Free Underneath It All by Margo Candela Page B

the unavailable guy. My ex-husband, Mr. Mayor, George. Gee, thanks, Mamá .
    “Call me Emilio. Or call me whatever else you want.” Cortez is more Mr. Mayor than Mr. Mayor is—more vocal, more liberal, taller, darker and, if possible, even more handsome.
    “Call me Jacquelyn.” When he’s not upsetting Mr. Mayor’s political applecart, he’s romancing most of the eligible women in the Bay Area. Black, white, Asian, Latina, you name it, he’s banged it, or at least rumored to have. He’s definitely not a one-woman man, but if I was ever to have a ménage à trois I wouldn’t mind him being on one side of a me sandwich. With Mr. Mayor bringing up the rear.
    “Jacquelyn, bueno . How is the lovely Katherine tonight?” Emilio leans against the railing with his arms crossed over his chest.
    His focus is completely on me, but I can’t help but notice the growing buzz from the actual guests who don’t appreciate my monopolizing his time.
    “Fine.” Each time I’ve spoken to Cortez I’ve needed a fresh pair of undies. The extra laundry and loyalty to my boss and Mr. Mayor are why I avoid him at parties, functions and events. Both the Mayors are really paranoid about him, with good reason. “ Muchas gracias for asking.”
    “Truce, Jacquelyn. I’m not working. I’m here as a lover of art. Just like your boss. I’m sure the two of you can spend hours talking about the merits of Mexican art. You can offer her so many ... insights.”
    “What did you say?”
    “I wonder how a woman as smart as you could end up working for her.” (Oh, and he has the annoying habit of probing questions. I already pay someone to poke around in my psyche so I don’t appreciate it from him.)
    “What do you mean?” I play dumb. Something I’m sure he can understand. It’s much easier to get the advantage when the people you work with (and for) underestimate you.
    “I hear that you did well, very well, at Berkeley.” Emilio leans into me, and I’m tempted to push him away with my finger, knowing it will drive him crazy. He likes the chase, or so I’ve heard. “You can’t tell me it’s your life’s ambition to run errands for the queen of San Francisco’s consumer class?”
    “Consumer class?”
    “She consumes therefore she thinks she has class. The chisme is you got accepted to law school but got ... distracted.” He smiles at me.
    Distracted? Me? Yes, I did get distracted but I don’t know if he means by the easy dot-com money or my ex-husband’s all-American penis. I stare at him blankly like I do when I’m facing a particularly thorny question from Dr. N.
    “Law school is still there, Cortez. I’m exploring my options.”
    “Your boss will be supportive of whatever you choose to do. Just like with Mrs. Mayor’s other assistant. Myra? The rumor is little Myra had an attack of the nerves and is now resting comfortably in a group home in Humboldt. All paid for by your boss and her husband, of course. You can tell me, Jacquelyn, I promise I won’t tell anyone,” he prods, but not the way I want him to.
    “Gossip is gossip. You of all people should know not to take it to heart. Or print it. But, then again, you wouldn’t have much of a job, would you?” I wonder what Cortez will do when Mr. Mayor leaves for Sacramento? They’re a political Cain and Abel. I doubt they could exist without each other. I wonder what I’ll do? “And I do a lot more than run errands. But thank you for your concern.”
    “You may find this surprising, but my humble goal is to speak for the common people of San Francisco.”
    “And the common people of San Francisco really need to know how much my boss spends at Neiman Marcus every month?”
    “She’s an outsider, worse, she’s from Los Angeles. You can’t blame people for being a little suspicious, Jacquelyn.”
    “It just makes my job all the more difficult,” I mutter underneath my breath.
    “The job market is tight, but you could have done better, Jacquelyn.” He