Best Friend's Ex Box Set

The Secret Service agent at the exterior of the office didn’t appear to notice him. His eyes still stood forward, never eyeing the man beside him.

“Amanda. I’d love to speak with you when you get a moment,” Xavier stated, his eyes dark.

I took a step away, holding my hand over my heart. It was beating wildly, making me feel faint. I swallowed, searching for words. “Mr. President. I have a good deal to do before I depart for the day.”

But his voice was harsh. “And I’d love to get a better comprehension for it,” he stated. “I need to talk to my campaign manager. And that’s you. Stat.”

I gulped and entered the office, following him inside. His angry words seemed to vibrate in my stomach, making me feel ill with their harshness. Xavier walked away, with his back toward me. He sighed in that arena between the two couches, leaning over his desk with his fingers spread wide on the wood. I stood behind him with my hand to my mouth, feeling such anxiety course through me.

“Mr. President?” I spoke finally, wanting to cut the tension and wanting to make sure he was okay.

He huffed. “Amanda.” He spun around, his eyes dark once more. But they seemed to plead with me, to say something more. “I need to talk to you.”

He took a step forward and grabbed both of my wrists—not too hard, but not softly, either. “I said something to you. Something big. Something that meant something to me.” His eyes were so serious. “And you said nothing.”

My mind searched for the right words to say. I felt that he was acting like a child. But his reasoning for it—the purpose behind this passion—was his true love for me. I bit my lip for a moment, considering. “You—you can’t leave your wife,” I whispered then.

His eyes jolted to the ground. He still held my wrists tightly. “You know that I’m the most powerful man in the world. You know I can just go say the word, and an entire country you’ve never heard of in your life can cease to exist. You know I can do all that. And yet you’re telling me I can’t leave my wife?”

His words came in angry spurts. I tried to remove my wrists from his grasp, but I couldn’t. My eyes looked up to him, searching his face. “You can’t leave her. You know what that will do for us? Nothing. It will do nothing.” My voice was so pained I almost couldn’t recognize it.

He frowned and turned to the side, looking at the painting of George Washington on the side. His face was still seething. “I just want to know if you love me,” he nearly spat. “I want to know that I’m not crazy, that there’s something between us. I’ve been thinking about you non-stop since Sunday. And you disappeared. I was certain you’d never come back.”

My heart quickened. He was asking me if I loved him, and God, it was probably true. It was probably that I did. But I couldn’t let him know of these confused feelings. It wasn’t fair to him. So I swallowed. I cleared my throat. “How do I know? I can’t know. Not yet,” I whispered. I felt my voice crack.

He lowered his eyes. They wouldn’t look at me again, I knew.

Suddenly, a huge rush of regret washed over me. I felt so frightened that if I didn’t say I loved him too, if I didn’t assure him of my feelings, he would never see me again. And in that moment, I knew that wasn’t an option for my happiness. “Baby. I don’t know. But that doesn’t mean—that doesn’t mean we have to give up,” I whispered.

I knew I shouldn’t have. I knew I shouldn’t have handed this over to him, like a peace offering. I swallowed, and his face brightened for just a moment. But then, a thought passed through him once more. “You can’t tell me not to divorce my wife,” he hissed for a moment. “I’ve been so miserable for so long. You can’t tell me not to divorce her. All I’ve wanted—for years and years—is an escape. A love to call my own. And now I have you. And yet, you don’t want this.” He bowed his head subtly.

I shook my head slightly, watching the way his eyebrows chiseled over his eyes. “Baby,” I whispered. I felt the way my throat caught with the words. “I know your feelings. I know it’s frustrating to live in a marriage with someone you don’t care about—someone you can’t care about. But I don’t think it’s a good time to leave her.” I was thinking from a public relations standpoint. And also from a selfish, fearful standpoint. If he left his wife for me at that stage of my career, I’d be nothing. If Monica Lewinsky could have a do-over, she’d surely have done something differently.

“Why not?” he asked me gruffly.

I shook my head. “You’re risking the presidency if you leave her. You know the American people respect you. You know they’d respect your decision—at least in the middle of your term, if you choose to go through with it. However, you’re currently in the middle of a campaign. If you divorce her, now, you won’t win the presidency. No one will trust you to get us through the next several years of office if you can’t even hold down your wife.” I bit down on my lip.

His eyes grew large with anger. But I rubbed at his fingers once more with my thumb, allowing him to ease up on his grip. “It’s okay, Xavier,” I whispered. I remembered the way his dick felt in me, the way he kissed me and made my knees give out beneath me. I closed my eyes—if only for a second—and allowed the passion to drive through me.

He nodded and collapsed back on the couch in the center of the office. The age of the furniture creaked beneath him. He nodded. “All right. All right. I see your point,” he said resolutely. “But it has to happen soon.” His eyes were dark, direct. “I will leave her soon. And we will be together, Amanda. Because I love you. And I know you love me, too.”

I nodded, feeling my stomach jolt into my throat. I felt such unease. But I collapsed on the couch next to him and allowed him to drape his arm over me. I allowed my head to rest against his shoulder, and I felt his heart beating inside his broad rib cage. This was our life: constantly hiding, plotting, driving forward to an unsure future that we could only plan half-heartedly from a distance.

We were making it all up as we went along.

Chapter Two

I went back to Rachel’s house that evening, naturally. She was watching an old made-for-television movie and eating ice cream. She had oversized sweatpants on around her thin waist, and she tapped at the couch beside her, asking me to sit down. I did it, bringing my hands over my stomach. It still quaked from my conversation with the president.

“Can I ask you a question?” I asked Rachel, then. I dipped my own spoon into the ice cream—chocolate mint—and stabbed it into my mouth. The sugary drippings slid down my tongue.

“Shoot,” Rachel told me, nodding.

“Well. I wondered. I wondered if you’d ever been in love,” I said quietly. I felt the pangs of my love for the president—was it love??—coursing through me. I took another bite of ice cream.

She considered my words for a moment. She allowed the ice cream to pass over her tongue. “I think I loved my high school boyfriend. Isn’t that silly?”

I laughed, feeling a bit of joy escalate through my body. “It’s a little silly. You can still feel the love? That’s how you know?” I asked.