“This one’s a definite no.”

Brian Kelting’s red hair glints merrily in the late February sun while he places a printed photo on the desk in front of me with a gentle whhp. This could be a political thriller, if Brian weren’t so relentlessly calm. I guess that’s what makes him a good Public Relations officer—not much can rattle him.

The picture is of Graham and me at the benefit gala, where we watched a special performance of Hamilton, put on to raise money for the National Pediatric Cancer Foundation.

It’s...not good.

We were photographed in front of the NPCF’s banner during intermission, and I look...stricken. My eyes are too wide, and somehow, I simultaneously look like I’m leaning into Graham for support and pulling away from him at the same time. This is not the look of a woman in love.

“This one’s a maybe.”

The second one’s from ten days later, at another benefit event—this time, a pancake breakfast for the Boys & Girls Club. I’m chewing a bite of pancake and scowling at Graham. At least, that’s what it looks like in the photo. In reality, I was trying to get a piece of sausage out of my back teeth.

“Stop it, Brian. I look like I hate him.”

He considers the photo again. “It could look like he was comforting you, which would bode well for the relationship.”

“There is no way anyone could mistake that expression for happiness.” My cheeks are hot. “Do you have any others you want us to review?”

“The lady has a point.” Graham is leaned back in his seat, looking so casual I want to slap him. Brian’s laying out all the evidence of our failure, and he’s acting like this is a minor setback.

I try to ignore the heat under my irritation. I don’t see Graham every day—only when we go on outings the press will be—and sitting this close to him, his scent in the air, is going to my head.

“Here’s the last one.” Brian’s mouth turns down and my heart sinks. I’ve been hoping he was leading up to something positive, but why would he do that? The two of us aren’t sitting in the West Wing because we’re doing a fabulous job.

Graham and I both lean in to see the photo.

It was taken three days ago, outside the National Portrait Gallery. It has the potential to be a gorgeous shot, with the soaring pillars of the building sweeping up in the frame behind us, strong and proud and unapologetic. But I’m squinting into the evening dusk, a tight frown on my face as Graham stabs a finger at something out of the frame.

My frustration, at a slow simmer in the pit of my gut for the entire meeting, boils over. “This is a totally inaccurate representation.” We’d tried our best at the unveiling of the former president’s new portrait, hanging there next to a stunning depiction of the man we’d seen at the Kennedy Center. The artist had managed to capture the liquid blue of his eyes.

Not that I’d noticed them at the Kennedy Center. I only realized what an opportunity I’d missed when I got home that night and settled onto my couch, exhausted and in search of anything to quell the burning curiosity I had about...well, the former president. Definitely not Graham Blackpool.

“I understand why you’d feel that way.” Brian bends his head and looks at each of the photos in turn. “And I did see other shots that captured your relationship in a more flattering light.”

“If you called us here to congratulate us, you’re doing a pretty poor job.” Graham’s voice is even, the hint of a laugh curling up at the edges.

Brian frowns. “I wish that were the case.”

“Then let’s cut the bullshit, Brian. I have meetings this afternoon.”

“And the both of you have an event tonight,” Brian agrees, straightening up in his chair. “However, I think, in light of these photos, we should cancel.”

I’m a ball of anxiety, its cold fingers sweeping up and down my arms at all hours of the day, reminding me that everything is not going according to plan. My plan was to graduate law school, pass the bar, and start working for a firm that could help women like my mother. Instead, the map I’d laid out for myself is in tatters on the floor, and I’m sitting here, receiving cryptic commentary from a man who doesn’t know me from any other woman on the planet.

“Let’s be clear.” I keep my voice steady, but it is work. “These are the most unflattering photos, and there are better ones...so you called us here to...share this information?”

“I called you here to offer a suggestion.”

“Whose suggestion is it, really?” Graham smiles at Brian, like he’s a predator and Brian is a field mouse. “Yours, or my brother’s?”

Brian glances at his desk. “President Blackpool has, of course, been looped into recent developments.”

“You’re killing both of us with this vague bullshit.” Graham sits up at last, leaning forward, elbows resting just above his knees, and the way his jacket tugs against the hard muscles of his arm makes me short of breath. “If you have orders from on high, there’s no need to bring visual aids.”

Brian folds his hands on the desk, looking from me to Graham and back again. Are we in couples’ therapy? Is that what’s happening? If Brian asks me to share my feelings about the way all this has been going—

“The press isn’t convinced.” His tone is blunt, and I sense a hint of disappointment. “These photographs are the ones being circulated most frequently on the Internet and in print. That’s why I brought them.” He clears his throat. “I’m sorry if the result was to make you feel uncomfortable, Ms. Leighton, but—”

“Favoritism,” says Graham with a laugh. “Blatant favoritism.”

Brian ignores him. “But I thought it was prudent to lay out all the facts before we plan our next move.” We. Our. Brian is real team player.

Graham motions in the air for him to speed things up.

“Fine. We need a proposal.”

We’re back at square one, and I sigh. “What do you mean, a proposal? Are you asking for me to create some kind of...brief?” My head swims at the thought of it. I still haven’t recovered from taking the bar.

Brian grins, his eyes lighting up. “A marriage proposal.”

My throat goes tight. “No.”

“Don’t make a hasty decision, Ms. Leighton. The optics—”

“No. I won’t.” The panic rises, choking, wrapped in guilt. “This is already enough of a lie.” My hands shake. I fucking hate it. “A proposal would only add fuel to the fire.” The fire is my future. The fire is every job interview I’m never going to get because every news outlet in the country is busy calling me a prostitute.

“Bellamy.” Graham turns his eyes on me, and in spite of myself, the fear subsides. Not completely, but enough. “Consider what Brian is saying.”

“I did consider it. I can’t do that. We can’t do that.”

“I’m perfectly willing to stage a proposal.” The thought of him on one knee in front of me takes my breath away.

A lot about Graham takes my breath away.

“What?” Graham’s a rule-breaker, a playboy, a self-centered asshole, with the perfect body and the most charming smile. “You’d be willing to put your family through that?”

He doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. For the greater good.”

“I’m not.” I’m starting to babble. “I can’t lie to them. Not like this. And my career—”

“Is already in the gutter, is it not?” Graham’s words are a strike to the heart. “This is the best way forward, Bellamy.”

I look at him—his open, handsome face, with eyes that strip away all of my outer defenses and leave me panting and breathless. The pressure mounts against my temples. I have to get out from under it at any cost. “Fine.” I throw the word at him like a poisoned dart. “Fine. I’ll go along with it.” The tension in my head releases.

Graham grins. “I promise I’ll make it worthwhile.”