“For god’s sake, Jameson. It’s a coffee shop, not a whorehouse.”

It’s ten in the morning and I’ve had enough.

It’s not Jameson’s fault that my brother won the election by a landslide and is currently sitting behind the Resolute Desk in the White House, showing the world a new era of strength and responsibility.

It is Jameson’s fault that he became a Secret Service agent.

Wherever the fault lies, I’m still stinging from being unceremoniously shoved onto a commercial plane this morning at seven thirty “by order of the President.”

Fuck that guy.

It wasn’t my idea for him to run for office, and yet I’m here, making a public appearance nobody wants except Andrew Blackpool, the 46th president of the United States. He’s more than the president, clearly. Might as well crown him the king of the world.

My phone buzzes with a message from my man on the ground at Accelerated Governance, my best and brightest venture. Henry Newlin.

It pops up just under a news alert about increasing unrest in Bahara, a tiny country wedged between Bulgaria and Greece that will never have the slightest effect on my life.

Penny left for the White House—resignation came in this morning

I close my eyes and contain my rage into a neat little box at the center of my chest.

In addition to being the president, he’s also poaching all my best employees. If he keeps this up, I’ll never get this political incubator off the ground. And that’s the entire reason I came to D.C. in the first place.

Jameson West, the agent who drew the shortest stick on the planet, says nothing, his face impassive. This is probably for the best. The last thing he said was, “President Blackpool wanted you to keep decorum in mind,” as we got out of the car a moment ago, not a hint of snark in his voice. Fresh from the fucking airport and I’m already getting trotted around like a show pony. One party gone a little wild in the first hundred days, and I might as well be in federal prison.

“He should keep decorum in mind and stop poaching my people.”

A crowd is gathering. It’s a scraggly, half-assed thing. People who aren’t sure they want to be there at all, mixed in with people whose mouths hang open while they watch. They’re not here for my face, that’s for sure, but everyone in D.C. can recognize a Secret Service agent. Maybe I should hire someone to walk ahead of me with a banner that has my name and origin.

Jameson does a quick scan of the street. It’s cold as balls out here, and I shove my hands in my pockets. He clears his throat. “And Mr. Kelting wanted to remind you—”

“It’s a coffee shop.” Listen, I know that ‘total prick’ isn’t the best look for me. I know it. But what do all these people think is going to happen in a coffee shop? “I can handle it.”

It’s as if I haven’t spoken. “—that the best option for this appearance is to smile and greet the employees individually.”

“Oh, really? All of them?” It’s a hole-in-the-wall coffee shop on the outer edges of the District, stuffed into the ground floor of a building that looms above us, taking up half the sky. The facade is all fresh paint and jaunty little flower boxes, like the entire city has been made over for my brother. Half the sidewalk is taken up with rickety metal tables that’ll freeze your ass in the winter and brand it in the summer. I’ve never been here before in my life and I’ll never come back. “Do you have a list of names?”

“Not at this time, sir.”

Jameson never rises to the bait. Not once since the election has he let my jagged comments so much as scratch him. He, unlike me, is a consummate professional in this situation. His job is to ferry various assholes from place to place without them getting killed. Or, in my case, causing a scene. I want to hate him, but I have to admire his insistence on protocol.

I’m being one of those assholes right now. That’s what I hate. Being cornered into this ugly mood.

It’s not Jameson’s fault that my brother is a full-blown tyrant now.

No, that’s not funny. He’s not a tyrant. He’s a good president. So far, at least. He’s been in office one month and already his administration is attacking their list of priorities. For some reason, today’s priority is that I should visit a coffee shop in Forest Hills and make nice for the press.

The directive from Andrew didn’t say explicitly that I’m supposed to stay out of trouble. I gathered that for myself.

A little old couple joins the edge of the crowd. I pull myself together. I’m too old to let my brother get under my skin. I give the old lady a little smile and a wave, like I’m the spare prince, and her cheeks go pink.

“Did our buddy Brian have any other...information about the plan for inside? Is there a specific way he’d like me to order my coffee?” This time, I keep my tone light, joking, though Brian’s existence is like sandpaper on delicate skin. Brian Kelting is my own personal White House Public Relations officer. It’s my understanding that he’s the one in charge of everything I do for the next four years. For reputation reasons. For security reasons. You name them, my brother has them.

And nobody dares go against my brother.

Least of all, me.

Jameson consults his phone. “He mentioned that that preliminary polling suggested a preference for black coffee.”

I fight off the urge to walk away from this place, melt into the crowd, and never return. If I did that, Jameson would be obligated to follow me. As it stands, he has a certain moral duty to throw himself in front of any bullet fired at me, and I’m not making it easier.

“I’m sorry for being a douchebag, Jameson.”

For my efforts, I’m rewarded with a twitch of his lip—his professional smile. “No problem, sir.”

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?”

This is Jameson’s big chance to remind me that this is an opportunity to make headway with the American people. He doesn’t take it. “Yes, sir.”

A camera shutter clicks from someplace close. The photographers will be courtesy of my father, or at least one of his many media empires stretching across the nation. Hand in glove, he and my brother. I ignore it like I tried to ignore the fact of my brother’s existence.

That didn’t work out for either of us.

We go in.

There are three other agents with us, but two are in plainclothes. I honestly couldn’t say which people are patrons and which are agents, because I’m not paying attention. Why would I? This is all a farce. One of them is outside, probably, milling with the people craning their necks to see through the front window. Anything for a glimpse of a guy who might be the president’s naughty playboy brother.

Inside, I inhale the scent of ground coffee. It’s a half and half mix in here—warm air and coffee beans. It’s tiny, so every time the grinder fires up, an explosion of coffee dust hits us in the face. So very, very cozy. Benches run along the side walls with cushions in bright, modern patterns. Tables and chairs made of beech and maple line up in neat rows. The counter’s a burst of bright red against the pristine white walls.

I could vomit.

Instead, I put a smile on my face—a closed-lip, impersonal, public smile—and I let all of them see it. The couple in the back corner. The two ladies who look like they came from yoga class. And the girl behind the counter.

I dismiss her immediately. There’s nobody special in these places, and even if there were, they wouldn’t be my type. This girl is wearing a red polo shirt with the Capitol Bean logo above the pocket, and her honey-colored hair is swept up into a bun that rises above the bill of her visor.

She taps at the register. What is she doing? She’s not taking an order. Not at this moment. We close in on the counter. Her hand is trembling a bit.

I open my mouth to order a black coffee, and she straightens up.

The visor lifts.

My heart stops.

My brain must have been protecting me, back five seconds ago, when all I saw was a shapeless mass in a red polo shirt, topped off with some decent hair.

She’s not decent. She’s arresting.

Big blue eyes, verging on violent. Perky little lips, heart-shaped and pink. And a fine blush of red across her cheeks. The look on her face—Christ, the look on her face is so full of expectation that I can’t breathe. What is she expecting from me? The particular contours of that face make me forget. They make me forget the stupid objectives for today. They make me forget that having more money than I know what to do with couldn’t buy me out of this bullshit.

I'm as close to godless as they come, but I swear, I’m seeing the face of an angel.