The Scandal and Carter O'Neill by Molly O'Keefe Page A

she did, and without commonality, this idea was useless.
    “I can’t pay you.”
    “I don’t need to get paid. I’ll help, but I’m no expert.” He glanced over her head to the mirror. He popped and locked his arms, flipped up his collar, did a wave. “Still got it, though.”
    She put her arms around the man in her life and gave him a big hug. “You definitely got it.”
    CARTER WASN’T SURE WHAT he was doing here.
    He didn’t even like soul food.
    Yet here he was, at seven o’clock on Sunday night, outside…he squinted into the shadows at the faded sign over the door. Mama’s. A soul food place called Mama’s.
    No wonder Zoe loves this place, he thought. It was authentic, real and true, like her. Even the air outside the place smelled good enough to eat. The flame of warmth that sparked to life when he even thought her name made him nervous. He wasn’t supposed to care.
    But now he was thinking about soul food. Because of her.
    Ever since the ballet on Wednesday, he’d been thinking about her more and more. Four days and it felt so much longer.
    “This is ridiculous,” he muttered.
    He should have just called her, because that’s what he really wanted to do. Plan another fake date, so he could see her again.
    But there was no need. After the ballet and the picture in the paper, his poll numbers had stopped dipping.
    So if he called her, it would be for him alone. Strictly personal.
    “In or out, buddy?” a guy asked, standing behind him. Carter didn’t move and the guy stepped around him, yanking open the door. Delicious smells and warmth and light spilled out the door then vanished, and Carter stood again in the darkness outside.
    Always outside.
    Carter scoffed at his own melodrama. In or out, Carter? he thought. He went in.
    The menu was printed on a chalkboard over the counter and on sticky plastic menus. Even the floor was sticky and Carter had to wonder how much they bribed public health in order to stay open. “Carter?”
    The voice was hers and he jumped, spinning around as if he’d been caught doing something illegal.
    Zoe’s smile was bright, luminous even, and then as he watched, she controlled it. Tamed it and put it back under wraps. But that first smile…oh, that first smile told him a lot.
    “What are you doing here?” she asked, switching her bag from one shoulder to the other. She looked tired and he reached for the bag.
    “Here, let me—”
    She put up a little protest, but he took the bag from her, swinging the embroidered sack over his shoulder.
    “What’s in here?” he asked, astonished at its weight.
    “Hard to say,” she said with a weary smile. “I need to clean it out.”
    You need to take it easy, he thought but didn’t say. It wasn’t his place. Their relationship was business, and it looked as if it was coming to an end.
    Besides, he was in enough trouble with Blackwell and his mother in the same city. He didn’t need to complicate things with Zoe.
    And everything about Zoe was a complication.
    But he still wanted her, he still wanted to brush back her hair and kiss her pink lips.
    Wednesday night, he’d watched her more than the ballet. He’d watched her eyes gleam, her lips part with smiles and sighs. Her fingers dancing across her lap. He’d felt her muscles tense when the ballerina leaped.
    He’d felt, it seemed, her spirit—buoyant and happy.
    Her joy had been contagious, and his stark life, his strict existence, had soaked up that joy like a sponge.
    “Are you here because of the photographers?” she asked.
    “What photographers?” he asked, looking out the small front window onto the street.
    “The ones still following me.”
    His mouth dropped open for a second. “I had no idea. No one is following me.”
    “Lucky you. It’s mostly one guy and his heart doesn’t seem to be into it.”
    “How are you feeling?” he asked.
    “Like a whale. On my good days. But you don’t want to hear about my swollen ankles.”
    “Sure I do,” he