We were already 25 minutes late for the meeting: the two most important people in its attendance. I scurried to the mirror one last time and tugged my fingers through my hair, trying to make myself look inconspicuous. Xavier brought his arms around my thin waist and kissed my neck. “Let’s bail on the meeting,” he whispered.

I giggled, my brain in a faraway place. “We can’t, Mr. President,” I murmured.

“And why not?” he asked.

My voice was hushed. I spun toward him, my eyes glinting. “Because we still have a single, big problem on our hands.”

Xavier bowed his head. “You mean Jason, don’t you?”

My heart stopped at the mere mention of his name. “I do.”

Xavier wrapped his arm around my waist and spun me back toward the door, almost gruffly. He didn’t answer my concern. Suddenly, we were bursting down the hallway, the Secret Service agents following us at an alarming pace. I knew that we were several hallways, several stairs away from the conference room. I tried my best, during this time, to calm my rushing brain. My eyes continually lifted toward Xavier. But his nose, his mouth arched in such a serious manner. He sniffed. He’d taken his arms from around my waist, and now he walked side by side, him a half stride ahead of me, keeping his eyes on the White House hallway horizon.

When we reached the conference room, Xavier brought his hands up toward the door. He turned toward me and whispered. “Stay outside for five minutes. I’ll warm them up. This way, it will seem that—“

“That we came from different places,” I nodded. “Got it.”

The president nodded. With a curt motion toward his tie, he swept into the room. I heard the great campaign team lift to their feet at his arrival. “Please,” the president said. I could still hear the vibrato of his voice. “Sit. I’m terribly late. Please. Someone update me on the proceedings.”

But already, his voice was too far away, echoing in the great conference room. I turned toward the agents, all of whom held their eyes away from me, as if I were an embarrassment to them. I scurried around the corner, biting my lip. I tried to steady my rushing mind. Camille was fine. She was good. She wouldn’t give us away, as long as we didn’t publicly set out to ruin her life. This affirmed my previous suspicions, when I’d told Xavier not to leave his wife. Not yet. It would have ruined his presidency. He wouldn’t have won the election, certainly.

I checked my watch, noting it had been three minutes. I would rev the meeting forward. We would be constructive, during the time we had left. I righted my shoulders and tapped back toward the door. I gave a snarky look to one of the Secret Service agents. God, they’d never like me. Not after this.

I pushed into the conference room.

Several of the campaign team members righted themselves as I approached the well-lit room. I saw the two girls I’d fired previously. They stood toward the middle, holding notebooks, their smiles gleaming toward me. I gave them both a subtle nod. Ah. Second chances; I knew precisely what they felt like.

Xavier stood at the front of the room, side by side with Jason, who held a baton in his hand. “Ah. So nice of you to join us, Miss Martin,” Jason began. A few people throughout the room chuckled.

I bowed my head, smiling. “Oh, Jason. Your classic jokes are too much for me sometimes.” I winked toward him, making him take a step back. I brought my hands toward the campaign team before me. “Team. We have much to discuss.” I immediately took over the conversation in that moment. Xavier stood a few feet to my right, nearly gleaming at my prowess over the campaign team. In the back of my mind, I knew I was proving it—both to him and myself—that I could champion this team forward. That we could win this war.

I tapped my own baton against the statistics on the board. “The Republicans are creeping up, team. We can’t get lazy.” I brought my hand into a fist and shook it toward them, placing a fire in their hearts. I told them their next moves, their next motivations. “I know that we’ve been neglecting the issue of Israel,” I noted, then, bringing the talk to a serious note. “But we must heighten our approach once more. Tell the population that our sincerest sympathies and allies lie with Israel. Affirm that we will support them, even as we attempt to strengthen ties with other countries in the Middle East.”

Xavier spoke up then. He brought his finger into the air, waiting until I stopped speaking to interject. “That’s right. News sources have latched onto this, questioning our handling of the Middle East. I need your help, team, in order to affirm to the people of America that I stand with Israel.” He pounded his fist against his chest. I stared at his handsome, bearded face, feeling my heart beat with the memory of the pleasure that had occurred between us.

Beside us, I heard someone clear his throat. I spun my head to my left to find Jason before us, his eyes tracing from Xavier to me and then back again. I gulped, sensing that he was about to say something—to reveal us. But he didn’t. He kept his mouth firmly closed, a subtle smirk growing. The fear in my heart was ripping at me, telling me to take care of this loose end, telling me that having Jason on the loose—with all this information at his fingertips—was a serious disaster waiting to happen.

Xavier brought his hands together then, with a loud clap. The campaign team turned their attention toward him, their pencils high in the air. They tapped their erasers onto their lips, their eyes dark.

“That’s it for today, team,” Xavier stated. Such authority, such grandness. “We’ll meet back here tomorrow, yes? And discuss the events of the rest of the afternoon. Go out there. Convince voters that we know what’s right for America.” He brought his fist into the air then. The entire campaign team stood up and brought their hands together in spontaneous applause. I brought my hands together as well, still smelling the heat of his body on my fingertips. I eyed him as he excused himself from the campaign room, darting back into the White House hallway. The day had been a productive one for both of us. We were walking down an even path; a path toward understanding, toward being together for good.

But beside me, Jason tapped his own pencil against the board, alerting my attention once more. All around us, the campaign team was filtering out in their various directions, sweeping to restrooms and their separate desks in the West Wing. He brought his lips toward my ears, and I felt my back shiver—right where it met with my hips.

“Remember to watch yourself, Miss Priss,” he whispered to me, adjusting his belt as it sagged on his overzealous belly. “Remember that someone’s always watching you.”

I felt my smile falter. I cut my teeth out over my lip and brought my eyes low to the ground as Jason passed by me. He clapped his hands loudly, allowing them to echo throughout the campaign room. “YEE-HA, TEAM!” he called over their heads. And several yee-hawed back.

Chapter Three

I brought my hands to my forehead and shook out my displeasure from the previous moment, from hearing Jason’s voice—so icy—in my ears. I lurched my watch to my eyes and noted I still had a few more hours in the White House. To rip myself from the strangeness of the day, I decided to march back to my desk and do serious work.

As I sat in my chair, making countless phone calls and arranging meetings with various members of Congress, I peered around me, feeling a sense of relief, finally, at being away from Jason, from the first lady, Camille, and from Xavier—yes, even Xavier. Here, in my desk, I could pretend that I was a member of the normal, politically-driven society. Only here did I feel like the person I’d been attempting to build, to strive toward for the past decade (since day one of college, of course). It had been an accident that I’d fallen in love at all. The biggest mistake? He was the president. He controlled everything. And his wife controlled him.

But things seemed to be coming together, although I wasn’t completely sure how or why. I certainly hadn’t slaved to create this fantasy—like I’d slaved to get every other position I currently had. Rather: I’d gone with the flow, allowed myself to fall, fall, fall. Was it actually going to work out? Was it actually going to go smoothly?

I pushed myself from my desk that evening and swept back to Rachel’s house, knowing that I’d spend an evening of relaxation, of joy with one of the only people I could trust. I didn’t tell her much about the day’s events. Rather, I allowed her to tell me about her day at work. I allowed her to rant about one of her co-workers, and I made her laugh. Bringing a fresh smile to my friend’s eyes. We drank wine heartily. We cooked a meal together, as well—a frittata, for dinner. We cracked eggs into this great glass bowl, and she whizzed at them with a fork before pouring them over zucchinis, broccolis, sausages, onions—everything cut with such precision. The colors sparkled beneath the well-lit kitchen. Outside, the growing darkness was alerting us: it was nearly winter, it was coming. But in the warmth of her kitchen, we couldn’t care. This was all we needed.

We ate the frittata and drank further into the night. I allowed my mind to glide away from the truth of the White House. I tried not to imagine the first lady and the president’s conversation that evening.

Tags: Claire Adams Romance
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