President Daddy (Dark Daddies 4)

1

Maggie

He sits behind the Resolute desk like a general, hands clasped in front of him, handsome face smiling slightly.

I can feel myself tremble. I’ve never been this close to the President before, and it hits me just how handsome he is.

I mean, I knew he was hot. The media loves to go on and on about how attractive our new President is. He’s only forty-five, and he’s the first single man to win the office, although he is a widower.

People can’t help but make jokes. He’s the most eligible bachelor, way too hot to be single, all that stuff. I mean, it’s crass, but it’s totally right.

Dark hair speckled with gray and perfectly styled. Light blue eyes that look almost gray. His chin and cheeks are covered in perfect stubble. His lips are full. His jaw is square. The man looks like more a super model than the leader of the free world.

And yet here he is, smiling at me. I’m totally freaking awestruck.

I’d only ever seen him on TV. He’s hot on TV, but in person…

He’s stunning.

It’s freaking terrifying.

“Are you okay?” he asks in that freaking voice of his.

Low, rumbling, almost sultry.

I clear my throat. “Uh, yes, sir. I’m fine, sir. Just gathering myself. sir.”

He laughs softly and glances to his left. His chief of staff, Charles Gray, smiles wryly. Charles is older than the President, wrinkled but stock-straight, the perfect soldier.

“I’m not sure I got that, Charles,” the President says. “Did she call me sir?”

“I think so, sir,” he says, grinning.

I cough again as the President laughs. “Relax,” he says to me. I glance at my boss, who’s smiling tightly, but I can tell he’s about to have a freaking seizure.

“Okay, sorry, sir,” I say.

“Listen, please, call me Adam. That’ll help you relax.”

“Thank you, sir.” I cough. “I mean, Adam.”

He grins. “Go ahead. Give me the numbers.”

I take a deep breath. “Yes, sir. I mean, Adam. We’ve been poring through the data, and I think you’ll find it interesting.”

I run through the data, starting with the most recent polls. I work for the President’s personal polling staff, and I’ve been charged with running surveys for him. I’m supposed to find out what the American people think about every topic imaginable, from birth control to fixing roads.

Which is easier said than done, of course. America is freaking huge and freaking diverse, but it’s my job to try and distill it all into something easily digestible.

President Clark runs under one simple idea: he’s going to do what people want him to do.

He’s not beholden to special interests. He’s independently wealthy and isn’t interested in getting richer, so he’s going to do whatever he can to help average people, not big corporations or other rich people. He wants to bring American manufacturing back, help raise up the middle class, get people out of poverty.

That’s all nice and pretty and whatever. But he can only do any of that if he actually knows how people want him to do it.

As I get halfway through my numbers, he sighs and glances at Charles. He raises a hand, interrupting me. “Maggie, right?” he asks.

I nod. “Yes, sir.”

“Listen, can we have the room?” He looks around at the man standing in the corner, at the Secret Service agents, and at Charles and Roger.

I hesitate, start moving, but he calls my name. “Not you,” he says as the room clears. “You stay.”

My heart beats faster. President Clark gets up from behind the desk and comes around toward me.

“Okay, sir,” I say.

He winces. “Please, call me Adam. Especially now that we’re alone. I hate that “sir” stuff, it’s so… clumsy.”

“I know what you mean,” I say.

“Do you?” He arches an eyebrow and grins.

“I hate calling people ‘sir.’ Always feels so awkward.”

“Right? It’s an antiquated thing. Nobody does it anymore.” He walks over to the couches and gestures at the one across from him. “Take a seat, Maggie.”

I sit down across from him. He sighs as he gets comfortable.

I fidget nervously as he watches me. I’m afraid I just screwed this up badly, and he’s about to fire me. Frankly, I’m freaking terrified.

I’ve never done this before. I’m twenty-two, the youngest person on the polling staff, and I barely feel like I belong.

“Do you know how important you are?” he asks me finally.

I blink. “Uh, no,” I admit. “I’m just a pollster.”

He laughs. “But an important one. I used to read your blog.”

That surprises the hell out of me. “Are you serious?”

“Sure. I loved Accidentally Serious. Some of the best political data journalism I’ve ever read. It almost made the numbers seems interesting.”

I shake my head, totally shocked. I used to write a popular blog about political science using strictly data-focused ideas. I looked at the facts, at the numbers and the figures, and I dissected what worked and what didn’t.