All I Want is You_A Second Chance Romance

by Carter Blake

  Checking for bugs maybe? Do they do that?

  I don’t know. Maybe I just watch too much Lifetime shows.

  He opens up my tiny hallway linen closet and leans in, poking his head around.

  What’s he looking for in there, the freaking boogieman?

  I’m fidgeting with my hands as another man walks in. Together, they check all the crevices and rooms, opening and closing doors while I’m standing here, stewing in my own thoughts.

  Alright, no big deal really. So what if Henry, the President of the United States, is going to be in my apartment? It’s not like I’ve been obsessing over him for the past six years or like we have some weird history, right?

  Who am I kidding? The man who I stupidly shared an impulsive kiss with right after the election results were in, who then completely rejected me and shunned me, is now the President and is going to be in my apartment.

  He’s only the reason I had gotten so deep into politics and had chosen the career that I did.

  Relax. No reason to panic. Fuck.

  The two men conclude their search and nod to the third man who is standing in my doorway. He mutters something into what I presume is a mouthpiece before he stands to the side, allowing yet another man into my apartment, followed by Henry.

  The President of the United fucking States of America.

  I’m overreacting. He’s got a million other things on his plate—like running a country—and the last thing on his mind is what happened between us years ago, not that anything came of it.

  I’m just being obsessive. I doubt he even remembers me.

  My name is just another on a long list, and I happen to have the best shot at the job. That’s all.

  He walks through my door and goes straight for me, lighting up the room with that million-dollar, campaign-winning smile of his. He reaches a hand out and takes mine into his, shaking it and grinning at me as he spoke.

  “Beatrice Barlow,” he says with a smile. “It’s been a long time.”

  Well, so much for him not remembering me.

  I shake his hand and beam back at him, nodding as I reply.

  “Just a couple of years. I’m sure you’ve been busy, Mr President.”

  He laughs and nods back, still holding my hand.

  “I think the last time I saw you, I was still just Henry to you, wasn’t I?”

  I smile. “Campaign night, if I remember correctly.”

  I see the corners of his lips turn upward with a hint of a smirk, and he takes his hand from mine, eyeing me up.

  Why does he have to be so damn handsome?

  He takes a breath and sighs, interlacing his fingers and smiling at me as he speaks.

  “Anyway, I wanted to congratulate you on getting the position. Your résumé was...ah...very impressive.”

  I can feel my cheeks flush, and I do my best to stay calm and to force a smile, very much aware that there are several eyes on me.

  “I considered listing you as a professional reference,” I joke, “but it seemed redundant. I do really appreciate the opportunity, Hen—Mr. President. I hope I can live up to your expectations.”

  “I just hope you know what you’re getting yourself into. Being the White House biographer, you’ll always be on call, you know. I might need you to be available at the drop of a hat. And you’ll be spending an awful lot of time with me, sometimes at some pretty odd hours. I hope that’s not an issue.”

  He chuckles, and an eyebrow cocks up, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips again, and I take a deep breath, steeling my nerves away. I offer him a warm smile as I speak and try my best to keep my tone even.

  “Of course, Mr. President. I look forward to it.”

  “Please, Bea, call me Henry. And one more thing, I’d like you to move in to the White House. As charming as your apartment is...”

  I feel the tension in the room as my heart thuds in my chest and my breath catches in my throat, the shock of his words hitting me like a brick wall.

  Did he just ask me to move in with him?

  I mentally scold my stupidity and take a deep breath.

  Of course, he doesn’t want me to move in with him. He wants me in the White House, so I’m available at all hours.

  Still, not a great idea right now, and I want my independence from this. I need some sort of separation from my job, right?

  “Thank you, Mr. President—Henry—but I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass. I still very much want the job, but I want to stay in my charming apartment.”

  He looks at me like he’s trying to read between the lines.

  He’s a smart man, for a politician.

  “Of course,” he allows.

  He looked around my place with a small smile forming on his lips and gestures to the man on his right.

  “In that case, I’d like you to come in tomorrow and speak with this gentleman here, and he’ll get things started for you. We’ll get your badge done up, get the process rolling to give you the appropriate security clearance, and we’ll get you a tour.”

  I smile at the man, who simply nods in acknowledgment.

  “We’ll make sure to do things quickly but gradually. That way, we can get you transitioned into your new role, giving you enough time to tie up any loose ends with the D.C. Digest.”

  Tomorrow? Wow, things really are moving fast. I’m going to have to explain to Fiona that I’ll be leaving almost immediately and that my projects need to be wrapped up.

  She’s my boss, but she’s also a friend, so I’m sure she’ll understand.

  I grin at him and nod my head enthusiastically, practically vibrating in my own skin. I’m so excited and nervous.

  “That sounds excellent! Again, thank you so much for this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

  “I’m sure you won’t. I better get back, but I’ll be seeing you soon enough, Miss Barlow.”

  With that, he turns and leaves my apartment, his entourage of security following suit and closing my door with a thud.

  I release the breath that I didn’t even realize I was holding and flop down onto my couch, my mind reeling with what just happened.

  I’m the new White House biographer, the President was in my apartment, and I start tomorrow.

  The gravity of the situation finally hits me, and I squeal with excitement, grabbing a pillow and burying my face into it so my neighbors don’t think I’m some crazy person wailing in her apartment.

  I can’t believe I’m going to work in the White House. I grab my cell phone and dial my mom’s number and greet her excitedly when she answers.

  “So, Mom, you’ll never guess who was just in my apartment.”

  Henry

  I’m led down to the car by the security team, and I’m thankful for the silence once the door is closed, shutting out all of the noise from outside.

  A member of my security team who is seated next to me turns and speaks, his tone firm.

  “Do we need to make any stops before we head back to the White House, Mr President?”

  It’s more of a courtesy that he asked than anything, not really an offer to stop. Sure, if I demand it, they would, but that would mean setting up a perimeter, securing the area, diverting traffic, etc.

  It’s not like I can just pop in to a 7-Eleven for a Diet Coke.

  “No, thank you. Back to the White House is fine.”

  He relays the instructions to the driver, and our motorcade takes off, heading back to the White House to finish up for the evening. I have a million and ten things to do before I could turn in for the night, and making the visit to Beatrice’s apartment has set me back.

  Don’t get me wrong, I’ve wanted to do it, and I’m glad I did, but it definitely could have gone better. Or, rather, I could have handled it better.

  I sigh and lean back in my seat, reflecting on how the impromptu meeting with Beatrice had gone and how foolish I must have sounded to her.

  Asking her to move in to the goddamned White House? What was I thinking?


  Actually, I know the answer. I want her to be easily accessible at all times. The presidential and professional part of my mind wants me to believe that it’s for work purposes, but really, I just want her to be close.

  Walking into her apartment and seeing her standing there have woken something up inside of me that has been pushed back for years. All the memories of working with her on my campaign came flooding back—along with the attraction.

  The electricity between us and the connection we shared all those years ago are just under the surface, threatening to break through as soon as there’s a chance. I felt it as soon as I shook her hand and she smiled at me with those big brown eyes.

  There’s an obvious physical attraction. Sure, she’s a gorgeous woman. It isn’t just that, though.

  She’s one of the hardest workers I’ve known, and if I’m being honest, I don’t think my campaign would have been successful without her.

  I remember wanting her then, and she had made it clear that the feelings were reciprocated, but there was only one thing I wanted more than her: the presidency.

  During that time, there was no way that I’d be able to win the election if I’d taken up with her, though. Sure, we were technically both consenting adults. But a presidential candidate getting involved with a young campaign aide?

  It was the perfect recipe for a scandal, and I just couldn’t risk it at that time. I haven’t been able to get her out of my head since.

  I smirk as I recall seeing her name on the list of candidates for the White House biographer. You bet I picked her. No one else stood a chance.

  Now, though...

  A relationship with her could work.

  I’m no longer a newly elected senator running my campaign for the presidency. I’m the President of the United States.

  She’s no longer a young college student working on my campaign. She’s a successful journalist with quite a bit of impressive work under her belt already, and she’s made her own way.

  Her success isn’t tied to me or the presidency. She’s got a fair amount of pull within her own field, and we’re older now, so the age difference wouldn’t be such a big deal to critics.

  Between pursuing her back then and pursuing her now, waiting was definitely the better choice. We’ve both got our own successes and experiences, and neither of us has relied on the other to get there.

  She’s grown into a very successful woman, and she’s done it all by herself, without my help or influence. I have definitely made the right choice there.

  Still, though, asking her to coffee or dinner is one thing, but asking her to move in to the White House? God, I’m an idiot sometimes.

  I look out the window and try to focus on my tasks for the rest of the night. I’ve got briefings to go over and calls to make. I still want to meet with my Chief of Staff, and I’m sure there’s a whole other slew of things I’m not even aware of yet.

  Still, even with all of those on my mind, I’m still not able to shake my thoughts of her—of how happy I am that she’s going to be on my team again, but also of how frustrated I am at myself for handling it the way I did.

  Showing up to her apartment? Inviting her to live in the White House?

  Presidents don’t do that.

  Obsessive teenage boys do.

  I cringe as I once again see the expression on her face flashing through my mind when I asked her, how she froze and politely declined.

  That must have been how she felt when I rejected her on Campaign Night. Fuck.

  We pull in to the secured driveway, and I still can’t keep my mind occupied on anything other than her, and I feel a sense of foreboding dread as I look up at the White House.

  Home sweet home...where the minute I walk through that door, I’ll be bombarded with a thousand things that I have absolutely no desire or gumption to do right now.

  It’s made very clear to me by my wandering thoughts and inability to focus on anything important that I’m not going to get much done and that I need to work out some of this frustration. I turn to the Secret Service agent sitting next to me and propose something different, my voice hopeful.

  “How do you feel about running?”

  He looks at me, his face a mixture of perplexed confusion and apprehension at my unusual question.

  “Uh, running, Mr President?”

  I laugh and roll my eyes, raising my brows as I reply back to him.

  “Yes, running. You know, the repetitive motion of putting one foot in front of the other, usually at a higher speed than walking? Running.”

  He looks at me and nods, the hint of a smile threatening to break through the stone-faced façade he had going. Wouldn’t kill him to smile every now and then, would it?

  “I used to run track in high school, Mr President. I actually enjoy it quite a bit. Why do you ask?”

  Oh, perfect! This means he’s probably competitive, and he’ll give me a run for my money.

  Run for my money, hah! I’m hilarious.

  “Well, I’d like to go for a run and was wondering if you’d like to join me. I need to blow off some steam and running’s a good way to do that.”

  I watch as he nods and goes to speak to another security team member but stops, his gaze whipping back to me before he does.

  “Is this a run around the White House grounds? Or do you want to go somewhere else? If you’d like to run at another location, we can, but it’ll take some time to—”

  I cut him off with a wave of my hand, shaking my head as I speak.

  “No, no need for that. A run around the grounds is fine.”

  He nods and lets the security team know that we’ll be running along the track and to alert the rest of the staff of our whereabouts.

  The car pulls up, and I step out, anxious to get on the track and clear my head. The better focus I have, the better tomorrow will go.

  Beatrice

  “Holy shit.” I whisper leaning against my door after locking it with Henry Thatcher and two of his Secret Service men on the other side.

  “Holy shit.” I repeat a louder while feeling a rush of emotions attack me; weakening my knees and causing my hands to tremble. I tightly close my eyes and whisper the words one final time, expecting to be in a completely different situation when I open them again.

  To my non-surprise, nothing changes.

  I am going to be working closely with Henry Silas Thatcher: The man I’ve wanted to dip in honey and lick clean ever since our first kiss six years ago.

  I shouldn’t be so shocked. I mean, I’m fully qualified to be a White House biographer, but I honestly didn’t think this moment would come. Henry totally ghosted me after he’d won a seat in the U.S. Senate.

  Henry. Ugh! Sexy ass Henry! Does he expect me to call him ‘Mr President’ like we hadn’t shared a bond strong enough to lead to the passionate kiss that flipped my world upside down?

  I hit the back of my head against the door, frowning in frustration.

  I’ve pictured him bending me over the desk in the Oval Office, hungrily pulling my skirt over my waist, and fucking me with the aggression of a lion. He’d cover my mouth with his hand to keep my moans from escaping while he pushed his giant cock deeper into me.

  If I could only be so lucky.

  Duke gently bumps my leg with his head and looks up at me with a fretful expression in his eyes. I notice I’ve been standing against the door talking to myself much longer than what is socially acceptable, even by my dog’s standards.

  I squat down so that our faces are level. Squeezing his cheeks, I tell him I’m losing my mind. Call me crazy, but I think he agrees.

  “Come on, boy. We deserve a little indulgence.” Duke and I walk to the kitchen where I toss him one of his new gourmet doggy treats, and I pour myself a glass of champagne.

  In the living room, I plop onto my navy blue couch, releasing an exasperated sigh on the way down. I sink into the cushions and curl up under the plush throw blanket.

  Duke gently sets his head in my lap
while I take my first sip of champagne and scroll for Fiona’s number in my iPhone’s recent call history.

  I remember how nervous I was the day I told her I’d applied for the White House biographer position. I coyly sat in one of the guest chairs across the cherry wood desk in her office with my hands folded in my lap.

  I could hardly look directly into her eyes. I felt like a rebellious teenager asking her mother to bail her out of jail or something.

  When I finally told her about my application, she was ecstatic. I hadn’t seen her so happy since her son, Tommy, scored the winning touchdown at his high school’s championship football game the year before.

  Her number is in between Lee’s Chinese Carry-Out and Duke’s vet in my recent calls list.

  I need to get a life.

  “Fiona Lawson.” She answers on the first ring.

  “Geez, why so formal?” I ask.

  “Oh, Bea, darling!” She replies in a silly, fake British accent. “I couldn’t see who was calling. I answered on my Bluetooth. I don’t know where the hell that damned phone is.”

  “What else is new?” I sarcastically grunt.

  “Yea, yea. What’s up?”

  “Ha. Let’s meet for a drink. I’ve got something to tell you.”

  “Like I need an excuse to drink!” she laughs. “Alright, meet me at Cooper’s in half an hour.”

  Fiona walks into our favorite bar, Cooper’s Place, 45 minutes after we hung up.

  “I see you’re late as usual.”

  Fiona shrugs and takes a seat across from me at the wooden high top table.

  Tony, the 30-something bartender who gives off serious Michael B. Jordan vibes approaches our table with his usual Cheshire smile, a sign that he’d gotten some young, hot girl’s number.

  “Hey, ladies! You want your usual?” His baritone as smooth as ever.

  “Absolutely. Thank you, Tony.” Fiona replied.

  She directs her attention to me, “What’s your news?”

  “The short version is, you are looking at the new White House biographer!”

  “Beatrice, that’s fucking amazing!” She exclaims, jumping from her bar stool and pulling me into a hug.