Chapter Two

 

Adam stood proudly in front of the podium as he unleashed his first speech as POTUS. It was two in the afternoon, but I was still wearing my sleep pants, and the only thing I’d eaten was a pint of cherry ice cream.

It was strange watching Adam, now the president, from my couch. I was used to being by his side, guiding him on what to say, and how to say it. I wondered who was doing that now as I stared at the light-green dress shirt that washed away his baby blues, and the perfectly pressed handkerchief in his jacket pocket that made him look like he was on his way to church.

His words were from the heart, and as I listened to them, it was clear he’d insisted on writing them himself. I’d read enough of his raw, unedited speeches and corrected them to realize he hadn’t hired anyone, or allowed anyone to take my place.

My phone rang with a strange number from the 202 area code: Washington, D.C. I gripped the phone in my hand so tightly it hurt. My heart raced as I quickly slid my thumb across the answer button before it stopped. “Hello?” I answered, sounding so unprofessional it made me cringe.

“Quinn Hamilton, please,” the female voice requested with a coldness that made me shudder.

“This is she,” I said quickly.

“President Andrews has requested your presence at the White House after his inauguration,” the cold voice ordered.

I was stunned. Maybe he hadn’t been just being nice or allowing the alcohol and adrenaline1 to say things he didn’t mean that night.

“May I ask what this is about?” I questioned.

“President Andrews will have the details,” she snapped. “A car will be sent for you Monday morning at seven sharp after the inauguration; your airfare is already arranged. Do you have any questions?” the woman asked.

Yes. I asked what this was about, but she couldn’t answer that. I decided it was useless to ask anything else “No,” I replied.

“Good. Have a great day,” the woman said, sounding somewhat human right before hanging up the phone.

My entire body tingled at the thought of visiting the White House, not on a school tour, but upon request of the president of the United States himself.

The phone rang twice, three times, four, I was about to explode when my sister finally answered. “Oh my God!” I squealed into the phone.

“What is it?” Rowena asked excitedly.

“I’m going to the White House,” I blurted out.

There was a silence over the phone for a moment as I waited for my sister’s reaction of excitement to match my own. “Is that what you really want to do?” she asked.

I hated that she knew me so well. My dream, of course, had nothing to do with the White House, or politics, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.

“I don’t want to go back to being a political correspondent in Minnesota,” I grumbled.

“Yes, because you said you hated politics,” she reminded me.

“I don’t hate politics, I just hate politicians,” I argued.

She chuckled. It was good to hear her laugh after her long battle against a rare cancer, but I never liked it when that laughter was directed at me.

“You don’t think you’ll be swarmed with politicians in Washington, D.C.?” she sighed, catching her breath from her good laugh.
“This is a huge opportunity,” I pointed out.

“This is about Adam, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice quickly filling with concern.

“No. This is about bettering my career, adding something to my resume that very few can add,” I stated as firmly as possible.

Another silence. I knew she was analyzing my words, my tone, my motives. I was doing the same thing. I wasn’t really sure if this was about Adam, or about the opportunity. All I knew for sure was I didn’t want to go back to my old job.

“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she said softly.

I couldn’t imagine Adam would ever hurt me in any way. “I’m a big girl, sis,” I assured her.

Even through her illness, and her treatments, Rowena always tried to take care of others, mainly me. Our mother had passed while I was in college, and Rowena took it upon herself to take her place, and she’d done a great job, for the most part.

“So, when do you leave?” she asked, changing the topic before it turned into a long lecture that would end with us not speaking for a month.

“Monday morning,” I said excitedly.

“That’s less than a week,” she said, causing my stomach to churn with anxiety.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” I admitted.

Rowena sighed, and then reassured me with praise and encouragement. She’d worked closely with White House representatives over the years, mainly checking sources, but that was closer than I’d ever been to the White House, or anyone in it. Her tone became more excited once I asked for her advice, which she gladly gave.

“Can I stay with you?” I asked, knowing her answer would be yes.

“At least I’ll get to see you,” she said lovingly.

It had been nearly a year since I’d traveled to Foggy Bottom in Washington, D.C. where she lived alone in an upscale neighborhood. Her twins were away at college, and both determined to live on the west coast, somewhere warm and filled with women who wanted cosmetic surgery after they determined their specialty. Her ex-husband, Donald, still lived in the area, but they’d divorced right after she was diagnosed with cancer. I hated him, feeling as though he’d abandoned her in her time of need. She assured me it was her decision, not his, but I wasn’t sure if she was truthful, or just saving face.

My week was filled with beauty salon appointments, shopping for dress suits that were professional enough for the White House, but flattering enough for Adam, and popping Tums like they were candy.

“Hey, stranger,” Adam’s voice was so casual and soothing on the other end of my phone.

“Hey, uh, Mr. President,” I stumbled as I struggled with the proper way to greet my old friend.

His laughter roared through the phone. “It’s still just Adam.”

“I’m sorry. This is all so new to me,” I admitted.

“Me too,” he sighed.

My bags were packed and on my bed—more than I would need,1 I was certain. I had no idea how long I’d be there, or if I’d even come back to my tiny apartment. “I’m glad you decided to come,” he said.

“I wasn’t really given a choice,” I laughed.

“What do you mean?” he asked with concern.

“The woman on the phone wouldn’t give me any details, other than you requested my appearance,” I explained.

“I’m sorry. I knew I should’ve called you myself,” he said.

“Can I ask you, what this is about?” I asked.

“I need you here. I thought from your plans to arrive in the morning, you’d accepted my proposition already,” he sighed.

“I have yet to hear the proposition,” I replied.

Voices in the background were pulling his attention away from our phone conversation and leaving me in the dark still about my upcoming trip. “Quinn, I’ll have to talk to you when you get here. You are still coming, right?” he asked.

“Yes. Of course,” I assured him.

“Great. I can’t wait.”

The phone went silent as our conversation ended. He needed me? He couldn’t wait?

I threw myself onto the bed next to my suitcases and let out a squeal. The president needed me; he couldn’t wait to see me!

The driver arrived to collect me promptly at seven a.m. I’d been whisked away on business in fancy cars before, but this felt different, better. As we pulled into a private airport, my heart pounded hard against my chest. “Is this the right airport?” I asked cautiously.

The driver nodded, offering a warm smile through the rear-view mirror. He stopped the car just a few yards from a large private jet. My door opened and the driver stood by, assisting me as I slid to my feet.

It wasn’t Air Force One, but it was a private jet, chartered just for me. Adrenaline rolled through my veins as I watched two men scurry across the parking lot to grab my bags. Another man, tall, muscular, and wearing a blue Air Force uniform like the one I’d remembered on Adam, extended his hand to me. “Sergeant Glenn Peters, ma’am,” he said, gently taking my hand in his.

“Good to meet you,” I said, still in awe of the situation.

“I’ll be escorting you to Washington, D.C. Rest assured, you’re in good hands,” he said quickly, and then motioned for me to walk with him toward the plane.

Inside, the seats were large, covered in leather, and each had a small table in front of them. This was first class on an entirely new level. I could get used to this.

A blonde woman, tall and lean, offered me a glass of orange juice and a danish. My stomach was too upset to eat, but I accepted not to be rude. By the time the two-hour flight was over, I’d managed to eat about half of it and was feeling a little better.

I felt like a special agent, being whisked from my private jet to another black vehicle, complete with a driver wearing an earpiece. I wondered if he had communication directly to the White House. Surely he did.

He pulled up to the black iron gates that guarded the White House where a guard checked his credentials, scanned the backseat where I was sitting, and then opened the gate for us to enter. My skin crawled with goosebumps from the excitement, and the sheer sense of pride I felt.

Two men, both wearing black suits, stood at the front steps as the car pulled forward. One leaned in, opening my car door, while the other spoke to someone through his ear piece. “Welcome,” the man who opened my door spoke kindly.

“Right this way, Ms. Hamilton,” he said, taking my hand in his.

“I have bags. I’ll be staying at my sister’s,” I explained.

“Of course. The driver will drop them at the location you desire, and then retrieve you once your meeting has concluded,” he stated firmly.

I rambled off Rowena’s address to the driver, who signaled with confidence that he’d heard and understood the directions. The two men in black escorted me inside the White House where my heels clanked against a perfect marble floor with a shine so bright it was almost blinding me with the late morning sun coming in through the tall windows. A woman greeted me, her voice familiar from the phone call I’d received. “Glad to see you made it safely. The president is waiting,” she said without so much as a smile.

Her face was tight and unfriendly, her build slim with broad shoulders. She didn’t look as she sounded on the phone. I’d pictured someone manlier, heftier, but she was a petite little thing.

I followed her through the White House, in awe of the dramatic décor, red carpets, and grand staircases.

She stopped and turned to glance at me, as if to ensure that I was suitable to be presented. She opened the door leading into the Oval Office, a room I’d seen reproduced in many movies, but never in person until now.

The door closed as I took a quick look around, soaking in the surrealism of what was happening. “Quinn,” Adam’s voice pulled my eyes toward him.

He stood behind his desk, somehow looking as if he already belonged there. “Adam, uh, Mr. President,” I stuttered, quickly looking around to find the woman who’d escorted me in was already gone.

“It’s just Adam,” he said with a warm smile.

“This suits you,” I said, fondly gazing upon my dear friend.

“You think so?” he chuckled, moving towards me with open arms.

He smelled just as I remembered, of lavender and spice, as he pulled me into his arms. He drew back, holding onto my hands and giving me a once-over. “You look good,” he said.

My cheeks started to burn and my palms sweat. “So do you,” I stammered, swallowing hard to rid my throat of the lump growing.

“Have a seat,” he offered, motioning to the couches in the center of the room.

I sat, expecting him to take a seat across from me, but instead he sat right beside me, close.

He turned to face me, his knees grazing against mine. His blue eyes filled me with that familiar feeling of longing I’d missed so much, and his smile made me dizzy as it slid upward on his face. “So, I guess you want to know why I asked you here,” he said.

“Yes,” I replied softly, still feeling buzzed from the hormones flooding my body.

“I am offering you a position as a senior communications advisor and public liaison,” he said.

My throat began to swell once again, causing me to swallow hard as his eyes relentlessly gripped mine. “Why me?” I asked, my voice shaken.

“You’re the best,” he said with a smile.

“That’s very kind of you to say, but I’m sure there are others more qualified,” I argued the same case from the night he was elected.

“Quinn, you sell yourself short,” he said quickly.

His hand moved to my knee, resting just at the seam of my skirt. “We have chemistry. We work well together, don’t you agree?” he asked.

My panties clung to my pussy from his touch, but I couldn’t move to adjust them. Why did I wear silk?

“I do,” I agreed.

“Then say yes,” he urged.

“Yes,” I gasped before I had time to think.