I’ve had too much to drink.

I know I’ve had too much, because the ring on my finger—delicate and perfect—feels absolutely right. All of this feels absolutely right. The couples dancing in the East Room of the White House to a string quintet. The tuxedoed waiters circulating through the crowd, little delicacies on silver trays. The expensive champagne, bubbles dancing on my tongue.

And Graham.

Graham is always next to me, and even when he steps away to shake hands with various senators and campaign contributors, he’s always back before the photographers.

This time, there is no photographer.

He sweeps in with a smile and bends his lips to my ear. “There are swimming pigs on an island in the Bahamas.”

It’s so incongruous, so wonderfully, delightfully strange, that I throw my head back and laugh. Graham laughs too, one hand on my waist. Flash.

“That was good timing.” I let the laugh fall away, ignoring the twinge of disappointment in the center of my chest. I’m in a good mood. A great mood. Tonight feels so real. It felt so natural that Graham would want to make me laugh in the center of all this pomp and circumstance, but of course—of course it wasn’t for me. It was for the cameras. “I didn’t see that one.” I shake it off and smile up at him. He was right. This can be fun.

The happiness fades from his eyes as we turn away from the photographer and blend back in with the crowd, but his grin stays. I hate it. “You look happy,” he murmurs into my ear. “Did you forget?”

“Forget what?”

“That this is all a fucking performance.” His voice has a jagged edge, laced with pain. There it is, that needle prick of pain beneath my breastbone, puncturing the senseless joy of this evening. I agonized over it. I lost sleep, deciding whether to take things this far, especially in light of my mother. It seemed so much easier when I said yes; a weight lifted from my shoulders, and now, now that I’m enjoying this, he has to go and say that.

I clench my teeth to keep my jaw from quivering. “You don’t have to be mean.”

He turns me toward him, eyes searching, eyebrows raised. “Did I hurt your feelings?” There’s a note of genuine bewilderment is tone.

“I’m not made of fucking stone.” I look away from his eyes because they’re making me even more drunk than I already am. “And I didn’t forget. Jesus. I was only trying to do what you said.”

“What did I say?”

“That it’s not against the rules to have a good time.” Wine or not, he did say that to me at the Kennedy Center. Right before he made me turn as red as the dress I wore, heat burning in my cheeks.

He lets out a breath and tugs me in a little closer. “It’s not. I’m sorry.” It soothes the ache in my chest, hearing him say those words—even if they’re part of the act. Graham waves a hand at the knot of people we’re about to approach, twenty feet and a world away. “All of this sets me off.”

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Graham Blackpool, offering personal information? Up until now, he’s been precisely casual with me—casual in a way that makes my soul burn. At events, we talk about surface-level bullshit, like how things were at law school—they were fine; soul-crushing, but ultimately fine—and a new office building he’s looking to buy. We never discuss his family. We never discuss his emotions.

“Which part, exactly?” I try to keep my voice neutral, but I’ve had enough champagne that it’s anyone’s guess whether I pull it off.

“My brother.” He sighs. “My parents.”

They’re in the center of that knot, and even from here, I can pick up fragments of their story. They’re talking about Graham.

“Shocked he amounted to a business success” floats over on the air, along with, “Doing quite well for himself now” and, “This will be the motivation he needs to take it to the next level.”

“What the hell?” I whisper it under my breath, but Graham hears me. They were so nice at The Inn at Little Washington. Either that, or I misjudged them completely. “They’re talking shit about you at your own engagement party?”

He rolls his eyes. “Those are compliments. They’re so proud that I’ll finally be able to take it to the next level, whatever that means.”

“Your businesses are worth billions of dollars.” I pick up another glass of champagne from the tray of a passing waiter and sip on it thoughtfully. “That wasn’t enough for them?”

“Look this way.” Graham puts his hands on my shoulders and turns me forty-five degrees to the right, pointing me at a different section of the crowd.

Andrew Blackpool is at the center, tall and finely featured, blue eyes tired but alight. Andrew, unlike Graham, resembles his mother—and the ladies can’t get enough of it. His black tuxedo is like a magnet for women in jewel-toned gowns. They surround him like a harem, leaning in close, but not close enough to draw the attention of the Secret Service.

“Oh.” His grip on my shoulders tightens and a shiver of pleasure quakes down my spine. I turn back to face him, staying carefully within arm’s reach. “I’m a little jealous, honestly.”

“Of Andrew?” He doesn’t look convinced.

“Of you. Of—” More laughter from Graham’s parents. God, are they always so loud? “I think they’re being pretty shitty at the moment, but at least they can be here.”

He has the grace to look a little horrified. “Oh, God, and we didn’t invite your parents.”

“No. No way.” I shake my head to underscore the point and make myself dizzy. I lean into Graham’s arm. “She couldn’t have come anyway.”

He puts a hand to his forehead. “I am really fucking this up.”

“I know.” I drag a finger down the front of his shirt and hook it between two buttonholes. “This isn’t the best performance we’ve ever done.”

“They’re loving it.” He tilts his head toward his parents. “Here I am, being an unholy prick, and they’re perfectly calm.”

“Let’s ruffle some feathers then.”

Graham raises his eyebrows. “How do you mean?”

I am buzzed and looking beautiful. I am in the East Room of the White House, doing a personal favor to the President. I am Bellamy fucking Leighton, and I can do whatever I want. And in this moment, it finally feels like Graham and I are on a team. It’s us against the world. It’s the performance of a lifetime.

So, I hook my hand behind his neck and tug him in for a kiss.

It’s not a kiss on the cheek, or a lips-closed connection, like we do for the cameras. It’s desperate and needy and raw, and I invite him in.

It’s like a match to Tinder.

His hands go around my waist, and he nips at my bottom lip like a man unleashed.

It takes a moment, but the bubble of silence around us grows, leaving only the sound of the string quintet and his mouth against mine, my heart beating into my ears, the low noise I make in the back of my throat. Fuck, he’s a good kisser.

It consumes me.

And then, like the tide rushing back in, the applause begins.