Camille

“This is too depressing.” Araminta reaches for the remote to shut off the TV. The White House has interrupted our programming to bring us a special message from the POTUS himself.

“No, no.” I take it from her. “We have to stay up on this. Being able to discuss foreign policy and the state of the union is what separates us from the herd.”

President Harris Montgomery gives an update on a recent bombing in the Middle East. They all blend together anymore, each one seeming to be worse than the one before.

I listen intently as he commands the airwaves, his forehead wrinkled and his lips turned down at the corners as he maintains composure. He seems annoyed, and his speech feels heartfelt this time, not written.

Araminta pulls in a shocked breath. “Twelve hundred civilians lost their lives.”

“Montgomery wants us to go to war,” I say as he rambles on.

“Did he say that? I must have missed it.”

“You can tell,” I say. “He’s leaning that way. He’s hinting. There’s always more in what they don’t say than what they do.”

She rises, shaking her head and strutting to the kitchen. “I can’t listen to this anymore. You’re going to have to give me the Cliffs Notes.”

Araminta pulls a pre-packaged, perfectly portioned meal from the fridge and heats it in the microwave. Two minutes later, she picks through it with a fork as she floats back down into her chair.

Her eyes squint at the TV.

“What are you doing?” I laugh.

“I’m looking for his sons,” she says between bites. “I’d rather stare at those fine specimens than listen to this sad little spiel.”

“They are beautiful.” I sigh. For the longest time I thought they were twins. Everything about them almost matches, from their lush, dark hair to their sapphire eyes. “Equally so.”

“Oh, come on. One’s definitely hotter than the other, at least by a hair.” She sweeps her blonde waves over one shoulder, eyes wide. “Keir has that mischievous glint in his eye, like he’s full of secrets and ridiculously intelligent.”

“But Ronan has that ultra-confident look about him. I bet he’s sex-on-fire in the bedroom,” I say. “I don’t think I could pick if I had to.”

“I’d give up this game for a chance with one of them. I’d retire so hard.” She giggles.

I join her in her quest to find them in the background. They’re always there, suited up and wearing stoic expressions as their father speaks. Their haircuts usually match, though they’re parted on opposite sides. One is left-handed. Both men exude darkness and mystery as if it’s coded in their DNA.

“Ronan and Keir . . .” She exhales. “And there you are, my princes. I would give it all up for you, and I wouldn’t even be picky either. Either one of you will do, really.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so smitten.”

Araminta grins. “I’d make a great First Lady, wouldn’t I? I was practically bred for this shit. Daddy Dearest would be so proud.”

She walks to the TV, placing a French manicured finger on the upper corner where the blue-eyed, raven-haired, future-leaders-of-the-free-world stand side by side with stick-straight posture and hands clasped in front of their narrow hips.

“I bet you were good at Where’s Waldo when you were a kid,” I say.

“What’s that?” She turns toward me, her question sincere. Sometimes I forget that she grew up as one of eight Randalls in an estate fit for a king in the Connecticut countryside. Raised by a team of nannies and forced to adhere to a schedule filled with riding, tennis, and French lessons, I doubt Araminta had time for Where’s Waldo. “Is that a Tennessee thing?”

“Never mind.”

She takes her seat again, eyes glued. The camera pans the faces of the well-dressed men and women who stand behind the president, and then it lingers on his sons for a solid thirty seconds.

Araminta fans herself. “Just looking at them gets me all revved up.”

“You and every other red-blooded, American woman.” I smirk. “Or, rather, blue-blooded.”

“I wish they’d smile. They never fucking smile.”

“Would you if you were them? Living your life under a magnifying glass all the time? Every move you make one hundred percent public?”

“If I were a Montgomery, I’d never stop smiling, dahhhling. That name opens doors. Moves mountains. It’s only one of the most powerful bloodlines on the planet. The entire world is at their fingertips. I mean, sure, I grew up a Randall, for Christ’s sake, but the Montgomerys are leagues above us. Tell me that isn’t something to smile about.”

“Oh, look.” I rise up, pointing at the screen. Keir just flashed a two-second smile at someone to his left. “Did you see? He has dimples.”

“Here we go.” Minty rolls her eyes and fights a smirk.

“Did I tell you my John has dimples? He let me feel them last night.”

“Maybe your John is Keir Montgomery?”

“Doubtful. A man like him doesn’t pay for sex.”

She shrugs. “Maybe he doesn’t need to. Some guys just get off on that. Kinky sons of bitches.”

“I’m going to pretend my John is Keir from now on.” I settle into my seat and close my eyes, imagining it was Keir’s lips on my body and Keir’s fingers between my thighs last night. My chest flutters, and my lips inch up. “From now on, I’m fucking Keir Montgomery.”

In my head.

“God, you know how dangerous that would be? To be involved with one of them? There’d be a price on your head so high. Ugh. I wouldn’t go anywhere alone. I guarantee you, someone somewhere would jump at the chance to set one of them up in some kind of political scandal. A dead escort tied to the Montgomery name?” Araminta shudders before smiling. “But hey, it’d be one way to guarantee that no one would ever forget your name.”