Billionaire Baby Daddy

“I’m from Pennsylvania,” I answered him, bringing my fingers through my brunette hair. I felt a bit self-conscious in those moments. I knew I needed to rule the room. But this man—the President of the United States—wasn’t giving me much room to breathe. “Philadelphia.”

He tipped his head to the right. “I’m from L.A., as you probably know. Would it be possible that we arrange a few speeches in the greater L.A. area? I need to make sure I polish my relations with them. Make sure they don’t feel abandoned.”

“Of course,” I said, bringing my pencil back to the paper and writing this down. “We’ll have you make appearances throughout the Midwest, and then—if you’re up for it—I was thinking you could make a sort of YouTube special with a famous comedian. Something to highlight the important issues with your education campaign. What are your thoughts?”

Xavier raised his eyebrow. “Sort of for the younger crowd, huh?”

His masculinity struck me. I swallowed, feeling this unarticulated sense of emotion, of vibrancy course through me. “I suppose so.”

“I suppose at 44 I need to begin catching up with the younger crowd. I was always the youngest, you know. Youngest governor of California. Youngest man in Congress. And now—the youngest president. But I suppose that doesn’t really illustrate itself to the rest of the American people.”

“It’s tough keeping up,” I admitted, trying to joke with him. “I’m already 29.”

“And already interviewing for the position to be my personal re-election organizer? Hmm. Please. Tell me why you—and you alone—fit the role.”

I felt nervous once more, nearly stuttering into the words. “Well. I was very much involved with your first election. I worked closely with your manager—Rick Selman—to create the perfect campaign for you. He will tell you that I contributed many ideas—ideas that ultimately created a fruitful campaign. In many ways, you wouldn’t be sitting in that chair without me.” I raised my left eyebrow toward him, creating a sense of sass that I knew was probably one or two steps over the line.

He brought his hand to his bearded, handsome face. The first president to have a beard in many years; it had created quite a frenzy throughout much of the United States. But honestly, it was stunning.

“You’ve brought up some interesting points. I think I remember you.” He stood then. He swung his long, strong legs out from his body, tapping around to the side of the desk. He leaned on it easily, gazing down at me. I wasn’t sure what to do; his gaze was so penetrating.

“I feel very confident in this role,” I continued then. “You must know that I have the relevant experience, and I can speak to the younger audience as well as traditional voters. I know how to create a campaign that will be even better than the one before.”

He nodded toward me. A tension had risen around us, making me feel so strange. I brought my hand to my ear, bringing my hair behind it. I averted my eyes toward the desk, where I saw a pleasant photo of the president and his beautiful, blonde wife. They were gazing at each other with such passion. I wondered what their actual relationship was like. I knew that often, during the most previous campaign, the men and women on the campaign trail with me had mentioned that she was mean, always making sly remarks about the women on the team. She was jealous, sure. And maybe she should have been. The women on the campaign team were young and vibrant, swinging around the soon-to-be president with fine, 20-year-old asses and breasts, without a thought of the soon-to-be first lady. Why would anyone think of her? Why should we care what she thinks of us?

I cleared my throat, trying to slice through the tension and still create a good interview for myself. “How is the first lady?” I asked him.

He tipped his head to the right, looking at me curiously. “She’s wonderful, thank you for asking.” His tone had switched. Before, it had been almost intimate, talking to me like we’d been friends for ages. But now: his voice was dominant, presidential. He removed himself from the side of the desk and collapsed into his chair once more, picking up his pen. He began making notes on a white piece of paper before him. He didn’t say anything or glance in my direction.

The silence stretched. I felt so strange. Was I supposed to leave? “So. I have a great deal of experience, and working as lead of your next campaign team would be a supreme pleasure,” I muttered. I stood from my chair, realizing that he’d lost interest in me. “Have a good afternoon.” I then spun around, back toward the door that camouflaged itself into the wall.

Still, only the scratches from his pen were brought back to my ear. I shuddered.

The door opened and I stepped into the hallway, where I found Dimitri holding the door knob and nodding toward me. I didn’t realize that I was visibly shaking. Dimitri closed the door and placed his hand on the small of my back. “You okay?” he whispered, jostling his microphone from his face for a moment.

I nodded, still feeling the waves of panic as they rushed over me. “Of course,” I whispered. “Now get me the hell out of here!”

Dimitri laughed and led me back down that illustrious stairwell, back into the air. I felt unsteady the entire way down those stairs. I grasped on his arm in the free air, looking up at the sky. “That was rough,” I confided him. “I don’t think I got it.” I hadn’t ever felt that way before—that I’d completely failed at something. Every word I’d said in the beginning had felt perfectly orchestrated. I’d felt like I was on track until—until I’d felt something between us. Something that I couldn’t readily speak about.

“I’m sure it went better than you think,” Dimitri said, nearly laughing.

But I shook my head vehemently. “No, Dimitri. No. But thanks for saying so. You’re a good friend.” I said these words to him and watched as his eyes winced at the word—friend. But I couldn’t be anything else to him.

“We should get coffee sometime, Amanda,” he said then. His words were broad and vague. “As friends, of course.”

I nodded, stepping back from him. I smiled. I didn’t have many friends, and I think he knew that. “We’re both married to our work, aren’t we?” I asked him.

“I don’t see how the president can have a wife; I don’t even have time to watch football,” Dimitri said.

I laughed appreciatively. I reached into my pocket and grabbed my phone, making a quick call for a taxi. “You’ll be around?” I asked him as I hung up the phone.

Dimitri nodded. “You know I’m always around.”

The taxi arrived quickly. I leaped into the yellow cab and we revved toward my home in Trinidad. I folded my hands in my lap, still feeling the shakes coursing through me. I tried to steady my head, to tell myself it was all going to be fine—it was all going to be fine. I would keep my job with Carlman; I’d work my way up steadily. So, I didn’t get the job.

So what?

Chapter Three