Billionaire's Amnesia: A Standalone Novel (An Alpha Billionaire Romance Love Story) (Billionaires - Book #9)

by Claire Adams

  He smiled in a small way and gestured toward the couch in the center of the room. “Please. Make yourself comfortable,” he said. It was a polite gesture, but it felt more like a command.

  I sat, obediently. I blinked toward him. “Can I help you with anything?” I asked him coolly, not wanting to seem eager. Truly, however, his entire ego, his beautiful smile, the stunning way he walked toward me—it all made me crazy.

  “You did something really incredible back there,” he stated, bringing his hand through his dark hair. “You saved the campaign. On your first day.”

  I shrugged lightly, still allowing the compliment to glimmer through me. “It was worth saving.”

  He sat across from me, digging his hands into his pockets. “Have lunch with me,” he suddenly said, his eyes still far away.

  I swallowed. “Lunch with you?”

  He nodded, almost half-heartedly. “I want to thank you for turning the news around, for making today a triumph instead of a disaster. Please. Say you’ll come with me. Just a private lunch downstairs, near the kitchen. You’ll love the room.”

  I felt the word come from my lungs so swiftly, like I couldn’t stop it. “Yes.”

  And from there, I felt my future forming before me. Like I couldn’t stop it, suddenly. Like it wasn’t mine to create.

  Chapter Six

  The president led me downstairs. I felt my hands shaking a bit at my side as I walked behind him, almost in his shadow. I’d never been in anyone’s shadow before, but I knew this was my natural place: he was President of the United States. That mansion was his home.

  The various staff passed us and nodded to him, not even looking at me. I felt invisible.

  He led me through the kitchen, through the bubbling soup pots, the fiery oven. I was amazed at the many workers who were poised over the heat, spinning their spoons wildly over the water. One of the chefs—a man with a white, poufy hat—turned toward me in an instant and winked at me. He pulled back to his work so quickly that I almost didn’t believe I’d seen the entire thing.

  Xavier pushed the final doors open and led us into a tiny nook with these incredible windows. The windows were open, allowing the breeze to waft over the perfectly-set table. The white tablecloth seemed to glow in the sunlight.

  “Wow,” I couldn’t help but say.

  “I always have them make this table up for me when I’m feeling a little low,” he said, pulling the chair out and allowing me to sit. “I always come here to think. And eat, of course. But nearly no one knows this room exists. It’s my secret hideaway, I suppose.”

  I nodded, sitting across from him. I couldn’t believe he’d brought me there. I couldn’t think about what to say, and I sputtered, “Where do you see the campaign going over the course of the re-election season?”

  I almost wanted to bury my face in my hands. My words lacked so much tact. I’d jumped too far. He wanted to be friendly with me, and I’d stepped on his friendliness with formality. I bit my lip.

  But he took it in stride as he splayed the napkin over his lap. “Honestly, I’m open to much of what you stated in your interview. It seems that you have a good way of going about it—about the election. You have enough vision that you could be my competition.”

  The waiter came then, and poured us both a small glass of white wine. The president brought his glass toward me, and I tipped my glass to his, offering a slight clink into the world. I shivered once more, sipping the wine.

  The president called back to the waiter. “Hey! Grant! Might we start with some of that fine garlic bread Yvonne made last week?”

  “Very good, sir,” Grant responded, darting back into the kitchen.

  I looked at the president, taking him in. “Anyway. I don’t know what you mean, running for the presidency,” I continued, laughing a bit to myself. “I’m not even eligible at my age.”

  He tipped his head to the right, eyeing me serenely. “Ah. Yes. You’re 29, correct?”

  I nodded, feeling my face grow hot. It was strange that we were there together, so intimately in the secret room of his mansion.

  “And already you are chief of the re-election campaign for the President of the United States. You must feel pride in that, no?”

  My face continued to burn as I searched for what to say. “I am very honored to be chosen for this position, sir,” I said, trying to project an air of confidence fitting of my job title.

  A stagnation occurred between us, then, as we searched for things to say. The waiter burst back into the room and placed the garlic bread between us. “Enjoy,” he said, winking at me. What was it with all these winks?

  I turned back toward the president. “Anyway. I just work too hard, that’s what my mother says,” I stated, digging into the garlic bread. My stomach was eating me alive.

  But the president laughed at this, good-naturedly. “Yeah, my mother says that, too. You should be proud of all you’ve worked for. I admire it, you know. I was backed by some very important people when I was quite young, charging me into my future. But you; it seems you’ve worked from the ground up. And look at you, Amanda.”

  I felt so strange, like I was on display in that moment. I turned my head down, gazing at my slim-cut power suit. I bit my lip. “I don’t know. I had a great deal of support.”

  Xavier placed his wine back on the table. He positioned his fingers only a few inches from mine on the white cloth. “I just want you to know, Amanda, that you have a future here at the White House. Chief of Staff, maybe. Secretary of State. Even the presidency itself,” he smirked.

  My eyes began to water as a mixture of emotions welled up inside of me. On one hand, I felt pride in the fact that he could see great things in me. On the other hand, I felt as though he was playing a game. Chief of Staff? Secretary of State? He could see me in those roles based on a press release? And that smirk—what did it mean?

  I felt so restless, so unsure. His eyes seemed so focused on me; I suddenly wanted to burst from the windows and fly across the green lawn, back to freedom. But this place, I knew, was where I belonged.

  I cleared my throat. “I appreciate your assurance in me, Mr. President.” I said the words with sterility. “Of course, you’ll understand that I’m not so sure of myself just yet. It’s only my first day in the position. I think I should test myself a bit more before I go entertaining such grand ideas.”

  “But look at you. You’re here in my secret lair, eating garlic bread—only one day into your job,” he laughed, bringing his arms wide with a bit of charisma. “Surely you must be special.” I liked this side of him; the playful side.

  But I needed to change to topic, to find another course. “So. Your wife. How is she doing, these days?”

  He brought his hands down slowly, down to his side. The garlic bread sweated before us, emitting such amazing smells throughout the small breakfast nook. “Camille?” he asked.

  I nodded, knowing that I had suddenly touched on a sore spot. I felt terrible, knowing in my heart that I had asked for inappropriate reasons. I wanted to know what was behind the curtain; I wanted to discover the intricacies of their relationship. I tried to tell myself I needed to know for professional reasons, to manage his image.

  “Camille and I, well. We met so long ago, as you probably know.”

  “College, right?” I asked him, reaching for another piece of garlic bread. God, was it good. The bread melted in your mouth, leaving a buttery sensation that sent me to the clouds.

  The president nodded. “So long ago. We were just kids. And even then, I knew there wasn’t something—well. I knew there wasn’t something right about us.”

  I felt the garlic bread dissipate in my mouth. I allowed the crust to drop to the plate, knowing that he was about to deliver something to me—information that was hardly confided in anyone, ever. I leaned forward, craning my ears.

  “Well,” Xavier began, tapping his fingers on the white cloth beneath their plates. The table shook a bit, casting strange sunlight through the g
lass. “Sometimes, what you see on the outside isn’t the real picture. There’s the pretty picture, of course—the one everyone, the precious voters, wants to see. But then there’s the at-home life. The troubled life. The one you know you never really wanted.”

  I nodded for a moment, pitying him in a way. For so much of his life, everything had worked out in his favor: he’d had his career, his marriage. The great country was at his feet. But then, everything was complex, as well. He wasn’t happy in his marriage. He was stuck sneaking around with me—this girl he hardly knew, telling her things he shouldn’t tell anyone.

  I wondered, in those moments that dripped between us, filled with such tension, if he felt he could trust me. I wondered if he delivered this information to me in a sort of sealed package, reaching out to me as if to say: help me, please; I’m drowning.

  I concealed a smile with my garlic bread, then, feeling as though the winds of change were shifting in my favor. The president was peering toward me, curious about me. And all the while, it seemed I simply had to sit there, filled with such longing for his mind.

  Chapter Seven

  Over the following few weeks, I found myself continually in the president’s presence. We’d built a rapport that seemed so natural. We’d speak sincerely—with these small smiles on each other’s faces—as we discussed the seriousness of the polls, of the employees. I’d fight with him a bit, still feeling like we were playing this strange game—one that had begun in earnest with that private lunch. I felt like every time I walked away from him, back toward my desk, I could feel his eyes on my body, on my slim waist. I shimmied this way, then that as I walked, playing to his wants. I couldn’t help it; I just loved to win.

  The lunches grew more frequent, as well. And the late-night drinks in the office happened more and more. Often, other people were there, complaining about the other party, wringing their hands about the polls. But a few glasses of wine in, and Xavier and I would be laughing, holding our stomachs in such a way that looked nearly comical. I can say honestly that I’ve never laughed that much, not in all my years. I’d always been so serious. But I felt it fall away from me like a shadow whenever he was around.

  Of course, I tried to shake myself out of it every evening when I arrived home. “What are you doing?” I’d whisper to myself in the mirror, removing my shirt at nearly 1 in the morning, tired from a full day of working and a full night of drinking. “Get a grip!”

  A few weeks after our initial lunch, we sat together in that same room off of the kitchen. Again, the light filled it. But the light was different, illustrating a different time: the coming of late summer, the coming of fall. By this time, the waiter had learned my name and my tastes. He made me a beautiful green salad with strawberries, blueberries, and spinach. “For the lady,” he said, winking at me once more.

  I pierced my fork through a strawberry and lifted it to my mouth. I looked up at Xavier, who hadn’t touched his food yet. His eyebrows furrowed into his eyes. He was thinking about something that troubled him.

  “Are you all right, Xavier?” I asked him softly. I’d grown to understand that he liked a soft touch, sometimes—that the stresses of his presidential lifestyle didn’t allow for simple, easy conversation. He was always concerned with the state of the world, and he wasn’t allowed to look inwardly. Not often, at least.

  He shook his head, trying to push beyond the muddled nature of his brain. “Of course,” he said. “Of course.” He smiled at me, shifting in his chair. “Can I ask you a personal question, Amanda?”

  I raised my eyebrow at him, sensing a serious issue fueling from his lips. “Sure.”

  “I just. I wondered about your love life. If you’re—if you’re seeing anyone.”

  My face burned, suddenly. I shifted my gaze out the window, where I saw a small, white bird floating through the easy, late summer breeze. The question felt inappropriate—as though it was leading to something more. I instantly told myself I was silly; had I not asked him questions of a similar nature? But I told myself that I had reason—his personal life is his professional life, as far as the public is concerned. What interest should he have in mine?

  Though I was beginning to suspect that I knew.

  “I’m not seeing anyone,” I said, disallowing myself from giving him another response, telling myself to not let things go there.

  He hung his head. “I shouldn’t be talking about this, of course. I just feel like we’ve grown close over the weeks—that you understand me, in a lot of ways.”

  I nodded, biting my lip. God, I was usually confident and commanding, but every time I was around him he made me nervous. “I feel the same way,” I said quietly and with more sincerity than I had anticipated. “I don’t have many people to talk to.”

  I still gazed out the window, uncertain about the ways in which my words would affect our relationship, the very beautiful friendship we had cultivated. And while I knew my feelings were growing, surely it could go no further.

  He cleared his throat for a moment. He looked so gorgeous in the light. His dark hair curled perfectly on his head, and his trimmed beard made him look so suave, so mysterious. I swallowed in the tension.

  “I need to ask your advice,” he said in a humble tone.

  “Relationship advice?” I asked him then.

  He nodded. “I need advice on how to fix things with my wife. You see, I can’t tell anyone that we’re having problems. We can’t even go see a counselor. This would be reported to the public. The opposition would jump on it as a sign of weakness in my character—a moral flaw. And I just can’t—I can’t have it. I can’t have them thinking I have a single weakness that they can exploit.”

  “For the polls’ sake, please don’t,” I said, smiling at him. I knew how it would look, however. The American people wanted a firm marriage at the helm of their great country. They almost didn’t trust that this president didn’t have children; it was a topic we often had to deal with on the re-election campaign team. “But in terms of advice, I’m honored that you came to me,” I began. “I honestly don’t know a great deal about your situation. But I do know that women love to be treated like they’re the only parts of your life you care about, you know? It’s just you and your wife, against the world. If you make her feel like she’s the only woman you’ve ever dreamed of—“

  “And if that’s not true?” the president asked me then. His dark eyes forced mine toward him. The gaze caught me off guard. I dropped my fork onto the white tablecloth.

  “Everyone has needs. Perhaps yours are simply—not found in your relationship with your wife,” I said, knowing that I was overstepping my boundaries. Could I come back from this? He continued to gaze at me. I didn’t know what else to say; I certainly wanted to dissipate that terrifying, completely passionate moment between us.

  I ripped my eyes away then. I formed the statement easily, with precision. “You have to know that I am so envious of your professional success,” I began, bringing my hands to my forehead. “It’s an eternal burden to me. I am always searching for ways to get ahead, for ways to enhance my relationship to my career. But I don’t know how, you know?”

  Xavier looked down, toward his plate. He’d hardly eaten anything. I knew what sadness did to the appetite. “Sure. Well. You know all about success, after all.”

  “Not like you, Mr. President—“ I began, a bit of laughter laced on my tongue.

  But he stopped me, his hand high in the air. He shook his head vehemently. “It’s Xavier, Amanda. You know that.”

  I bit my tongue in those moments, nearly frightened of him and his sudden desire to tell me things, to make an intimate connection with me. I didn’t know how to fit this information into my head; I didn’t know how to comprehend it.

  I swallowed and pulled myself back from the table, tapping at my mouth with my napkin. My nearly uneaten salad sat before me, gleaming in the light from the window. “I’m stuffed,” I said, even as my stomach ate at me. “I think I’ll—I’ll head ba
ck up to the office. See what those goons have messed up now.”

  I stood up and flung myself toward the door, still feeling his eyes on me. The door to the kitchen swung back behind me, delivering a real-life boundary between Xavier and me. I hustled up the steps and found myself in a sea of work, of questions, of emails. Downstairs, in that breakfast nook, Xavier and I were safe from the rest of the world. But out here, in the madness, it was just a cacophony.

  That evening, I gathered my supplies for the night. It was strange; after our lunch, I hadn’t seen Xavier anywhere throughout the West Wing. I’d asked Jason about him, of course, but he’d been far too busy to answer—flying from one end of the room to the other with a phone strapped to his ear. He was a dutiful worker, this second-in-command. I knew he hadn’t even noticed the tension between the president and I, despite our many late-night drinks, despite our intimate sneak-aways during lunchtime.

  I shook my head over and over, trying to refute these thoughts from my head. The president wasn’t anything to me; we didn’t have anything intimate. We didn’t.

  I followed my shadow away from the well-lit room. I saw Dimitri off to the side, guarding the Oval Office once more. I nodded to him. “Goodnight, Dimitri!”

  Dimitri took a slight step forward, his eyes eager. “If you wait a few moments, I can give you a ride home!”

  But I shook my head, not wanting to alert Xavier that I was leaving. I could nearly feel his presence in the other room—such a continuous shadow. “No. I’ll catch a taxi, Dimitri. You shouldn’t have to drive to Trinidad every day.” I winked at him and swung back around, back toward the stairwell.

  But suddenly, I heard a door spring open behind me. The Oval Office. I kept walking, pretending I didn’t sense anything; that I couldn’t hear his footfalls behind me. Keep walking, I thought to myself. Keep going. No one can know about your attraction to him—especially not him.