“You’re fucking with me.”

I never thought, in all my life, that I’d be calling my brother a fucking asshole in the Oval Office.

Yet here we are.

I did exactly as Andrew asked. I pulled the attention of the press. My engagement is all over the papers, all over the Internet—and nobody can get enough of the shot of Bellamy and me at the party, her laughing in my arms.

We look like we’re in love

And in that moment, who knows? Maybe I was a little in love with her. Maybe my heart leapt at the sight of those gray eyes, filled with joy and surprise. Maybe, at the end of the night, I wanted to kiss her again; kiss her so hard and deep, she’d never want to leave my arms.

Maybe.

But no—I’m not in love with Bellamy Leighton. Nothing real can come out of such a thoroughly false situation. Childhood taught me that.

So, it isn’t love. It can only be want. Want that makes my tongue dry and my cock hard as steel.

None of that factors into this meeting.

Andrew stands in front of the Resolute Desk, hands in his pockets. I wonder if he planned that—the standing. He’s right, in a way. I’m not going to stand in front of his desk while he sits there like a king. “I need more time.”

“You need more time. Right.” A pull, a twist in my chest, hot with anger. “And because you need more time, I have to upend my life?” I take my phone out of my pocket and scroll through it with obvious swipes at the screen, then flip it toward him. “Here’s my banking app, if this is really about money. Are you concerned about losing major donors, for some unknown fucking reason? You want a campaign donation for the next term? Name the amount.”

“Jesus, Graham, it’s not about money.”

“Then what the fuck do you want me to move to New York for?”

“It’s not permanent.”

“Sorry. Why the fuck do you want me to go to New York for a year?”

“I need the press to be focused there. On wedding plans, and a brand-new life.”

“That can happen here. It’s working here.”

“It’s working for the moment. How long do you think you can go without the press discovering that you live in separate apartments?”

“Oh, fuck off. There are a million reasons we would live separately. We can tell them she’s religious.”

Andrew raises his eyebrows.

“We can tell them I’m religious.”

He laughs out loud.

I’m not laughing.

“I don’t get it, Andrew. This is exactly what you wanted. Why can’t we let this fade into oblivion?” Because if she laughs like that in my arms one more time, I might not be able to stop myself from falling.

“Because I have to protect—” He cuts himself off. “I have to protect the country. You know that.”

“From what? Every presidency has its rumors. Every single one has its scandals—”

“Damn it, Graham, not this one!” He breaks. His self-control cracks, red rushing to his face.

My ears ring from the sheer volume of his voice. Is this it? Are the Secret Service agents going to come rushing in and defuse the situation? I glance out the windows, into the Rose Garden. One of them has a hand to an earpiece, but otherwise, they’re perfectly still.

The silence carries echoes of Andrew’s thundering yell. He never yells. The fact that he has—the fact that he’s already at the brink—makes me back off.

But there’s more to this than he’s telling me.

Andrew takes a breath in through his nose and moves on, as if nothing had happened. “The rumors are dying out, but they’re not dead yet.” His voice is deadly calm. “I need you to go to New York and focus the attention there. It will mean press interviews. It will mean public outings. You’ve got to sell this, Graham. I’m asking you personally.”

“Yes, but you’re also ordering me to. As the President of the United States.”

“However you want to see it.” A glimmer of exhaustion peeks through the bravado, through the poise. It’s barely two months into his presidency and I can already see it wearing on him. I hate how easily I can empathize. Not with the responsibility of the office—I’ll never identify with that—but with the way things can multiply until the very weight of it keeps you up at night.

I pout at him. “That’s it then? I don’t get a White House wedding?”

He smirks. “You’d never want a White House wedding.”

“Who’s to say?” I shrug one shoulder. “With the right woman...”

“Are you so certain Bellamy’s not?”

The sound of her name on his lips makes me want to take his shirt in my hands and shake him. It’s a powerful, possessive urge, but I only stick my hands in my pockets. “Of course I’m certain.”

“It didn’t look like a show at the engagement party. I was half wondering if we might be on the verge of planning a real wedding.”

I’m still buzzing with the high of how mortified my mother was at our kiss.

“It was a special performance, just for you.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“Ask and ye shall receive.”

“Ugh.” Andrew leans back against the Resolute Desk and crosses his arms, studying the seal of the President on the rug at our feet. “You made it look real.”

A strange urge tickles the back of my mind, but I dismiss it. “Anyone can make anything look real. Take our parents, for example.”

“What?”

“They made a convincing case for being happy for me at the engagement party.”

Andrew nods, slowly, as if he doesn’t realize he’s doing it. “Illusions,” he says cryptically. “They can be powerful.”

“No shit.” I straighten up and adjust my tie. “When this is all over, you’re going to pay me back. This New York City shit is above and beyond, Mr. President.”

“You’ll have my eternal gratitude.”

“You do remember there are two people who have to agree to this, right? There’s no guarantee Bellamy will want to leave everything behind.”

Andrew gives me a half-grin that makes my own lip curl. “You might be surprised.”