Dimitri nodded, laughing. “Right? A bit scary when the boss is President of the United States. I suppose we’re united on that front now.” He winked at me and let me into the room, opening the door behind him.
I found myself back in the Oval Office with the commanding president before me. He stood from his desk as I stayed, staring blankly forward. “Mr. President,” I addressed him, politely.
He smiled in a small way and gestured toward the couch in the center of the room. “Please. Make yourself comfortable,” he said. It was a polite gesture, but it felt more like a command.
I sat, obediently. I blinked toward him. “Can I help you with anything?” I asked him coolly, not wanting to seem eager. Truly, however, his entire ego, his beautiful smile, the stunning way he walked toward me—it all made me crazy.
“You did something really incredible back there,” he stated, bringing his hand through his dark hair. “You saved the campaign. On your first day.”
I shrugged lightly, still allowing the compliment to glimmer through me. “It was worth saving.”
He sat across from me, digging his hands into his pockets. “Have lunch with me,” he suddenly said, his eyes still far away.
I swallowed. “Lunch with you?”
He nodded, almost half-heartedly. “I want to thank you for turning the news around, for making today a triumph instead of a disaster. Please. Say you’ll come with me. Just a private lunch downstairs, near the kitchen. You’ll love the room.”
I felt the word come from my lungs so swiftly, like I couldn’t stop it. “Yes.”
And from there, I felt my future forming before me. Like I couldn’t stop it, suddenly. Like it wasn’t mine to create.
Chapter Six
The president led me downstairs. I felt my hands shaking a bit at my side as I walked behind him, almost in his shadow. I’d never been in anyone’s shadow before, but I knew this was my natural place: he was President of the United States. That mansion was his home.
The various staff passed us and nodded to him, not even looking at me. I felt invisible.
He led me through the kitchen, through the bubbling soup pots, the fiery oven. I was amazed at the many workers who were poised over the heat, spinning their spoons wildly over the water. One of the chefs—a man with a white, poufy hat—turned toward me in an instant and winked at me. He pulled back to his work so quickly that I almost didn’t believe I’d seen the entire thing.
Xavier pushed the final doors open and led us into a tiny nook with these incredible windows. The windows were open, allowing the breeze to waft over the perfectly-set table. The white tablecloth seemed to glow in the sunlight.
“Wow,” I couldn’t help but say.
“I always have them make this table up for me when I’m feeling a little low,” he said, pulling the chair out and allowing me to sit. “I always come here to think. And eat, of course. But nearly no one knows this room exists. It’s my secret hideaway, I suppose.”
I nodded, sitting across from him. I couldn’t believe he’d brought me there. I couldn’t think about what to say, and I sputtered, “Where do you see the campaign going over the course of the re-election season?”
I almost wanted to bury my face in my hands. My words lacked so much tact. I’d jumped too far. He wanted to be friendly with me, and I’d stepped on his friendliness with formality. I bit my lip.
But he took it in stride as he splayed the napkin over his lap. “Honestly, I’m open to much of what you stated in your interview. It seems that you have a good way of going about it—about the election. You have enough vision that you could be my competition.”
The waiter came then, and poured us both a small glass of white wine. The president brought his glass toward me, and I tipped my glass to his, offering a slight clink into the world. I shivered once more, sipping the wine.
The president called back to the waiter. “Hey! Grant! Might we start with some of that fine garlic bread Yvonne made last week?”
“Very good, sir,” Grant responded, darting back into the kitchen.
I looked at the president, taking him in. “Anyway. I don’t know what you mean, running for the presidency,” I continued, laughing a bit to myself. “I’m not even eligible at my age.”
He tipped his head to the right, eyeing me serenely. “Ah. Yes. You’re 29, correct?”
I nodded, feeling my face grow hot. It was strange that we were there together, so intimately in the secret room of his mansion.
“And already you are chief of the re-election campaign for the President of the United States. You must feel pride in that, no?”
My face continued to burn as I searched for what to say. “I am very honored to be chosen for this position, sir,” I said, trying to project an air of confidence fitting of my job title.
A stagnation occurred between us, then, as we searched for things to say. The waiter burst back into the room and placed the garlic bread between us. “Enjoy,” he said, winking at me. What was it with all these winks?