He returned clutching Wallis’s jacket, and I got my first good look at him. Our boy was handsome, no question, and was wearing a gingham shirt tucked neatly into slim khakis. He had dark hair that flipped out behind his ears and a smile that went higher on one side than it did on the other. You could tell this was the kind of man who had been devilishly cute in boyhood and figured out how to manscape his way into sex appeal as an adult. His features, independent of each other, were so dashing that it took a second to really see what was in front of me. When he came into focus, I swallowed hard, finally recognizing him.

“Well, thanks,” Wallis said. “God, that was wild in there. I didn’t catch your name.”

“Blake.” His drawl wasn’t especially pronounced, but the a in his name still stole the show.

“Darley,” I said. “As in, Melinda Darley.” As in the woman who’d been on television not two weeks ago calling our father an abomination.

“The senator?” Wallis didn’t seem concerned, only curious.

“You got me.” Blake smiled and extended his hand. He shook mine warmly, though I sensed his attention drifting back to my sister.

“Daisy,” I said, pointing a bit foolishly to my chest. “And Wallis. Richardson.” I declared this with the expectation that if he didn’t know who we were already, he’d soon put it together, wish us a pleasant night, and take himself back into the bar.

“We’ve never formally met, I don’t think,” he said, turning back to me. “But I know who you are. The brilliant Daisy Richardson, deliverer of election night upsets, securer of plum committee assignments, chief of staff extraordinaire. A pleasure to meet you.”

It was truly surreal, feeling flattered by a man whose mother thought abstinence was the only proper form of birth control.

Wallis: “You were pretty good in there, Blake. I’m impressed by your de-escalation tactics.”

“When you come from a family of politicians, you come from a family of arguers,” said Blake, taking a mock bow. “As you guys probably know. Still, sorry about all that bro and dude stuff. That was lame. But men like that have to be sweet-talked into submission.”

“He was gross,” said Wallis, though she didn’t seem worried about it anymore.

“You guys are cold.” He observed my sister shivering. “Do you want to—no pressure at all—but there’s another little place down the street with great cocktails. Quiet. And they have a strict no-douchebag policy.”

“And they still have customers?” smiled Wallis. “In this town?”

“I did say it was quiet,” he responded, eyes only for my sister.

“Daisy?” Wallis asked. “What do you think?”

Perhaps he saw my hesitation, because he said he was going to make a quick call, and stepped down the sidewalk and out of earshot.

“I want to go,” Wallis whispered.