The truth was, Ginny’s “friend” was a politician. And they weren’t anything close to “friends.” They were enemies, if anything.

The sleazebag had caught her eye at a rally she was covering one afternoon. Several weeks passed and he finally called the number she had slipped him. They chatted, he flirted with a voice dripping with pure suave and she was sure that he was hooked.

Of course, the dapper, charming, middle-aged man had absolutely no idea.

Finally, after what seemed like ages, he entered the restaurant. Walking with a cocky jaunt in his step, he approached Ginny. She noticed he was not wearing his wedding band.

Silently, he slid into the booth, cozying up next to her. He was oozing that unmistakable air of arrogance; flashing that cheap, ultra-white, shit-eating grin. Within moments, he began name dropping with more frequency and gusto than the Cambodian Incursion.

Telling her about his luncheon that afternoon, he thought she was simply enamored.

Ginny’s fabulous idea was set into motion.