Prime Minister (Frisky Beavers #1)

by Ainsley Booth

  I toe off my shoes as soon as I walk in the door. Like at the PMO's office, my security detail stays on the other side. Even when I’m not here, 24 Sussex is always secure, and while there's a complicated security system inside, I've been assured I have relative privacy.

  I toss my suit jacket and briefcase onto a sofa on my way to the kitchen. I’ve been looking forward to last night’s leftover pizza and a beer all day.

  I grab the pizza box along with a bottle of my favourite beer from the fridge and return to the living room.

  Max picks up on the first ring. My mouth is full of pizza, but it doesn’t matter. He just starts talking.

  “That assistant of yours, man. She’s all the fucking awesome. She’s already got me set up with a real estate agent and has agreed to come with me while I look at houses because I’ll need a woman’s perspective.”

  I nearly choke trying to swallow my half-chewed pizza and I wash it down with a quick swig from my beer. “I told you not to hit on my staff.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t hitting. She offered. I accepted.”

  I make it a policy not to meddle, but knowing Beth and her boyfriend have recently split, Max's careless enthusiasm concerns me on many levels.

  He's way more than just a player. He makes me look positively vanilla.

  And it’s not some fling Beth is on the rebound from. She and her boyfriend had already been living together when she came to work for me more than two years ago.

  I don’t know what went wrong. The only reason I even know about the split is because it’s the sort of thing my security team keeps me abreast of, and Lachlan thought I ought to know she was in some emotional turmoil.

  “I’ve never, ever interfered in your social life, so you need to understand just how serious I am. Don’t lead her on. Don’t give her any mixed signals. I’m not saying don’t flirt. Just make sure she doesn’t misunderstand. Okay?”

  “Wow, you’re a bucket of cold water.”

  “I need you to trust that there are reasons and leave it at that.”

  “Understood. So, what were you calling about that couldn’t wait until Friday?”

  And now I’m not so sure this is the time to discuss the insanity of this afternoon. "Nothing. Just had a long day and didn't feel like eating my pizza alone."

  "And this is why I'm moving there."

  I close my eyes and thud my head back against the couch cushions. But I'm grinning as I do it.

  11

  Ellie

  I fling the door to our apartment open and point at my roommate. “I need a dress.”

  Sasha nods like this is a completely normal way to start a conversation. “Start with my closet, or go straight to maxing out the credit card?”

  And the correct answer is yes, Sir.

  I can’t wear one of Sasha’s dresses. If the fundraiser goes anything like I hope it might, I’m going to want to put that dress in a sex museum. Also, I think it violates a number of articles in the Roommate Accord to have sex in someone else’s clothes.

  Not that we’re going to have sex. Necessarily.

  But…

  I lick my lips nervously as I look at my roommate. She knows about the crush. She knows he sent me away from his inner circle and how devastated I was, and she knows about the coffee mug.

  Can I tell her about this?

  At what point can I start to trust that what we’re doing—this slow, seductive dance of looks and words and arcing chemistry—is actually going to lead somewhere? After his visit to my office in Langevin Block…

  Well, if it is going to lead somewhere, then it can stay our secret.

  But if my heart’s going to get broken, I’d really like my roommate to be on guard with ice cream and Doritos and a Heath Ledger movie marathon.

  Luckily after two years, I don’t need to tell her anything. Also, I have the world’s shittiest poker face.

  She squeals. “You have a date.”

  My face crumples. “No.”

  “Oh.”

  “I have a fundraiser.”

  “Oh, Ellie.” She groans and waves me to her room. “Okay, you can pick a dress from my closet. And then we need to have a long, hard talk about unrealistic expectations.”

  I follow her, but my heart is already set on a dress of my own. And I’m irrationally annoyed that she thinks I’m delusional about Gavin. No way am I telling her about the pin and what he said.

  I perch on her bed and she pulls out her three go-to cocktail dresses. Two black, one dark green. They’d all look good on me, although her boobs are bigger than mine, but none of them are strapless, so that’s probably not an issue.

  “Hmm,” I say, and she rolls her eyes.

  “You really want to go shopping?”

  “I…” I blush. “Yes.”

  She blinks twice, clearly processing my stupidity, then nods. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  And that’s why we’re not just roommates, but friends. Because even though she thinks I’m a loon, she’s going to make sure I’m the hottest, sexiest redheaded loon at that fundraiser.

  We don’t bother with the mall. My credit card screams as we head straight for Holt Renfrew, the fanciest department store in Canada, but I trust Sasha.

  An hour later, we’re home again with the perfect dress—a strapless sheath that hugs me like a glove. An open black lace pattern reveals a lot of the champagne satin underneath, and paired with my second most prized shoes, the nude Jimmy Choos, it’ll scream sex to Gavin and look perfectly professional to everyone else.

  I hope.

  I try on the dress with the shoes while Sasha plates up the Pad Thai we picked up for our dinner.

  She whistles at me as I skip out of my room, showing her the two earring options I’ve got on.

  “Left or right?”

  She gives me a carefully appraising look. “Hmm. The dangling ones are hot, but the pearl drops are classier. And I take back any doubting noises I made earlier. He’s going to lose his mind when he sees you in the dress.”

  “It’s classy enough?”

  “Shut. Up. Go take off the fancy clothes, put on your sweatpants like a normal person, and eat this take-out food.”

  I do just that, on the couch, watching a re-run of a fashion reality show that Sasha pretends to hate, but I’ve already mostly lost her to whatever book she’s reading anyway.

  I wonder what Gavin’s having for dinner. He must eat, but then again, I assumed the man slept, and that proved untrue. What would he think of takeout on the couch?

  Is he one of those “food is fuel” workout freaks? I’ve seen the videos of him at the gym. The entire country has. It’s such a refreshing change of pace having a leader who can bench that much weight—and look that good in shorts. And the photos of him kickboxing…they may be saved to my phone.

  I try to think of the last time I saw the inside of a gym. Yoga doesn’t count, and I also haven’t done that in almost a week. Undergrad, probably. Seven years ago?

  “What are you thinking about?”

  “Working out.”

  “Oh!” Her eyes get all big and hopeful. I’m so mean. “Wanna go with me to the gym in the morning?”

  “Nope.” I laugh as I twirl up another forkful of noodles. “I was just thinking about…” Gavin. “The PM. I think he works out a lot.”

  “I read somewhere that he plays hockey. I think any gymming he does is in support of that.”

  “Oh!” I like hockey. I file that tidbit away to research further. “Cool.”

  “So that’s a no to the gym?”

  “I have to be at work first thing in the morning.” Gavin’s giving a tech sector speech tomorrow afternoon that lays another bit of the groundwork for his big speech at the fundraiser. It’s his fourth event like this, and the media is starting to pick up on the hints. Stew expects a lot of calls in the afternoon, which means we need to have everything done in before lunch.

  For some reason, I’m anxious about this. About tomorrow, and the fundraiser. No
t because of Gavin. Something else that I can’t quite put my finger on.

  Sasha takes our empty plates away and I stretch out on the couch, trying to figure out what’s bugging me. Something’s not right.

  But I’m tired and pleasantly full and still on a shopping high about scoring that dress, so I tell myself I’ll give the worry more thought in the morning.

  Before I can convince myself to crawl off to bed, I’ve zonked out on the couch. When I wake up in the middle of the night, I’m covered in a blanket, and Sasha’s tucked my phone beside me.

  12

  Ellie

  In hindsight, I probably should have seen it earlier in the week. Maybe I’m too innocent about the ways of politicos.

  Maybe I was unforgivably distracted after Gavin hand-delivered the invitation—if you can still call it that when your presence is required.

  Either way, I had no clue that Dave the speechwriter was going to turn out to be such a total dingus.

  I use other more colourful language the next morning when, with plenty of time to prime the news channels before the end of day politics wrap up¸ Gavin’s speech for the fundraiser next week is leaked.

  Such a stupid, pointless move.

  Yes, it derails the day. That storm cloud you don’t see rolling in. But once it bursts, it’s done. Everyone gets wet but they dry out, and the cloud has spent itself.

  Dave’s just killed his career for a touch of notoriety.

  Stupid.

  And as I have that thought, I realize that in the five weeks I’ve worked in politics, I’ve used stupid like a thousand times more than in the preceding seven years of academic work.

  Of course everyone is furious. It doesn’t take long for someone from IT to identify that Dave was the person who’d sent the speech out—and used a throwaway Gmail account, but didn’t think twice about the fact that he was using a government computer to do it.

  Total dingus.

  Stew fires him, behind closed doors but loud enough for everyone to hear every last expletive-enhanced word. Then after the writer is escorted out of the building by security, the Chief of Staff stops by my office.

  Fury twists his words and his short instruction to me is so sharp I nearly jump out of my skin. “Write a new speech. He’s going in front of a hostile room now. I want to see it by end of day tomorrow.”

  Okay. I’ll just pretend that I know how to write a political speech. No biggie. I wince as I turn back to my computer.

  Sasha brings me dinner on her way home from the university. I stay until eleven, then Uber home and I’m back again at six, freshly showered—but that’s about it. No makeup, hair twisted in a damp bun on my head.

  I try to imagine what he needs to say about corporate giving that will break through their stony assumptions.

  Midmorning, someone from the communications staff brings me coffee. I make them sit down and listen to what I’ve written. It’s not awful, and they give me some good feedback which I incorporate into the next draft.

  It’s like writing an essay, except I’ve got twenty-four hours instead of four weeks. But the process is the same. Write, write, write, nearly to the end, and then discover what the real point is. Go back and revise.

  I’m flying by midafternoon, grateful that I had stuff to throw in my lunch bag that required zero assembling. Apples, a bagel, a chocolate bar and half a package of cheese strings.

  My diet resembles that of an eight-year-old these days, and I don’t care.

  If I can pull this off, it’s going to be amazing.

  I finally finish it at six. I hit send on the email to Stew before I can second guess myself.

  New speech is attached. Let me know what the PM thinks.

  Thirty seconds later, Stew forwards it to Gavin and copies me.

  You wanted to see this as soon as she was done.

  Well, crap. My heart pounds in my chest. I stare at my inbox, but he doesn’t reply right away.

  When my stomach rumbles, reminding me that the eight-year-old school lunch I brought is long gone, and by the way, it’s dinner time, I grab my bag and dash out for some food.

  And then I come right back to my desk because I’m not going anywhere until he reads it.

  An hour ticks by. I read an academic journal article my advisor sent me. I email the grad studies coordinator about a tuition bill I received earlier in the week—it should have had a small rebate on it because of the leave of absence I took for this internship.

  I watch the clock.

  Another half hour.

  Tick. Tick.

  When his reply pops up, I’m in the middle of watching baby animal videos on YouTube, and the bolded unread email registers in my brain before my eyes catch up.

  There is no better feeling than the warm thrill of attention from a man you have a crush on. Even if he’s unattainable.

  Even if he’s the prime minister.

  I’m hot and cold and aching all over, and it’s just a damn email.

  Hopeless.

  Hands shaking, I click on the message. I’m already smiling like a goofball when I read it.

  Fantastic work. Thank you. If you have a few minutes, I’d like to discuss a few points.

  I look at the email header. Stew isn’t copied on it. My breath stops in my throat.

  Of course. I’m over at Langevin.

  Can he hear how eager I am? If he does, it doesn’t bother him. His reply is instant.

  Good. I have a phone call in five minutes. Come over at nine.

  Here’s the thing. I’m not one of those women that carries a makeup bag. I own makeup, I like it, but it’s at home on my dresser. In my bag, I’ve got a round Blistex pot of lip balm.

  Not sexy.

  I still put some on. Better than nothing. I’m tempted to run to the drugstore, because I’ve got thirty minutes, but no—I’m saving all my foolish dress-up plans for the fundraiser next week.

  I’m wearing a basic black pencil skirt and a boring ivory dress shirt. There is nothing that can be done about that.

  I stop in the washroom and look at myself in the mirror. I pull the clips out of my hair, letting my bun tumble free. Marginally better.

  You’re an idiot. He wants to talk to you about a speech.

  Well, I’d rather be an idiot full of hope and desire than a cynical shrew any day of the week.

  Hair down it is.

  I get over there a few minutes early. His door is closed and Beth is at her desk, packing up for the night.

  “Late night,” I say quietly, not wanting to startle her.

  She glances over at me smoothly. Maybe nothing rattles her. She shrugs. “Some weeks are like that. Yesterday was a bit rough, so we played catch-up all day today.”

  “My roommate thinks the hours are insane.”

  She groans. “So did my boyfriend. Ex-boyfriend, now.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She straightens up. “I’m not. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I don’t want to be with anyone who doesn’t understand that.”

  “Fair enough.”

  She grabs her keys off her desk and slides them into the outer pocket on her bag, giving her desk a last once-over look. “Anyway, I’m off to Byward for a drink. Hope he doesn’t keep you too late tonight. If you want to join us, we’ll be at the Clocktower until eleven, at least.”

  “We?” I’ve been shit at socializing, clearly.

  She lists a few names I recognize.

  “Okay. I might, thanks.”

  She gives me a friendly smile and disappears as an RCMP officer I don’t recognize takes her place at the desk.

  Finally Gavin opens his door. I swear the temperature in the building goes up ten degrees but the security detail doesn’t seem to notice. Exceptionally good at pretending nothing weird is going on here at all.

  Maybe nothing is.

  The first thing I notice is that his tie is missing. And his top button is undone.

  Then I catch his gaze again and my steps falter.
It’s been a long week, but I’m not imagining the way he’s looking at me.

  Be a professional, I tell myself. “The speech works for you?”

  He steps out of my way as I slide past him, then closes his office door behind me. “It’s extraordinary, Ellie.”

  “Thank you.” His praise slides through me like a knife through warm butter and I give him a smile that must make me look like a fangirl. “You have some notes?”

  “A few.” He strides across the room and grabs a sheaf of papers. The speech, I realize. “I prefer to scribble my notes on a hard copy, if you don’t mind.”

  “I don’t, of course.”

  “You’re a deft, clever writer.” He pauses as he hands over his notes. “A few points I want more repetition on. Sometimes you’re too clever for the audience. Don’t be subtle. We’re making a grand statement about how money flows through our political system.”

  “Noted.” I flip through the speech. Quick, dashed-off notes decorate the margins. “I can fix this tonight.”

  He gives me an amused smile. “Sure you’re not one of them?”

  “The politicos?” I laugh and shake my head. “Only for the summer.”

  “And then back to school.”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you looking forward to that?”

  Was that a loaded question on purpose? “I’ll miss this.”

  His lips twist in amusement. “That’s not an answer.”

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “Well? Are you looking forward to returning to the quieter pace of academia?”

  Slowly, shyly, I nod.

  “That wasn’t so hard, was it?” He gestures to the speech. “Can you make those changes tomorrow?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  If I wasn’t watching his face, I would have missed his reaction completely, but the slight shift of his jaw, the parting of his lips as he controls his exhale…and mostly the momentary glitter in his eyes. Definitely the right answer.