Rowan

My mother would be proud. Smoothing my hands down my floral Lilly Pulitzer sheath dress, I ensure it’s pressed and wrinkle-free as I climb out of the back of Keir’s Cadillac and head toward a wide walkway at a back entrance to The White House.

I don’t know what most people wear when meeting the President of the United States and First Lady, but I imagine this is what my mother might wear; something New England-y and respectable.

“Are you nervous?” Keir asks, slipping his hand in mine as we walk.

Shaking my head, I give him a wink. “Not really. Parents usually love me.”

“Cocky much?”

We’re escorted inside a moment later and led down several hallways. Everything from the carpet to the wallpaper to the presidential oil paintings and crystal chandeliers and soaring ceilings makes me wish I were here for a grand tour instead of here to woo Keir’s parents, but if I’m lucky, maybe he’ll show me around later.

It feels like forever until we make it to the Sky Parlor, where Keir says his parents host brunch every Sunday when they’re stateside. His father likes to cook and his mother likes to run the show, or so he says.

“My goodness, Keir.” Busy Montgomery herself strides across the parlor, her hand over her heart and her mouth drawn into a wide smile. “I had no idea you were bringing a guest.”

“Really? Because I had it cleared …”

She waves her hand. “You know how things get lost in the shuffle around here most days. Anyway, are you going to introduce her?”

Keir gives my hand a squeeze. “Mother, this is Rowan Aldridge. Rowan, this is my mother, Busy.”

“So lovely to meet you.” I offer a warm smile and extend my hand.

“Aldridge?” Her forehead is covered in wrinkles. “You’re … oh! Yes. You’re Deb and Doug’s daughter, aren’t you?”

I nod. “I am.”

“They’ve always been such wonderful supporters of ours,” she says, her tone warm and sincere. “So very generous.”

I know. I’ve seen the yearly accounting audit. My parents donated enough toward the last two Montgomery campaigns to feed a village for a lifetime.

“How are your parents anyway?” She motions toward a floral sofa. “Here. Sit. Let’s chat.”

Keir releases me and I follow Busy, taking the spot beside her and crossing my legs at the knee when one of the staff offers me a cup and saucer and my choice of twenty different types of tea.

“My parents are doing well,” I say. “Just working. I think my mother’s getting ready to release her twenty-fifth book next year?”

“Twenty-five. My goodness. I don’t know how she does it.”

I don’t either.

She’s truly a miracle worker.

She makes raising a child sound like astrophysics when really it’s quite simple. They need love, attention, guidance, healthy food, clean clothes, and a warm bed. That’s literally it.

Hell, I should write a book.

“I think she just signed another three-book deal,” I add.

“How does she find time to write these books? I know she travels all over and gives speeches and workshops.”

When the First Lady, whose children are in their thirties, knows all about my mother and her global influence, it only confirms the fact that she’s kind of a big deal.

“She finds ways.” I shrug, taking a sip of my steeped oolong tea. And by finding ways, I mean cutting corners and hiring a staff of five to raise her children.

“Well I’d love to see her again soon. Tell her not to be a stranger, will you?” Busy smiles wide, her helmet hair sprayed tight and tucked behind one ear.

“Will be sure to let her know,” I say, taking another sip.

From where I’m seated, I spot Keir standing outside next to his father’s grill. He smiles and waves and Busy watches the exchange between the two of us.

“So how did you two meet, if I may ask?” Her lashes bat and she wears a smile, but her question is loaded.

I can’t tell her we met at a bar—not if I want her to like me.

The sliding door whooshes and Keir and his father walk in with plates of various breakfast meats, and a member of the kitchen staff wheels in a cart of fresh pastries, muffins, and scones.

Busy stands, pressing her hand on her stomach. “I’m famished. Shall we?”

Keir moves toward me, his hand moving toward my chin as he leans down and gives me a tender kiss, right there, in front of everyone.

Busy’s across the room, fixing her plate, and I lean in. “She wants to know how we met.”

He huffs, smiling. “I bet she does.”

“So,” President Montgomery says, walking past me. He’s still wearing his apron, and his plate is piled high with bacon and potatoes and a giant blueberry muffin. “I don’t believe my son has properly introduced us.” He extends a free hand. “I’m Harris.”

“Rowan Aldridge,” I say, meeting his gesture.

“Keir says you’re Doug’s daughter.” His mouth presses flat, as if we’re discussing something serious, and I wonder if his face is just permanently etched that way. “Your parents are good people. We know them well. Been a long time since we’ve seen them, but we’ll never forget all the work they poured into our campaigns.”

“They speak very highly of the two of you,” I say.

“I like her, Keir.” President Montgomery bursts into a rare smile, patting my shoulder. “She’s from good stock. Keep this one around.”

“That’s the plan,” he says, speaking to his father but looking at me.