Copyright © 2020 Jasmine Guillory

Cover illustration © Vikki Chu

Author photo by Andrea Scher

The right of Jasmine Guillory to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published by arrangement with Berkley,

an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group,

A division of Penguin Random House LLC.

First published in the United States in 2020

First published in Great Britain in 2020

by HEADLINE ETERNAL

An imprint of HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

eISBN 978 1 4722 7674 2

HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

An Hachette UK Company

Carmelite House

50 Victoria Embankment

London EC4Y 0DZ

www.headlineeternal.com

www.headline.co.uk

www.hachette.co.uk

About the Author

Jasmine Guillory is the New York Times bestselling author of The Wedding Date, The Proposal – a Reese Witherspoon x Hello Sunshine Book Club Pick – The Wedding Party and Royal Holiday. Her work has appeared in Cosmopolitan, Real Simple, OprahMagazine.com, and Shondaland.com. She lives in Oakland, California.

Visit Jasmine online at jasmineguillory.com, on Twitter @thebestjasmine and Instagram @jasminepics.

Acclaim for Jasmine Guillory and her delightful rom-coms:

‘The queen of contemporary romance’ OprahMag.com

‘No one writes rom-coms like Jasmine Guillory’ PopSugar

‘There is so much to relate to, and throughout the novel there is a sharp feminist edge. Loved this one, and you will too’ New York Times bestselling author Roxane Gay

‘No one does heart-fluttering romance with wit and insight like bestseller Jasmine Guillory’ Elle

‘I have to actively refrain from talking about Guillory and her novels IN ALL CAPS because I get VERY EXCITED – she’s that good!’ Shondaland

‘One of romance’s brightest new voices’ Entertainment Weekly

‘Everything Jasmine Guillory touches turns to gold’ Cosmopolitan

‘With sharp banter, a well-rounded cast of characters, and plenty of swoony scenes, Jasmine Guillory defends her position as one of the most exciting rom-com writers out there’ BuzzFeed

‘A bit of wisdom: when Jasmine Guillory comes out with a book, buy it’ Refinery29

‘Sweet, charming, and fun’ HelloGiggles

‘Just as essential to a good summer holiday as SPF’ Grazia

‘Kudos to Guillory, whose lively dialogue is matched by her multifaceted characters’ Essence

By Jasmine Guillory

The Wedding Date

The Proposal

The Wedding Party

Royal Holiday

Party of Two

While We Were Dating

About the Book

It’s the whirlwind affair that has everyone talking . . .

Dating is the last thing on Olivia Monroe’s mind when she moves to LA to start her own law firm. An entire night of flirting with a gorgeous man at a hotel bar could change her mind though – until she discovers that he’s hotshot junior senator Max Powell.

Max’s determination to win Olivia over proves him to be sweet, funny, and noble – not just some privileged white politician she assumed him to be. Dating in secret is fun at first, but when they finally go public, the intense media scrutiny results in the exposure of Olivia’s rocky past, criticism of her job, and questions about her suitability as a trophy girlfriend.

Olivia knows what she has with Max is special, but is it strong enough to survive the heat of the spotlight?

To Simi Patnaik and Nicole Clouse

You two are worth all the champagne and fries in the world.

Chapter One

Olivia Monroe sat down at the hotel bar and grinned at the bartender, who grinned back. Thank God for a friendly face after such a long day.

She’d almost gone straight to her room to put on one of those cozy hotel robes and order room service to eat on her bed, but what she wanted more than anything tonight was a huge pile of french fries and an ice-cold martini, and she knew from experience that room service was the least optimal way to get both of those things. Fries always arrived soggy and martinis never arrived chilled enough. Better to get the best version of both and a conversation with Krystal the bartender that had nothing to do with intellectual property or law.

“Hendrick’s martini, two olives?” Krystal asked her, already filling the cocktail shaker with ice. Olivia had been staying in this hotel for a week now, ever since she’d packed all of her worldly belongings and flown out to L.A. to start this new chapter in her life.

“Yes please.” Olivia slipped off her blazer. “And a Caesar salad and a large order of fries.”

“You got it. How was work today? You look like you’ve earned this martini.”

Olivia laughed and twisted her mass of dark curly hair up into a knot on top of her head.

“Well, I left the hotel at eight this morning, and I’m just getting back now at . . .” She checked her watch. “Nine at night, so yes, I’ve earned that martini. But I’ve had worse twelve-hour days.”

Much worse, actually. After years of considering it, she’d moved from New York to L.A., and she and her friend Ellie had formed their own law firm: Monroe & Spencer. Olivia had spent the last month anxious she’d made the wrong decision, about both the move and starting a new firm. She was still terrified about that—so much so that she’d woken up at four a.m. the night before and worried for an hour. But, God, she’d loved every minute of her workday today. She’d been on an adrenaline high from the moment she walked into the office that morning—hell, from the moment her plane had landed last week. She was thrilled to be back in California, it was great to have Ellie as her partner, and it felt incredible to be her own boss, finally, after all these years.

When her martini arrived, she raised it to Krystal in thanks, and silently toasted herself. She took a sip and smiled. Perfect.

She inhaled her salad and half of her fries as soon as they arrived, and realized she couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten. Oh right, Ellie had handed her some sort of green smoothie at eleven a.m. when they left for a meeting together, and Olivia had laughed at her. Ellie had been in L.A. ever since law school graduation, so she did things like drink green smoothies and go to seven a.m. yoga classes before she got into the office. The smoothie was terrible; no wonder Olivia had eaten those fries so fast. As it was, the gin plus all of that adrenaline from their meetings and calls today had left her feeling very euphoric. Maybe she should eat something else.

She waved Krystal over and asked for the dessert menu. Chocolate cake, that’s what she needed right now. A big slice of chocolate layer cake. Ooh, or apple pie, warm, with a big scoop of ice cream on the side. That would also hit the spot.

Krystal hesitated before she handed her the dessert menu.

“There’s a new pastry chef here, and . . . well, at least the cookies are good.”

Olivia scanned the list and shook her head.

“What is all of this?” she asked Krystal. “I understand that pastry chefs need to feel like they’re expressing their emotions in their pastry or whatever, but why are all of these desserts so incomprehensible and confusing? Basil ice cream? I don’t want herbs in my dessert!” Krystal laughed at that, which only inspired Olivia to keep going. “Deconstructed banana cream pie? What even is that, a banana just rolling back and forth on a plate, with some whipped cream on the side? A cookie plate? I don’t want a cookie plate! What happened to a nice layer cake? Chocolate, or carrot, or for the love of God, yellow cake with chocolate frosting? Everyone loves yellow cake with chocolate frosting! Or a delicious pie—an actual one, not any deconstructed nonsense. Apple pie, or chocolate mousse pie, or my favorite, strawberry rhubarb—the whole world would come here for dessert if you had those things!”

“I could not agree with you more.”

Olivia glanced over at the guy a few seats down who had chimed in on her rant. White dude, far too attractive, baseball cap, jeans, blue T-shirt, expression on his face like he thought he was hot shit. She rolled her eyes and turned back to Krystal, who was still laughing.

“See? Even this guy agrees with me. Everyone loves a good cake—a real one, not any of this fancy, elaborate, delicate stuff that doesn’t even deserve the name ‘cake.’ What does L.A. have against a good cake?”

“You really are passionate about dessert, aren’t you?” Krystal set the dude’s beer down in front of him. “The cookies are good, though, I swear.”

Olivia pursed her lips.

“Are they really, though?” she asked Krystal. “Really? Are they real cookies, or those thin, crispy, fragile cookies that are more crumb than actual cookie? Or, God, are they biscotti? I bet they’re biscotti, aren’t they?”

“I hate biscotti so much,” the dude said, with a shake of his head. “The first time I ever tried one, I almost cracked a tooth. Then someone told me you were supposed to dip it in coffee first—whoever came up with a cookie you had to dip in liquid before eating it?”

Olivia pointed at him and nodded.

“Yes, exactly! Why would I want a soggy cookie? Please, say they aren’t biscotti, Krystal.”

Krystal shook her head at them.

“I promise, they aren’t biscotti. I’ll bring you some, you’ll see.”

Krystal disappeared, and the baseball cap dude smiled at Olivia.

“What are the chances these cookies are actually good?” he asked.

Olivia couldn’t help herself from smiling back at him.

“Oh, slim to none,” she said.

Normally, Olivia wouldn’t give this guy the time of day. He was too good looking, with big dark eyes, strong jaw, and wide smile. His hair was probably in perfect, tousled waves underneath that baseball cap, too. She knew guys like this all too well—they’d been told their whole lives they were smart and charming, and they got away with everything. She’d gone to school with this guy, she’d worked with him, she’d worked for him. But tonight she was in a good mood and full of gin and french fries.

And she didn’t work for guys like this, or anyone else, anymore. Her smile grew wider.

“Hi, I’m Olivia.” She reached out her hand to him.

He glanced down at the stool in between them, occupied by her bag, thank goodness. Just because she’d told this guy her name didn’t mean she wanted him to sit next to her.

“Hi, Olivia. I’m . . . Max.” His handshake was firm, but not that death grip that so many men had, like they were trying to prove they were so big and strong. “So, where do you stand on the cake-versus-pie argument?”

Olivia waved a french fry at him.

“I reject the whole idea that I have to choose between them! I love both cake and pie. An excellent version of either is a perfect food; a bad version of either is a crime against humanity. I don’t know why people always want you to choose a team when you can love both.”

Oh no. She was shouting about dessert again. That martini had hit her hard. Well, at least she was shouting to this guy she’d never see after tonight.

“People are definitely pretty partisan these days about everything, that’s for sure,” he said. “I tend to be more of a pie person, but I agree, an excellent cake can make me very happy.” He gave her that slow smile again, and she tried not to let it affect her. “So what are you here in L.A. for? Assuming you’re a guest here at the hotel?”

Olivia fished the last olive out of her martini glass.

“I am a guest here, but I’m also here in L.A. for good—I just moved here for work, but I can’t move into my new place yet.” She supposed she had to ask him, too. “Where are you visiting from?”

He laughed, slightly too loudly.

“Oh, I’m not visiting; I live here, too. Water main break on my street, and I have a lot to do first thing in the morning, so I came over here for the night.”

She wondered what “a lot to do” in his world was. Did he work in the industry? Probably. Half of L.A. was connected to TV and movies in some way or another. As a matter of fact, this guy looked vaguely familiar. Maybe he was in a commercial she’d seen or something.

She wasn’t going to ask him what he did; people like this were way too pleased to tell you they were An Actor.

Krystal set down a plate of cookies between the two of them.

“See, no biscotti.” She glanced at Olivia’s drink. “Another drink, either of you?”

They both shook their heads.

“I wish, but I have an early day tomorrow, and more work I should get done tonight,” Olivia said. “But I’ll have some coffee to go with the cookies.”

“Coffee for me, too, please, but decaf,” Max said.

When Krystal went to get their coffees, Max turned back to her.

“So what brought you to L.A. and is giving you a late night?” he asked her.

“Oh, I’m an accountant,” she said. “Busy time of year for us.”

As a rule, Olivia didn’t like to lie. But she was having a pleasant evening drinking gin and ranting about food with a stranger, and she didn’t want him to ruin the fun vibe they had going by cracking a stupid lawyer joke she’d heard a million times before. Accountant was a good, solid, boring job, and the best part of it was it was such a boring job no one ever asked her any follow-up questions.

“Oh, really?” he asked. “That’s so interesting. What do you think of the new tax laws? Have they made your job more difficult?”

This guy, of course, would be the exception.

She reached for a cookie and bit into it so she had more time to think of an answer. She would have never figured a pretty actor would ask for details about her nonexistent accountant job, especially not details about the tax code.

“It’s been a little more challenging,” she said, after thoroughly chewing her cookie. “And personally, I’m not a huge fan of the new laws. But the good part is business is up.”

He nodded.

“I’m not a huge fan of the new laws, either, but I’m glad that— ”

“Oh wow, you should try these.” Olivia held up the cookie. “Krystal was right, they’re actually good.”

She didn’t only say that because she wanted to end this digression about tax laws, but sure, that was part of it.

Just then, Krystal brought their coffees.

“See, what did I tell you?” she said.

Max bit into a cookie and nodded.

“Sure, these are good,” he said. “But just think of how much better they’d be if this was an ice-cream sandwich.”

Olivia gasped and dropped her cookie.

“Yes! This is exactly what I’m talking about—dessert menus should have ice-cream sandwiches with cookies like this, and cakes, and pies, instead of this pistachio tart nonsense.”

Max laughed.

“I’ll add that to my platform,” he said.

Olivia took the last sip of her drink and pushed the glass toward Krystal.

“You joke, but I think someone needs to start a movement here.”

That had been a close one. Max added cream to his coffee and mentally kicked himself for his stupid “platform” comment. This woman obviously didn’t know who he was; why would he say something to help her figure it out?

Granted, most people didn’t recognize him when he wasn’t in uniform as Maxwell Stewart Powell III, junior United States Senator from California, at least not immediately, and that’s the way he liked it. Sometimes it dawned on them after a while, though, especially if he’d been on TV recently, and he’d been on TV a lot these days.

But Olivia obviously had no idea who he was—that had been clear from her withering “even this guy agrees with me” comment when he’d joined her conversation. No one had talked down to him like that in years.

Why did he like it so much?

He had no idea, but he knew he didn’t want this woman to figure out who he was and laugh at all of his stupid jokes like everyone else did these days. She barely even smiled at him, and the one time she had, he felt like he’d won a prize. It was weirdly nice to have to fight for a smile for the first time in a long time.

“So, Olivia, where did you move from? To move to L.A., I mean.”

She pushed some of her curly hair back into her bun and gave him that half-suspicious look again.

“New York. But I’m a native Californian—I grew up in the Bay Area.”

He lifted his coffee cup to toast to her.

“Well, welcome home.”

She touched her cup to his.

“Thanks. It’s good to be back. Even though L.A. is a lot different from the Bay Area, it still feels like coming home. But I’ve realized I only know L.A. from the perspective of a visitor, not a resident, so I have a lot to figure out. I haven’t even bought a car yet.”

He shook his head.

“You let yourself get too New York when you moved away. Soon you’re going to start lamenting the state of the bagels and pizza in California, and insisting you really can get good tacos in New York if you know where to look.”

Olivia burst out laughing.

He’d made her laugh. What a victory. Now all he wanted was to do it again.

“I swear, I’ll never, ever do that last thing, cross my heart! People kept trying to pretend there was actual good Mexican food in New York—and in Boston, too, for that matter. It gave me a lot of trust issues, let me tell you.”

Max grinned at her. The way she’d joked and laughed with the bartender was one of the reasons he’d initially eavesdropped on their conversation. He was so glad that smile on her face now was because of something he’d said.

“What about the bagels, though? Are you going to complain about the bagels?”

She shook her head, a smile still on her face.

“I won’t, I promise. I hate it when people do that—I didn’t even complain about the bad Mexican food on the East Coast . . . well, not until someone dragged me to a place they promised was good. Not to be weirdly patriotic, but one of the things I love about America is the regional specialties; it would feel too bland and same-same if you could get everything in the right form everywhere. I love visiting other states and finding something I’ve never had a real version of—or sometimes, never even heard of—where I live. I don’t want to change that.”

She’d put something into words he’d always felt.

“I could not agree more,” he said. He barely stopped himself from putting his hand on her shoulder, but instead just swiveled his stool around all the way to face her. “Even the Northern California–versus–Southern California burrito fights—I think it’s great that even different parts of the state have such strong views on burritos, and I happily eat them all.”

She picked up another cookie.

“So do I, but I have to admit that my loyalties lie with the Mission burrito. It’s going to be hard to get used to the Los Angeles version, but I’ll try.” She raised an eyebrow at him. “So, Max, any favorite local places for me?”

He reached across the bar and grabbed Krystal’s pen.

“Find me some paper and I’ll make you a list. But first, you’re moving out of this hotel soon, I imagine? Where will you be living? I have favorites all over L.A., but if you live on the Westside, you won’t spend a lot of time east, and vice versa.”

She pulled a legal pad out of her bag and tore off a sheet for him.

“That’s a detail about living in L.A. that I already knew—I’ll be on the Eastside. Silver Lake.”

He started writing.

“Good choice. And there are even a few places over that way where I can recommend the desserts.”

He scribbled down the names of all of the places he could remember, and vague location markers for the ones he couldn’t— “that taco truck on Olympic” was one of his notes. He knew if he pulled his phone out, he could look up exact names and addresses, but he didn’t want to deal with his phone right now. There would be so many crises—texts and emails and news alerts he needed a break from. He was enjoying this moment of pretending he was just Max. He needed at least thirty more minutes off from being Senator Powell.

And at least thirty more minutes to talk to, and look at, Olivia. He’d noticed her as soon as he walked in; she looked so joyful and alive, he couldn’t help but notice. Her warm brown skin glowed as she laughed, her eyes lit up as she talked, and her hair refused to stay in the bun she’d tried to trap it in, her curls dancing in a halo around her face. Most of the time when she looked at him, she wasn’t smiling, but that just made it all the more valuable when she did. She wore a silky pink shirt, and a thin gold necklace that disappeared under it, and he found the entire combination incredibly alluring. He wanted to follow that necklace down, but he forced his eyes back to his list so he wouldn’t stare.

Olivia asked questions as he wrote, and they chatted about food and Los Angeles and hotel horror stories. This fun, easy conversation was the most relaxed he’d been in months. How was it that someone like him, who spent all day every day talking to people, felt so lonely for personal connection, and so happy to have found it, if only for a little while? The whole time they talked, he was afraid she’d ask him what he did—he didn’t want to lie to her, but he also didn’t want to tell her the truth and break this spell. But while they talked about a lot of other things, she never asked him that, thank goodness.

“Anything else for either of you?” Krystal picked up their long-ago-drained coffee cups and the empty cookie plate.

Olivia shook her head and glanced at her wrist.

“Oh God, it’s after eleven. I didn’t realize it was so late. I’ll take the check, thanks, Krystal.”

Max sighed and nodded. This night had to end sometime.

“Me, too.”

They each signed their checks and walked together to the elevator. He pressed twelve; she pressed eight. They were silent for the first few floors.

He could see more of her now that they were off those bar stools. She was shorter than he’d assumed, with generous hips, that incredible chest he’d noticed before, and very sexy black high heels. She had a tiny smile that hovered around her soft pink lips. He wondered if it was about him.

He didn’t want her floor to come, he realized. He didn’t want her to get off. Right now he’d welcome a power outage, an earthquake, any emergency that would cause them to get stuck together in this elevator so he could spend a few more minutes talking to this woman who made him laugh, and relax, and who had no idea who he was. Maybe after that they’d go out for a drink on purpose. Maybe after the drink he’d pull her close, and kiss her, and she’d wrap an arm around his waist and kiss him back. And then maybe . . .

But the elevator kept moving.

“It was great to meet you, Olivia,” he said in a rush. “And welcome back to California.”

She smiled at him one last time as the elevator doors opened on her floor.

“Thanks, Max. Have a good night.”

The doors closed behind her, and he dropped his head in his hands. He’d lost all of his game in these past few years, hadn’t he? He’d spent hours chatting up a hot, smart, funny woman at a bar, and hadn’t even asked for her number? He’d written her a list of restaurants in Los Angeles, for God’s sake, and hadn’t even thought to put his number at the top of it? Or—what was wrong with him?—he could have asked for her email address to send her more restaurants, and then found a way to ask her out then.

He shook his head as he let himself into his room. This was the first woman who had sparked his interest in over two years, and he’d just let her get off the elevator? Sure, he was attracted to her for lots of reasons, but he also really missed having someone around who treated him normally—someone who made fun of him a little, laughed at him, was relaxed with him, in that way Olivia had been tonight.

He should have asked for her number.

Olivia shook her head as she walked into her hotel room. For a minute there in the elevator, she’d thought Max in the baseball hat was going to ask her out. And honestly, for a minute there in the elevator, she would have said yes. She hadn’t realized until they’d gotten in the elevator how tall he was. Or how nicely his T-shirt gripped his biceps. Or how warm those dark brown eyes of his were. Thank goodness her floor had arrived when it had. What was it about elevators, anyway?

It really was for the best that Max hadn’t asked her out. Sure, he could give good banter at a bar, but what in the world would she do on a date with a guy like him? She’d eventually have to ask him what he did, he’d say he was an actor, and then she’d have to ask him what he’d been in, and he’d say that one commercial and that other episode of Law & Order and she’d say, “Ohhh, that’s where I know you from!” And then he’d go off on another long list of his acting credits and bore her to tears and that would be the end of it.

Plus, she didn’t have time for men right now! Her firm was her first—really her only—priority; she had to get it all set up, keep her handful of existing clients happy, network with local lawyers and potential clients, and do everything she could to drum up new business. She actually wanted to concentrate on all that! Not some guy who charmed her at a bar after she’d had a little too much gin, but likely had nothing to his credit other than that perfect smile.

Okay, and those biceps. And those big, warm, nicely manicured hands.

Why hadn’t he just invited her up to his room? That would have been the best of both worlds. Sure, she didn’t have time to date men right now, but she had time for a few hours of stress relief. Ah well. Too late for that.

She kicked off her heels, turned on the TV to the local news, and went into the bathroom to wash her face and take out her contacts. When she came out, the reporter was saying something about the homeless problem in L.A., and she listened as she changed into her pajamas.

“Earlier today, senator Max Powell had a press conference on Skid Row that some are calling just a publicity stunt. But others are grateful to the senator for shining light on this problem.”

“It’s shameful the way we’ve treated our fellow citizens, many of whom are veterans,” a strangely familiar voice said.

Olivia looked up at the TV and promptly dropped her pajama pants on the floor.

Was that . . . ?

Could that be?

She sank down onto the edge of the bed. Yes, it was. It could be. Max in the baseball hat from the bar was not some C-list actor. He was United States senator Max Powell.

Holy shit.

She laughed out loud and picked up the phone to call her sister.

“You are never going to believe what happened to me tonight.”