by Gage Grayson
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.”
Chapter 6
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.
Chapter 7
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.
“Okay. Okay. Calm down, people are watching us!” I whisper yell.
“Alright.” She sits down with a childish pout.
“One Manhattan and one Long Island Iced Tea. Anything else I can get you, ladies?” Thankfully, Fiona chills out with Tony around.
“We’re good, Tony. Thank you.”
I squeeze lemon into my Long Island and take a sip before telling Fiona more about my visit from the fucking President of the United States; or as I like to think of him, The President of Unbelievable Sex.
Fiona and I agree Henry’s asking me to move into the White House for the job was really weird. But hey, I wouldn’t mind living with him as the wife he fucks like a mistress.
Of course, Fiona’s advice was, “Don’t shit where you eat, Beatrice. This is a once-in-a-lifetime career opportunity. Please don’t be one of those idiot girls who blows her shot by sleeping with the boss.”
“Yea, but things with me and Henry are differ—“
“Ugh, don’t even.” Fiona’s voice suddenly has more bass in it. “This shit never ends well for the women involved. C’mon, you know how politics work.”
I break eye contact with Fiona and signal Tony to bring me another drink. He nods and excuses himself from the young chippy he’d been flirting with.
“You’re smart, Beatrice. I’m hard on you ‘cause I know you can do better.”
I think it’s best to switch gears before I say something I‘ll regret. But, the truth is, Fiona doesn’t know the Henry I know.
She didn’t feel the heat I felt when he came to my apartment tonight. There’s something between Henry and I. Something that didn’t die over the 6 years we spent apart, and if that isn’t worth exploring, I don’t know what the hell is.
When Tony set my second and final Long Island in front of me, I proceeded to tell Fiona about tomorrow’s plans.
“I will be at the White House for part of the day to pick up my badge and get acclimated. Afterwards, I’ll come to the office.”
She doesn’t acknowledge the topic change. She just nods.
“I‘ll finish my high priority projects myself and delegate the remainder among the staff. I think Henry, Mark and Alice will be able to handle things.”
“Ok, that sounds good. So, you will be phasing out of your position before jumping completely into your work at the White House?”
“Yes.” I say with a smile, hoping to break the tension.
Fiona returns the smile and says, “Drinks are on me tonight. Congratulations, Bea.”
We chit chat about home life and beauty trends for a while until I finish my drink. Fiona decides it’s getting late and we should head home.
I’m feeling a nice buzz during the Uber ride back home and foolishly allow myself to think about how sexy Henry looked standing in my apartment in his designer suit.
Ugh, that man.
When I get home, Duke is waiting at the door for me. “What did he really mean when he asked me to move in?” I ask. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have an answer for me.
After throwing my jacket and purse down on the couch, I begin to walk to my bedroom. “Alright, Bud. Tomorrow is gonna be a busy day, and I’ve gotta look good for Mr President.”
I look back at Duke with half a smile, “Help me pick out an outfit.”
He happily follows me to my closet wagging his tail along the way.
Chapter 8
Beatrice
I’m standing at the security checkpoint while an officer checks my ID and my badge, looking for my name on the approved list in his database.
He keeps looking at the screen, then back at me, and it feels like I’ve been standing here forever.
Is something go wrong with my pass? Frantic thoughts are running through my head as I stand there with my hands fidgeting, glancing around at everyone else waiting to go through the checkpoint.
Just when I feel like my nerves are about to make my head explode, he hands my ID back to me and nods.
“Thank you, Miss Barlow. Have a nice day.”
He waves me through, and I exhale softly and take a breath, allowing my heart to stop pounding in my chest and my breathing to go back to normal.
Why am I so worried? Not only did I get this kick-ass job, but the president himself came to my apartment to congratulate me. Of course, my security permissions would go through. The guy just didn’t recognize me, being that I’m a new employee.
He just took a moment to be sure—just doing his job.
Thankfully, by the time I get completely through the checkpoint and into the main area, I’ve calmed myself down, because I can see a woman coming right for me, hand outstretched.
She’s tall, stunning, incredibly well put together—and she practically oozes confidence. I know who she is before she says her name; she’s a pretty big deal around here.
I put on my best smile and take her hand, nodding as she introduces herself to me.
“Hi! You must be Miss Harlow. I’m Hope Olivier, White House Communications Director.”
She gives me a warm smile and squeezes my hand, and I return the gesture.
“Barlow, actually. It’s a pleasure.”
Hope Olivier, if you ask anyone worth their salt, is a legend in the White House. She’s the owner of a crisis management firm here in D.C., and she gets stuff done…even if she’s got my name wrong.
Her work is more behind the scenes than it is up in the front lines, so to speak, and she leaves most of the credit and spotlight to other workers. However, everyone will tell you that without Hope, a lot of important things would fall through the cracks. She’s sort of an unsung hero.
She’s one of the women I look up to, but I can’t help but be a little envious of her talents, even maybe a little intimated…okay, more than a little.
Not only does she get everything done, and get it done right, but she does it all while looking like a total bombshell. Not to mention the fact that she takes no shit from anybody, and the entire staff respects her. There’s not a single problem in D.C. that Hope can’t fix, and everyone in the White House knows it.
It’s probably why she’s so well liked. It’s hard to hate someone who can solve any problem you throw at her and make you look good in the process, even if you’re the one who screwed it up in the first place.
If I can ever be half as good as Hope Olivier is, then I’m set.