Ronan

“Can we get some shots of the Montgomery boys with Vice President Darlington’s daughter?” A photographer with the Des Moines Register lifts the camera attached to a strap around her neck and smiles. “Just a few photos to go with the interview.”

“What interview?” I glance at Lydia.

My mother and father stand across the small reception room in the state capitol building, shaking hands and grinning. My father places a palm on the shoulders attached to every hand he shakes, smiling more with his eyes than anything else. When he speaks, he emphasizes with a relaxed fist, a move perfected in the Clinton-era when my father was a mere New York governor.

“The one your mother set up,” Lydia leans into me, keeping her voice low and smiling at the photographer.

“Okay, I’d like Lydia to be front and center.” The woman with the camera points. “Keir and Ronan, if you could flank her sides, and then we’ll get one of just Ronan and Lydia.”

My body burns. “I don’t believe that will be necessary.”

Keir chuckles, his brows lifting as he refuses to meet my gaze. If this is some kind of joke, I’m certainly not in on it.

“Everyone’s rooting for you two.” The lady flashes a controlled smile and a wink, as if she’s referring to some secret she heard. “Don’t worry, we won’t say it’s official until it’s official.”

“Excuse me.” I clear my throat, tugging at the knot in my tie, which has suddenly grown several centimeters too tight. Pushing past, the three of them, I make a bee line for my mother, only I’m stopped by one of my father’s Secret Service agents.

“Sorry. Can’t interrupt. They’re finishing an interview,” he says.

“This will only take a minute.”

His palm on my shoulder prevents me from stepping past him, and my good manners prevent me from causing a scene.

“Ronan, what are you doing?” Lydia taps my back, and I can hear the faux smile in her voice. She’s putting on a good face around all these reporters and local political heavyweights. “Come, let’s finish our pictures. It’ll only take a second.”

“What exactly did you say in the interview that made them want a picture of the two of us?” My jaw tightens and my lips pull into a straight line.

Lydia slinks a hand on her narrow hip and leans closer. “I only said what your mother told me to say.”

I release a heavy breath, massaging my temples.

“She said to give them hope.” Lydia shrugs. “So that’s what I did. I may have implied that you and me are trying our best to work things out and that the future’s unwritten, but we’re optimistic that love will find a way.”

“That’s a goddamn joke.”

She drags her hands along my lapels, the way my mother often does, and straightens my tie.

“You’re my JFK, and I’m your Jackie O.” She sighs. “I see us having a beautiful life together, Ronan. Two perfect kids. Eight years in the White House. And at the end of the day, what we choose to do behind closed doors will be our own business.”

“What are you saying?”

She shrugs, glancing around the room before returning her attention to me. “I want your name, Ronan. I want your children. I want everything that goes along with that. But I’m not meant to be monogamous. I don’t think anyone is.”

“First and foremost, Lydia, I will not ever marry you. And secondly, what little respect I have for you completely disintegrated the second you admitted you’re more than happy to let your future husband cheat on you.” I smirk. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

She sniffs. “You think your parents have a perfect, happy marriage? You think your father doesn’t have his fingers three knuckles deep inside every perky-assed college intern that so much as smiles at him?”

“The inside of my parents’ marriage has nothing to do with me, and I will not sit here and discuss those things with you, of all people.”

“Your parents’ marriage has everything to do with you. You’re a Montgomery. You’ve been raised to project a very specific image your entire life.” She points to my parents, who stand side by side, their body language synchronized and loving gazes on their modestly Botoxed faces. “And look at them. You’ve had thirty years to study under the best.”

“Not interested, Lydia.” I pull in a tight breath. “Now, who do I talk to to make sure that interview goes away?”

“Good luck.” She scoffs and struts off, cornering my brother because God forbid that Lydia Darlington goes five minutes without attention from a man.

* * *

I’m buried deep inside Camille, my outstretched hand skimming her taut belly as it caves under my touch. Her back is arched as she straddles my cock, her lips parted just so as her hips buck and coax every last pulse from her delicious climax.

She leans forward, keeping me sheathed inside her clenched pussy, and rests her cheek against my rising and falling chest. A satisfied sigh escapes her mouth, and the lift of her cheeks tells me she’s smiling.

“I’ve waited all day for that.” Camille tucks a loose, dark wave behind her ear and closes her eyes.

We linger a moment longer, both of us catching our breaths, before she carefully climbs off me and slides to her belly. With her chin resting on top of one hand, she trails her fingertips down the center of my smooth chest and back.

“I thought we’d see a movie tonight.” My arm uncurls and she rolls to her side, scooting into it. I’ve never been one for post-coital cuddling, but it’s different with her. There’s less pressure, less wondering how long that warm burst of euphoria will last.

“Like a date?” she asks.

“Something like that,” I say. “Just thought it’d be nice to get out of the hotel for a little bit. Do the things we don’t get to do back home.”

“Yeah, sure. What movie do you want to see?”

“I don’t even know what’s out.” I laugh at the fact that I’m completely out of touch with something so quintessentially American. “We can sneak in after the lights are down, sneak out before the end-credits.”

“Okay, yeah. Let’s do it.” She sits up, her sex hair falling in her face until she brushes it away. Camille bites her full lips and slowly slides off the bed. The sway of her ass as she walks to the bathroom is intentional, meant for my enjoyment. Before she closes the bathroom door, she turns to me and flashes a half-smile. “You’re welcome.”

Once the door shuts, I stretch my arms above my head and roll to my side, running my hand along the imprint in her spot. She’s the sexiest woman I’ve ever had the pleasure of fucking. I can’t imagine I’ll ever find another who can take her rightful title.

I’ll admit my original intentions with Camille were superficial, driven purely by selfish reasons. Another man had her. I wanted her for myself. The harder I worked to find her, the more I wanted her. It was basic human nature at first. But the more time I spend with her, the more I resent the fact that she can only ever be mine behind closed doors.

The door pulls open and Camille steps out fully clothed, her hair combed into place and a slick of crimson on her bee-stung pout.

“I’m ready.” She smiles and waves her hands in the air as if she’s embarrassed to have gotten dolled up.

I move from the bed to her, taking her hands and placing them on my hips as I kiss her forehead.

“You look beautiful, Camille. It’s a shame we’ll be sitting in the dark the rest of the night.” I sigh. “I’d love nothing more than to show you off, let every other man know that this is what I get to spend my cold winter nights with.”

She lifts on her toes, kissing my lips.

“It’s all the same just to hear you say that,” she says. “Every woman deserves to be shown off by a man who adores her. I know you can’t, but knowing you want to means just as much.”

She slinks away, her hands dragging across my bare skin.

* * *

It feels good to be “normal.” To do “normal” things like “normal” people. Driving a car. Going to the movies. Fucking a beautiful woman who doesn’t have a pedigree attached to her last name.

Camille buckles her seatbelt and pulls the visor down to check her lipstick. Running the pads of her fingertips down her loose waves, she twists them into place and turns to me.

“Ready?” I start the car. We pull out of a parking garage and head south to a little movie house known for more artistic, independent selections.

We wait in the heat-blasting warmth of the car when we get there, watching the clock until it reads ten minutes past our show time. I keep a fedora low on my head and hand her a fifty for some tickets and concessions, and we sneak into the theater just in time for the opening credits.

Finding a spot in the very back row, we settle in, blending with the rest of the world for two full hours.

By the time the movie finishes, we practically run out of a side exit, laughing as if we’re being chased. Cold turns our breath into clouds as I dig for my keys, staring into her eyes as she waits patiently by the passenger door.

For the first time all week, I allow myself to think about Camille.

Really think about her.

“Come on, it’s cold!” She bounces up and down, her crimson lips spread wide as puffs of fog evaporate into the frigid night air.

A thin layer of ice covers the windshield, deposited by Mother Nature while we sat snugly inside a heated movie theater. Unlocking the car, she climbs inside and rubs her hands together, cupping them around her mouth and blowing into them.

I start the car, crank the heat, and turn on the defrost, turning to search the back seat.

“You’d think a rental car in Iowa would come standard with an ice scraper.” I pop the trunk, climb out and check there.

Nothing.

Hopping back inside, the heat coming from the top of the dash is barely putting a dent in the layer of ice outside.

“Guess we’ll just have to wait until it all melts.” Camille shrugs, leaning back into her seat and making herself comfortable.

“Did you enjoy the movie?” I ask.

She nods. “I don’t think I’ve laughed so much in a long time. You?”

I slick my hands together and bring them to my mouth. “Yes.”

The plot of the movie escapes me. After a while, I tuned it out. For whatever reason, my mind preferred to focus on her tonight. I spent a solid fifteen minutes debating on whether or not to put my arm around her and another twenty trying to decide if holding her hand would send the wrong message. By the time I decided to play it safe and keep my hands to myself, I’d missed the first plot twist and subsequently found myself lost.

So I opted to watch her from the corner of my eye the rest of the time. She’d take a single kernel of popcorn at a time, devour it slowly, and drag her fingers across a napkin before taking another. Her legs were crossed as she leaned toward me, and when the screen would light up at times and the rest of the audience would laugh, I’d watch for her smile.

A thin streak of melted ice lines the bottom of the windshield. It’s going to be a while. I turn the dial on the radio, searching for something in the middle of the music spectrum because I’ve absolutely no idea what kind of music Camille likes.

“Oh, I love that song.” She places her hand on mine to stop me from changing the station. I pull away and catch the light in her eyes as she smiles. “Do you remember this song? It came out maybe ten years ago? They played it all summer one year. I swear it was on every channel all day long.”

I shake my head.

“Seriously? It was in that football commercial all fall, too . . .”

I shrug. “I’ve never heard this song in my life.”

Her jaw falls. “What did you listen to in college?”

“NPR.” I slick my hand against the leather steering wheel. “At least when I had time. I spent a lot of semesters overseas. Most of the music I listened to isn’t played in the US.”

“Ah, a cultured man,” she teases. “Please tell me you’ve at least heard of Where’s Waldo.”

I laugh. “That’s random, but yes, I have.”

“Oh, thank God.” Her arm lands on my shoulder. “My roommate, Araminta, still to this day has never seen a Where’s Waldo book.”

“My parents used to give those to my brother when they needed him to sit still for a solid twenty minutes,” I say. “It was a good way to keep an eight-year-old out of trouble in a pinch.”

Another inch-long strip of the ice melts, and the layer above is starting to crack like paper thin icebergs, sliding down the glass in clumps.

“What did they do to keep you out of trouble?” she asks.

I sniff, my brows arching. “They never had to do anything. I always listened. Did what I was told.”

“You never did anything bad? Not once?”

The corners of my mouth dip as I contemplate her question. “Nothing that I can think of.”

I put a live Maine lobster in Lydia’s bed once when her family visited our Montauk estate. We were teenagers, and for the first time, I was beginning to crush on her. But I won’t share that memory with Camille. Lydia’s name doesn’t belong here in this moment.

“Must be rough being so perfect all the time.” Camille tucks her hands into her coat pockets and rests her head against the back of her seat.

It is . . .

More than she could imagine.

“Did you have a nice childhood?” I ask.

She tucks her shoulder against her chin. “Yeah. It was just my mom, and me, but it was a simple childhood. We didn’t have much, but we didn’t need much.”

“What happened to your father?” I’d been wondering that for quite some time. When we ran a background check on Camille, we couldn’t find any mention of a father. That side of her birth certificate seemed to have been intentionally left blank.

“I wish I knew.” She smiles, though her eyes are misty. It must be a sore subject for her. “My mom said he was a summer fling. Some older man from the DC area who worked in politics and lived in Alexandria. She said he was ten years older than her at the time. And married. With a daughter of his own.”

Her eyes roll as she huffs.

“That could be literally anyone in DC.”

“Exactly.” She sighs. “She refuses to narrow it down. I’ve begged her for a name, a clue, anything. I found a letter tucked under some clothes in the back of her closet once when I was younger. It was a love letter, and it was signed with the letter ‘R’.”

“I can’t imagine how difficult it would be to be missing a chunk of your identity.”

“That’s just it,” she says. “I just want to know who he is. I don’t want to meet him. I sure as hell don’t want to have a relationship with him. If he abandoned us, he doesn’t deserve us. I just want to see his face. See if our eyes match. See where I got this nose. I want to know if I’m German or Irish or Swedish.”

“Is that why you came to DC?” I ask. “Most people who study theater move to New York.”

“I guess so? Maybe. I don’t know. I don’t like thinking about this too much. Can we talk about something else?”

I’ve never had Camille shut down any topic of conversation. Most of the time she’s an open book, fully allowing me to flip page after page with no restrictions whatsoever. This must be where she draws the line.

“Do you want me to help you find him?” I make an offer I know I can’t guarantee. “I won’t make any promises, but I can have someone do some checking around. It’s a huge shot in the dark, but I’m willing to try if you are.”

Her dark eyes widen, and she sits up. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course.”

Before I can check on the windshield situation again, Camille flings her arms around my shoulders, burying her head in my shoulders. I drag the scent of her gardenia perfume into my lungs, enjoying how crisp and clear it is in contrast with the cool, dry air.

The last chunk of ice glides down the wet windshield and lands with a plunk on the hood of the car.

“Let’s head back, shall we?” I say.

Camille returns to her side of the car, strapping in. “You want to sleep over tonight?”

I laugh. “Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. I’m really enjoying your company, Ronan. And it’s our last night here. Not ready for this to end yet.”