Billionaire Baby Daddy

“What have you been up to?” he asked.

I flashed him a bright smile. “I’ve been working down the Hill, beneath Congressman Carlman. He actually encouraged me to apply for the position.”

“You’ve made a name for yourself in D.C.,” Dimitri said.

He led me up the steps that curled so perfectly into the ethers. I thought of Abraham Lincoln, of Kennedy—of all of them climbing these same steps. I shivered, knowing I was entering a sacred home.

He led me down the wide hallway, and I gazed at the many paintings and at the textured blue wallpaper. I felt my heart beating so fast in my chest. I felt like I was entering a dream world—probably because it was a world I had dreamed of so much.

Finally, we reached it: the Oval Office. I took a deep breath and turned toward Dimitri. His dark hair and eyes were so stark in the strange hallway, this Secret Service agent who’d actually joked with me throughout. Back then, Xavier Callaway had been a congressman with only a bodyguard named Dimitri. When Xavier had become the president, he’d brought his man with him.

“It’s great that you work here now,” I said to him, still uncertain about entering this terrifying place.

Dimitri nodded. “The president is a good man. And I know I’ll see you around,” he whispered, bringing his hand toward the door and spinning the knob. I was going in; my stomach dropped.

I swallowed slowly and brought my heels forward. I held my chin high, knowing that I could rule a room—perhaps even that room. I knew that in all my past interviews, in all my past triumphs, I’d won over everyone I’d encountered. That was all I needed: full control of the room.

But how was I supposed to do that when I was meant to have full control over the goddamned President of the United States?

Chapter Two

Behind me, I heard Dimitri close the door. I knew he would remain on post outside the door. I wondered if he could hear anything—if he knew any of the intimate secrets of the presidency. Surely, being around President Callaway so often suited you with a world of gossip—gossip, I knew, that Dimitri would never release.

Never in a million years.

The light swept in from those familiar, three grand windows behind the desk. I oriented myself toward the sunshine, smiling with as much confidence as I could manage. “Hello, Mr. President,” I called to him.

Xavier Callaway stood up from his desk, a pen still in his hand. He was alone, which was unexpected. So often, I’d seen him in the midst of swarms of government employees, of voters. But never by himself. Alone, he looked different, more striking somehow. I breathed an easy sigh, unsure of what to say next. I tried to rev my brain, to propel myself into the interview. I needed to be succinct and professional. I needed to allow him to understand that I knew what I was doing.

I tapped forward and reached my hand across the desk, shaking hands firmly—like a man. Something about his grip made me jump in my skin, but I didn’t allow him to see it. “Thank you for seeing me today,” I stated, nodding.

The president brought his hands out. “Well, I certainly want to hear your ideas about the re-election,” he said. His voice was so powerful, nearly echoing from the grand room.

I tried to keep myself from peering around me, eyeing everything in the place—the desk before me, the history draped in every corner. I sat in the chair, bringing my portfolio up to my knees. The president sat across from me and folded his hands beneath his chin, gazing at me with dark, penetrating eyes. I felt something stirring in me.

“Well. What are your ideas for the re-election campaign?” the president finally asked, cutting through the tension between us. Straight to the point.

I cleared my throat, realizing I had forgotten to speak. “I’ve prepared an essential list of the various places throughout Indiana, Ohio, and Illinois we must visit for the upcoming re-election. Thinking we’ll prepare speeches about your basis in education during the upcoming four years, and we’ll need to quell everyone’s belief that you’re raising taxes.”

“But I plan to raise taxes,” the president said, a smile creeping over his face.

I tapped my pencil against my chin, catching myself matching his smile. “It’s not good for a re-election speech,” I said.

The president brought his fingers together in front of his face. “You’re the expert,” he laughed.

I continued on, listing out all my preparations for the following few months. “I know that your la

st campaign manager had you hit these states heavy, but they’ve been some of your greatest supporters throughout your presidency. I say we hit the big cities, but we don’t mess around with any of the smaller ones.”

“Here in California, Washington, and Oregon?” he asked me, tracing the states on the map I showed him with a long, firm finger. I quivered, leaning towards him.

“Yes, those states. What do you think?”

He blinked up at me. “Where is it you’re from, Miss—“

“Amanda. Amanda Martin,” I finally said, sort of annoyed with him for not knowing my name, even as we conducted the interview together.

“Amanda. Miss Martin. My apologies. Where is it you’re from?”