brilliant. You proved me wrong.”

  That put Grant even more on his guard. Cynthia Kim always danced around any admission of being wrong. She never outright said it.

  “That said,” she continued.

  Here it comes.

  “It’s never a bad idea to consider all possible strategies, especially on this pesticide issue. I hear UFRA is pissed at the EPA. I expect them to fight it, and they’re pretty old-school when it comes to lobbying tactics.”

  There it is.

  Grant wiped his fingers on a napkin, dropped the lamb chop bone on the paper plate, and took a sip of his soda before speaking. He needed to phrase his next comment just right.

  “I’m sure they will, and I get that we need to play the game. I hope you’re not suggesting we submerge ourselves in the swamp, however,” he said.

  Cynthia pursed her lips, and Grant wondered, not for the first time, how far she might go to get what she wanted. Cynthia had a reputation as a formidable opponent in the lobbying world, and she didn’t get that way by playing Mrs. Nice Gal.