“Fuck off.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but the skin around Andrew’s eyes tightens and tenses. He looks like there’s an even larger stick up his ass than when I first walked into the Residence.

“Excuse me?”

“Fuck off, Mr. President. There, is that better?” I’m currently playing a man who doesn’t care at all about pissing off his older brother. That’s all he is, in the long run—another fully-grown product of our father’s sperm and one very lucky egg, courtesy of our mother. It doesn’t mean we have to be close.

I don’t care, and yet my heart rattles in my rib cage like it always did when I confronted him when I was younger. That prick. All I wanted was some of what he had, and he never let a scrap slip through his fingers. Not once.

No, Andrew has always had exactly what he wanted. Now he’s got the entire country by the balls. The Residence still smells like fresh paint. Everything in here seems new but heavy enough to be heirloom quality. Powerful without being pretentious. It’s exactly my brother’s style.

He sighs. “This problem could be more easily solved if we could both—”

I tilt my head back and look at the ceiling. “Spare me the teamwork lecture.”

“It’s not a lecture, Graham. It’s the truth.”

“Oh? Are we working as a team when you poach all my best people for your White House staff?”

Andrew cocks his head to the side. “What are you talking about?”

“My latest venture? You probably haven’t heard of it, because all anyone’s talked about for the last two years, is you. How about you become a team player and tell your team not to call anyone who works for me? That would make things even, I’d think.”

“I don’t know who you’re talking about, but this is bigger than whether someone wants to work in the West Wing. You know that.”

I hate talking to Andrew, especially behind closed doors like this. The creeping sensation that he’s better, wiser, and more beloved sank its claws into me years ago, and it’s never fully released its grip. Why would it? As the years have gone on, he’s only become more perfect. God. The President of the United States.

He has everything, but he still can’t leave me alone.

“I’m not willing to cooperate.” I have other things to do. Being my brother’s lackey is not high on my priority list. That was all supposed to end after the campaign, anyway. Resume your private life, they’d said. Let the new administration do its work.

I’d done that, and look where it got me. Right back in the center of Andrew’s hard stare, feeling like a fucking kid.

Andrew’s jaw works. “That’s very adult of you. Especially after it was my people who shut down coverage on the party you went to last night.”

“That was very altruistic of you. I’m sure it had nothing to do with how your piece of shit little brother might reflect poorly on your reputation.”

“He is acting like a piece of shit.”

Aha. So I’m not the only one.

I put my hands in my pockets and stand up straight. “Now that we have that cleared up, I’ll see myself out.”

Lunch. Lunch is in order, someplace with mood lighting and a waitress who will make sure my glass is never empty. I wish more of my friends from New York lived in D.C., but I can make do. There’s always Ry O’Connors. He never turns down an invitation.

“Jesus, Graham. Hear me out.”

“I heard you.” I toss the words over my shoulder. “I’m not interested. I have a lot of work to attend to, and—”

“Stop walking.”

“It was lovely to see you, Andrew. Call me again sometime.” I wave over my shoulder, and then there’s an almighty crash. Andrew wraps his fist around my lapel and turns me to face him.

“Can you fucking hear me? I said stop walking.” Andrew’s blue eyes are roiling like the sea. Cold anger, yes, but something else too...

I look down at his hand on my clothes, like it’s an insect. “That’s very adult of you.”

He lets go, and I step back, brushing at my coat like he’s injured it. Two points of color highlight his cheeks, and my inner teenager cackles with delight. Finally, finally, I’m having an impact. “Hear what I have to say, Graham.”

I take a deep breath and straighten my tie. “What else could there be? I’ve already expressed my opinion on your half-assed plan to save the nation from my picture on the tabloids.”

He lets out a burst of laughter that’s as sharp as a diamond. “You think I give a shit about your picture being in the tabloids? No, Graham, it’s bigger than that. The allegations of hiring a prostitute—”

“I didn’t hire a prostitute.”

“—the allegations will be enough to have people pointing the finger at me. The first bachelor president anybody can remember. If Congress gets obsessed with it, then—”

“That’s fucking absurd and you know it. What I do has no bearing on your personal life.” I have no idea what Andrew’s personal life is like, if he even has one. For as long as I can remember, he’s been the poster boy for working hard and following the path laid out for him by our parents.

“It’s not my personal life I’m concerned about.” Andrew’s face is impassive now, his tone flat and even. “It’s my political agenda. I can’t have it derailed by scandal. By a brother who’s out soliciting prostitutes and then fighting with them in public.”

I can’t imagine him sitting down with a guy like Ry O’Connors and letting himself enjoy even one thing. A beer, maybe. God knows. He’d probably ruin it for the entire bar.

“That’s a totally inaccurate description of—”

The stony expression on his face falls away. “Damn it, Graham, shut your fucking mouth for five seconds. Even the rumor could take focus away from my administration’s agenda. People will assume that we’re similar because we’re brothers.” He says it in such a strained tone that I feel a dull thud of pain somewhere in the region of my heart.

“Everybody knows you don’t hire whores.”

“They don’t. And if they so much as suspect—”

“Honestly, Andrew, this sounds like a problem made for you alone. So, if you don’t mind—”

“I need this from you.”

It’s a simple admission. No pretense. No bluster. Nothing. It has the ring of truth.

“What?”

“I need you to do this for the country. For the stability of the country.”

“I think the country will be fine, whether I pretend to date some law student or not.”

Andrew sighs and rubs at his forehead with thumb and forefinger. Deep underneath my resentment, a seedling of empathy sprouts. He looks tired, I realize for the first time. Those bags under his eyes—they’ve only gotten deeper since the campaign. “Fine,” he admits. “It’s also personal.”

Now this is interesting.

“You barely have a personal life. What the hell could this possibly be about?”

He looks me square in the eye. “I can’t...tell you right now. But trust me when I say that if I could risk this on the next few news cycles, I would.”

“Why don’t you tell me anyway, so I can make an informed decision? Or at least tell me that you’ll have your people stop calling my offices.”

“Please, Graham.” Andrew folds his arms across his chest and glances down at the carpet, and all the trappings of the office fall away—the confidence, the bravado, the honor. He’s just my older brother, asking me for a favor. “I’ll do my best. Will you?”

I’m going to regret this.