Meet You in the Middle Read online

  Praise for

  Meet You in the Middle

  “Sharp, clever repartee propels this irresistible, very modern, wonderfully warm and optimistic romance that asks the eternal question, Do opposites really attract?”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

  “Daniels has written one of those romantic comedy masterpieces that makes your stomach flip, your heart explode, even as you can’t help but laugh out loud at the sheer cleverness of the writing. Absolute perfection—the best romantic comedy I’ve had the pleasure of reading, ever.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Lauren Layne

  “Smart, sexy, and satisfying! Daniels has penned an engaging enemies-to-lovers contemporary romance set against a Beltway backdrop that gives an insider’s look at the people and politics of Washington, DC, while maintaining the heart and humor of two people falling in love against all odds. I loved it!”

  —New York Times bestselling author Jenn McKinlay

  “Sassy, sweet, and deliciously sexy, Meet You in the Middle is a wickedly fun read. Loved it!”

  —USA Today bestselling author Nicola Marsh

  A JOVE BOOK

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2021 by Devon Daniels, LLC

  Readers Guide copyright © 2021 by Devon Daniels, LLC

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Daniels, Devon, author.

  Title: Meet you in the middle / Devon Daniels.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Jove, 2021.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2019059956 (print) | LCCN 2019059957 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593199213 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593199220 (ebook)

  Subjects: GSAFD: Love stories.

  Classification: LCC PS3604.A5327 M44 2021 (print) | LCC PS3604.A5327 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019059956

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019059957

  First Edition: February 2021

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

  pid_prh_5.6.0_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Meet You in the Middle

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Guide

  About the Author

  For Patrick.

  You’re the reason I can write a romance novel.

  Chapter 1

  There’s a special place in hell for people who waste my time.

  Wasting time is at the top of my list of pet peeves, right around being charged for hotel Wi-Fi, people who are rude to servers, and incorrect hashtag use (hint: #ifitlookslikethisyouredoingitwrong).

  I have a mountain of work I could and should be doing, but here I am, languishing in this eerily silent office, listening to the ticking of the world’s loudest clock as it crawls farther past our appointment time: 4:26 . . . 4:27 . . .

  Typically, I’d rather swim with sharks than schedule a late-afternoon meeting—though frankly, many of the politicians I work with are just as dangerous. I prefer to catch people early and fresh, their brains full of bipartisan possibility and artisanal coffee from Cups, the watering hole of choice for Senate staffers.

  A day in the life of a congressional aide looks something like this: Show up at nine brimming with optimism that you can change the world. By ten, the morning’s inflammatory headlines have brought you down a peg, but you’re still in the game. By noon, you’ve put out a fire that your well-meaning but power-hungry boss started with an errant quote. By two, you’ve stopped counting the number of ranting phone calls you’ve fielded from angry constituents demanding your boss’s impeachment or resignation (either will do). By three, you’re questioning every decision that led you to work in the fiery hell pit that is politics. By four, you’re hanging by a thread. A meeting at the end of the day? You’re asking for trouble. A meeting at the end of the day with the opposition? Sign my death warrant now.

  My phone dings with a text. My mom’s sent me some Justin Timberlake meme; he’s eating from what looks like a plate of pasta but is actually his *NSYNC-era hair. It’s ridiculous, but enough to lift me out of my salty mood, for the moment anyway. I text back asking if she’s looked into train tickets yet, and when she responds with a GIF of Alfonso Ribeiro doing the Carlton dance, I’m left to wonder just when I became more mature than my mother.

  I giggle in spite of myself, earning me a bewildered look from the staff assistant. Of course, now she acknowledges me. I smother my laughter and assume the demure expression of the dignified, professional woman I’m supposed to be.

  My meeting is with Benjamin Mackenzie, legislative director and gatekeeper for Henry “Hank” Hammond, illustrious seven-term senator from the great state of Ohio. When I’d emailed Mr. Tardy for the Party a few days ago requesting a meeting, I got back a polite but clipped response letting me know it was four o’clock today or three weeks from now. I was simultaneously intrigued and annoyed. Who’s so booked they can’t meet for a month? He’s either the most popular guy in DC or way too self-important—and since I’ve never heard of him, I’m going with the latter.

  Maybe his delay is no accident. Maybe he’s purposely keeping me waiting in some sort of twisted power play to show me who’s in charge. I wouldn’t be surprised, since just about everything is a power play in this town. Well, joke’s on him. I already know he has the upper hand. And the lower hand. Basically, I’m devoid of hands.

  I distract myself by looking around Hammond’s lobby. Overstuffed leather couches in a shade of deep cognac—check. Ornate gilt-framed portraits of the senator with former presidents and heads of state—check. I work in this same building—on the same floor, in fact—and all the congressional offices are variations of the same, in both layout and
design.

  I’m here on behalf of my boss, Senator Carol Warner of New Hampshire: champion of the women’s movement, favorite of cable news anchors, and all-around feminist rock star. After bouncing around in a series of staff positions for various DC power brokers over the past few years, I fought my way up to Senator Warner’s senior legislative assistant (and have the bruised elbows to prove it). With her name on my résumé I can get a job anywhere I want. Not that I’m looking to leave—working for Carol is my every dream realized.

  Several months ago, we introduced the Child Care and Education for Working Families Act, the same bill I’m here today to fight tooth and nail for. It’s the first legislation I’ve drafted almost entirely on my own, and it’s as precious to me as a newborn. We developed the bill in the months before the presidential election with the confidence that both the Senate and House would stay under Democratic control—and with the victory of the first female president of the United States all but assured, our legislation was considered a shoo-in for passage.

  That was before our candidate lost the election, Republicans won the House and Senate, and all hell broke loose.

  A few months later and the bill is on life support. Our new goal is to force a floor vote, even if it will more than likely result in defeat. To improve our odds, Senator Warner assigned me the unenviable task of going door to door to convince several of her friendlier, more moderate conservative allies to cross the aisle.

  It’s been going as well as you might imagine.

  I silently recite my standard pep talk: This bill is important, right, and just. It makes child care more affordable for struggling families, expands educational options for preschool-age kids, and improves teacher training. You’d have to be soulless to oppose this bill. You may as well admit to hating puppies and kittens.

  Of course, nothing in politics is ever that simple.

  I finally hear voices approaching in the hallway, the noise crescendoing as a herd of men troops into the office lobby. Most give me a cursory glance before vanishing into the recesses of the office—all except one, who peels off from the pack and stops in front of me.

  “Ms. Adams?”

  When I realize this must be Benjamin Mackenzie, my first reaction is to gulp. Imposing would be one way to describe him. Massive is another.

  He’s attractive enough: wide across and barrel-chested, with a square-cut jaw, thick dark hair, and strong eyebrows to match. Actually, his hair’s a little on the longish side, like he couldn’t be bothered to cut it this month. The fact that I even notice such an innocuous detail tells me I’ve been in DC too long. I’m so used to impeccably groomed, too-slick political operatives that anyone who defies the norm stands out.

  But it’s his size that has me doing a double take. He’s well over six feet, as broad as he is tall. He has that corn-fed, all-American rugged look, like the type of guy you see in those off-roading truck commercials. I picture him doing figure eights against a backdrop of featureless mountain ranges, then heaving himself out of his dusty vehicle looking no worse for the wear, trusty yellow Lab at his heels.

  “Uh, yes. Kate Adams,” I stammer. Chill, Kate. I stand and hold out my hand. “You must be Mr. Mackenzie?”

  He pauses, something unidentifiable flickering across his features. “Mr. Mackenzie is my dad. Call me Ben.”

  “Nice to meet you, Ben.”

  His eyes hold mine just a second longer than necessary. “Likewise.”

  I notice the sudden absence of the rapid-fire keyboard soundtrack of the past half hour and peek over his shoulder just in time to catch the staff assistant eyeing his backside. Indeed.

  Ben motions for me to follow him and leads me out the main entrance, heading down the hallway. The leather crossbody he has slung across his chest is stuffed to bulging and probably weighs more than I do. Just looking at it makes my shoulder ache.

  He unlocks the door marked SH 724, holding it open for me as he flicks on the lights and motions to one of the two chairs at his desk, and I make myself comfortable while he settles in. He starts unloading things from his overfilled bag—a laptop, stacks of files, loose papers—arranging them in tidy piles on his desk. When he’s done, it looks like an architect’s 3-D model of a skyscraper city, with towers of varying heights stacked up like Legos.

  He reaches across his desk to grab something, and his wingspan is enormous. I wonder idly where he buys his suits. They must be custom-made, though who could afford such a thing on our paltry salary? It’s a mystery.

  “Thanks so much for fitting me in,” I begin, conveniently ignoring that he kept me waiting. Ooze that southern charm. “Your schedule seems a bit intense.”

  “Sorry about that. There’s a lot going on with the tax plan right now.”

  Senator Hammond is chairman of the Finance Committee, so I suppose it makes sense that Ben would be working on tax reform. Still, the mental image of this muscle-bound behemoth hunched over a calculator is so incongruent, I want to laugh.

  “Huh. That makes more sense now.”

  “What makes more sense now?” He plugs in his laptop and sets it off to the side.

  “Why you couldn’t meet for three weeks.”

  His pause lasts just a beat too long. “We’re meeting now, aren’t we?”

  Ooh, we’ve got a live one here. I sit up a little straighter. “That we are.”

  “So, Ms. Adams,” he says, back to digging in his bag. “You’re here about the child care bill?”

  “Ms. Adams is my mother. So please, call me Kate.”

  He glances up at me, casting a boyish grin in my direction. It’s transformative, his smile, the kind that takes a face from serious to mischievous in the blink of an eye. I wonder how old he is. I’d pegged him as midthirties, but I mentally revise that downward.

  His eyes move over me as if I’m familiar. “Okay, Kate,” he says, still smiling like he’s amused by me. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”

  “I’m here on behalf of Senator Warner to discuss the Child Care and Education for Working Families Act we introduced a couple months back. I wanted to give you a brief synopsis of the bill, answer any questions you have, and see what we can do to get Senator Hammond on board.”

  “So this is the Democrat proposal for subsidized child care?” He sinks heavily into what must be an industrial-strength chair.

  I cringe at his characterization. “Well, kind of, but there’s a lot more to it than that. The goal of the bill is to provide families with additional resources for—”

  “I’ve read the bill, I know what it’s about. I also know it has no chance of passing.”

  Record scratch.

  I smile tightly through clenched teeth. So this is how it’s going to be. “If it didn’t have a chance, I wouldn’t be here.”

  Something in my voice must get his attention, because he finally quits organizing all the crap on his desk and looks at me properly. His eyes flick over me from head to toe, lingering briefly on my heels. This pair is one of my favorites—turquoise suede with an asymmetrical toe line and a tiny row of pearls dotting the back heel. They’re the mullet of footwear: business in the front, party in the back.

  He squints at them for a moment as if mystified, then drags his eyes back up to mine, a small frown settling on his mouth. “That bill is going nowhere. You must know that. And Hammond would never vote for it.” He speaks slowly, his tone patronizing, like I’m some sort of simpleton who doesn’t understand English.

  My face heats. “How about you listen to my pitch for thirty seconds before you shut me down?”

  “Why, when I know what the answer will be?”

  “Do you speak for Senator Hammond?” It’s a challenge—and the politest way I can think of to neuter Mr. Big Swinging Dick.

  His eyes narrow. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  I narrow mine in a mirror imag
e. The moment stretches.

  “Well, oh-kay,” I say, interrupting our impromptu glaring contest. “Thanks for keeping me waiting for thirty minutes, then not giving me the opportunity to discuss the legislation. I’ll be sure to let Senator Warner know that her friend Hank Hammond wouldn’t give her the time of day.”

  I slap my presentation folder shut in preparation for a dramatic exit. I think I’ll knock over one of his stupid skyscraper stacks while I’m at it.

  “I’m sorry, have I offended you?” He seems genuinely confused.

  “How could you tell?”

  The corners of his mouth start to curve as if he’s going to laugh, but he smothers it quickly. “Am I really the first person who’s told you this bill is dead in the water? You think legislation imposing new regulations on businesses is going to pass in a Republican-controlled Congress?” His tone clearly communicates: You can’t be that dumb.

  “It will if we can get enough Republicans on board.”

  “I see.” He nods gravely, steepling his fingers under his chin. “So who have you gotten so far?”

  I walked right into that one.

  I hesitate, but there’s no point in lying. He could find out without much digging. “Callahan and Roscoe.”

  “They’re lying.”

  “They’re not lying,” I snap. “They’re considering it.”

  His phone starts buzzing on his desk but he ignores it. “Well, it sounds like you’d prefer me to BS you, so Senator Hammond will take this under advisement. We’ll let you know,” he drawls.

  My frustration builds into outright fury. Even in the egotistical cesspool that is the DC swamp, this guy sets a new benchmark for repulsive behavior. I can’t believe these are the people I have to grovel to.

  His next words make me wonder if he can read my mind.

  “Look, maybe I was a little abrupt,” he concedes, pinching the bridge of his nose, “but I’ve had a long day and just thought I’d save us both some time. Would you rather I let you go on and on about a bill I know Hammond will never support?”

  Apparently that’s his apology.