The One That Got Away by Leigh Himes

to my normal life.”
    “I know, but still. Why don’t you just stay for a few minutes, shake some hands, get your photo taken, and then Oscar can bring you back,” he said. “If it runs late, I can always just sleep at the house. You know how long-winded the Presbyterian League can be.”
    “No kidding,” I said, trying to keep up. “Those Presbyterians are so… so…” My voice trailed off as I watched him step out of his pants.
    “Frank thinks that with their endorsement I can pick up more of Montgomery County, maybe some of Bryn Mawr,” he continued. “Important votes.”
    I had completely tuned out what he was saying, too distracted by his reflection in the mirror. As he lifted his undershirt, he revealed the muscular arms, hairy chest, and six-pack abs of a
Men’s Health
cover model. When he stepped out of his pale blue boxers and kicked them across the room toward a hamper, my mouth fell open. He walked over to me, his skin looking healthy and tan against the white walls. He wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead, not noticing my racing heart and frozen stance.
    “I was worried about you,” he said, whispering into my hair. “I’m so glad you’re okay.”
    Except for Jimmy and Sam, I hadn’t seen another naked male in twelve years, let alone had one pressed against me. It felt so strange, so ridiculous, but also exhilarating. I tried to regain somecomposure, but when I felt his naked cock pressing against my hip, my heart stopped—and I emitted a little involuntary gasp.
    “What?” he said.
    “Nothing,” I said. “Just tickled.”
    He laughed, then disappeared into the shower.
    Our chauffeur, Oscar, opened the door and held my hand as I stepped down from the big Suburban and landed with a crunch on a circular pebbled driveway. Alex followed behind, still talking on the phone. He was speaking to who I presumed was his campaign manager, and together they had dissected poll numbers and voter maps during the entire half-hour ride. I always hated it when Jimmy talked business in the car—hearing just half of a conversation is worse than hearing the whole—but on this ride, I had listened closely, trying to learn anything I could about this man, this life.
    Outside, the early evening light was fading, which made the building before me more potent and magical, like a fairy-tale castle from one of Gloria’s storybooks. It was a massive gray stone mansion, covered in ivy, with too many chimneys to count, a gray slate roof, and one rounded turret. The windows glowed golden, lit from within so brightly the interior seemed ablaze. This was Bloemveld, Alex’s childhood home and the family estate for more than a century.
    I would learn later that prior to this gray stone mansion there had been a smaller brick version, and before that, a log cabin. The land had been in the family since Alex’s ancestor Alexandre van Hault purchased it from William Penn in the late 1600s. The first van Holt living on American soil had been a farmer and a tender of sheep, but his great-grandson found coal on the land, which led to investments in steel, which eventually led to real estate. The poor, illiterate Dutchman in the log cabin would never have believed that hisdescendants now owned a third of Philadelphia, half of the Main Line, and enough of Manhattan to be invited to the Central Park Conservancy gala and the Met Ball every year.
    As I started for the front door, Alex caught me by the elbow. Holding the phone in his hand, he whispered, “What are you doing? You know Mother hates it when we use the front door.”
    “Right,” I said, abruptly changing course and falling into step behind him. This would be the first of many pivots—both physical and conversational—I’d be making that evening.
    It was a warm night for October, almost muggy. I had played it safe with a simple sleeveless black shift and plain gold jewelry. But I couldn’t resist when it came to choosing shoes, picking a pair of