American Queen

Embry’s fucking his way through the Beltway elite aside, he’s seemed more attached to Ash and me than ever since the State Dinner. At night, he’ll leave whatever party or gala he’s at and join us at the Residence, freshly fucked and still wearing a rumpled suit or tuxedo, and watch television with us or help me sort through medieval research. On Sunday mornings, he’s there next to us in church, and on Sunday afternoons he’s stretched out on the sofa in the Residence living room, yelling about football with Ash, and teasing me about Nathaniel Hawthorne or whichever American writer we’ve decided to hate that day. In the mornings, when I’m getting ready to sneak out of the Residence without being seen, Embry is there with coffee and a newspaper, and the three of us share a quiet breakfast before the sun breaks over the horizon, sipping coffee and waking up for the day. Embry’s sewn himself into the rhythms of our days, so much so that whenever he’s gone, it feels like something’s unraveled.

And through all that, Ash and I still haven’t slept together. Something that bothers me more and more every day.

No man can take things that slow, trust me. Not unless he’s getting it from somewhere else.

Ugh.

I push Morgan’s words out of my head and try to focus on my popcorn and cranberry garland. Try to focus on how happy I am to be here, snowbound and as alone with Ash and Embry as I’ve ever been. I get to have them both to myself for an entire day and night, and I mean to enjoy every minute of it.

“Anyway,” Ash says after a minute, going back to our conversation about the treaty, “I think I mostly convinced the senators we need.”

“Convinced is a kind word for it,” I tease. He’s spent the last five weeks meeting personally with every senator on his list, wooing, cajoling, threatening, leveraging—you name it, Ash has done it in the last five weeks in order to keep the United States from going back to war. “I hear some congressmen are actually physically frightened of you right now.”

Ash shrugs, but he smiles down at his garland. “Whatever works.”

“No work talk,” Embry complains, flinging an arm over his face. His voice is muffled when he speaks again. “I hate work.”

“Says the man who read the daily briefing out loud to us in the car.”

“I did it to stop you from playing more of that awful music,” Embry says from under his arm.

“Christmas music?”

A muffled groan. “Yesssss.”

“Bah humbug,” Ash says, leaning down to bite off the string with his teeth. He makes a knot at the end of the garland and then puts his needle on the table. “Are you going to help us hang these up or what?”

“What do you think?”

But then he heaves himself off the couch and helps us anyway, criticizing our garland placement before pushing us out of the way and doing it himself. Ash laughs and pulls me back, standing behind me and wrapping his arms around my stomach. He rests his chin on my shoulder. “This should be every Christmas.”

Embry scoffs, long fingers plucking at the garland to make it drape evenly along the boughs. “Shitty decorations and the three of us bickering?”

I feel Ash smile, feel the genuine longing in his voice when he answers. “Yes.”

That afternoon, as the snow lets up and the December sunlight begins to wane over the woods, Ash asks me to go on a walk. Embry is stretched out on the floor asleep after a lazy afternoon watching A Christmas Story and drinking scotch; there’s a white puff stuck in his hair from when I threw popcorn kernels at him to try and wake him up.

“He’ll be fine,” Ash says, handing me my coat. “He never gets to nap since I forced him to run for office with me. We should let him sleep.”

I pull the coat on and wind a scarf around my neck, which Ash uses to tug me close enough to kiss. “You’re beautiful,” he murmurs. “Even all bundled up.”

I press my lips to his, letting him part my lips with his own. I taste him—all mint and scotch and a hint of popcorn—and sigh happily. But when we pull apart, there’s something resigned in his face.

“Ash?” I ask. “Is something wrong?”

He looks at me for a long moment, his brow creased and that gorgeous mouth turned down at the corners. He doesn’t answer my question. Instead, he says, “Let’s go on that walk.”

After a brief word to Luc, the lead agent on duty, we head out to the woods, following a narrow trail into the trees. The snow is deep and thick, untouched, and walking through it soon has our breath coming out in huge puffs of smoke. Ash looks like a model in his scarf and wool coat, belted jeans and boots. For a moment, I stop walking and just look at him as he continues ahead, long legs making easy work of the snow.

How is this my life? Stringing garlands with the President, watching the Vice President fall asleep like a teenaged boy on the floor? It feels so surreal, dreamlike, like I fell asleep in my office at Georgetown and conjured this new life for myself.

Ash notices I’m not with him and turns to me. “What is it, little princess?”

“Nothing.” I shake my head and smile. “Just thinking about how blessed I am.”

This should make Ash smile in return, make him happy, but instead there’s a new shadow in his eyes. He walks back to me and takes my hand, the leather of our gloves creaking together in the cold. “This way,” he says, pointing to an opening through the trees. “There’s a spot I like right through there.”