Kamal marched into the condo in downtown Washington, DC and went directly to the bar. It had been a bear of a day, beginning with a call from the minister of trade at home, and ending with a bomb threat at the embassy that required an evacuation of all personnel right in the middle of the weekly citizen services session. Now he would need to let all those Egyptian expats and tourists with their passport and visa issues come back tomorrow. It took an entire day out of the staff’s workload each week to deal with the myriad issues that Egyptians traveling and living in the US brought to him.

After pouring himself a generous tumbler of bourbon, he joined two other men at a pool table that was set up in place of the dining room in the small condo. The property wasn’t lived in but rather served as the clubhouse for the exclusive Powerplay club, a group started by Kamal and his best friend, political consultant Derek Ambrose. It was here that a group of five men from carefully selected arenas in Washington came to discuss and create opportunities for each other, as well as problem-solve and trade information.

“Rough day, Sunshine?” a large dark-skinned man wearing a perfectly custom-fitted suit with his tie askew asked as Kamal approached the pool table.

“Bomb threat,” Kamal grunted at his friend Teague Roberts, a partner at one of DC’s most prestigious law firms.

“Third one in six months, isn’t it?” Colonel Jefferson Thibadeux of the US Pentagon asked before chipping in a shot to the corner pocket and causing his opponent, Derek, to curse.

“Yes, and there was a fourth that was debunked before we had to evacuate.”

Derek took a shot and scratched. “Fuck.” He turned to Kamal. “What do you think is going on?”

Kamal took a healthy slug of his drink before sinking into an armchair facing the pool table. “I’m not sure. I’m expecting there to be some opposition to the Millennial Accord, but thus far no one’s spoken up, so I can’t imagine it’s related to that.”

“Is Homeland Security working with you on it?” Jeff asked.

“Yes, for whatever they’re worth. I’d rather have my own people handling it, and technically, we should—embassy property belongs to Egypt. But it’s not worth going to the mat over, so I’m keeping my mouth shut and letting your boys participate.”

Jeff made a hissing sound. “Homeland Security are definitely not my boys. My boys are the ones they call when they finally decide they know who to go after. My boys actually take care of the problem. Homeland Security mostly creates a jumble of red tape and confidential reports.”

Teague and Derek smirked because they knew Kamal hated nothing more than red tape and reports. He wasn’t apologetic about the fact that he much preferred taking control of a situation and making it into what he wanted it to be. As the oldest son of a wealthy and very well-connected Egyptian businessman, he’d been raised with the expectation that he would take care of everything and everyone around him. His younger siblings, his mother, his father’s expectations, and eventually, an entire country.

And there was the secret that Kamal never admitted to anyone, even himself most of the time. The political path he was on wasn’t something he’d picked but rather had been chosen for him by his father.

Mr. Masri had already conquered the frontiers of business and society. He was the wealthiest man in Egypt three years running and had his finger in so many pies—both legitimate and not so legitimate—that even Kamal didn’t have the full picture of the family’s enterprises. But the elder Masri didn’t have the remaining form of power—government. And so it was up to Kamal to secure it for his father, for the family. And being ambassador to the US was the first step.

For the most part, Kamal didn’t mind it. Being in charge of an entire embassy and all of its associated personnel suited his need to manipulate people and environments to his preferences. There was something about taking an organization and rearranging its parts to make them function as smoothly and efficiently as possible that appealed to Kamal, and he felt confident that his way was nearly always the best way.

But the red tape and similar bullshit that went along with running government organizations drove him insane.

Kamal tipped his drink at Jeff. “Here’s to hoping your boys get involved sooner rather than later, then.”

Jeff returned the gesture with his bottle of beer.

“I met with the president today,” Kamal added almost as an afterthought.

“How is Jessica?” Derek asked. “I need to get her endorsement of Melville before the campaign gets too far underway.”

Derek was managing the presidential campaign of a young, good-looking senator who many were already referring to as the new Kennedy.

“The president,” Kamal emphasized her title, “seemed a little out of her element. I’ve never met her in private, only at official functions.”

“What do you mean out of her element?” Teague queried.

Kamal scratched his head, thinking of how to describe what he wanted to. He’d lived in the US since he started college at eighteen, he knew that his perception of things didn’t always sit right with the cultural norms of Americans, so he’d learned to take a breath before saying certain things.

“When I arrived, her chief of staff let me into her office without announcing me first.”

“It’s a casual administration,” Derek confirmed. “I’ve seen it done both ways, it just depends on the president. Personally, I prefer Jessica’s take on it. There’s enough hassle getting there in the first place. Once you’re in the inner sanctum, you shouldn’t have to run a gauntlet to reach the final goal.”

“The thing is, I don’t think the sloppiness of it all is because the president chose it, I think it’s more that she isn’t being given the respect she deserves.”

“You mean by male staffers.” Teague’s words weren’t a question. He might be one of the most powerful attorneys in the country now, but he’d grown up in the public housing projects of Chicago and knew more than his fair share of being treated as a member of a marginalized group.

“No, by all of them,” Kamal continued. “Vanessa Smith, the chief of staff, let me into the office unannounced, and the president was obviously not ready to meet with me.”

“What, was she walking around barefoot or something?” Derek asked, joking.

“No, she was dancing.”

The three other men looked at each other in confusion.

“Dancing?” Jeff said before clearing his throat.

“Yes. Earbuds in, things ”—Kamal had to clear his own throat, remembering the sight of Jessica’s firm ass in her tight red dress—“shaking. She was dancing and didn’t realize I had come into the room until the chief of staff made our presence known by tapping her on the shoulder.”

Derek burst out in a snort-laugh. “Dear God,” he muttered.

“Yes,” Kamal responded dryly. “And later, when the staff brought in the tea service, the waiter dumped the tray on the table without offering to pour for us or asking the president if she needed anything else.”

Teague rolled his eyes. “That’s just your British-influenced tea obsession. You former colonies are all so uptight about your tea. We jettisoned that particular custom back in the 1770s.”

Kamal rolled his eyes at his friend. “Technically, the US is a former colony as well, and I’m quite aware of your history with tea. But I would have had the same reaction if the tray had been full of coffee or vodka. The man owes his president more respect than setting a tray on a table and beating feet to the nearest exit.”

“Did Kamal just use slang?” Jeff joked.

Derek pushed off the pool table, laying his cue on the felt top. “It’s a sign of how distressed he is. He only uses slang when he’s particularly offended by something.”

Kamal strode to the bar and poured himself another drink. One of the perks of being ambassador—he went everywhere in a limo with security. He could drink as much as he wanted, whenever he wanted, although he rarely did anyway, but tonight, for some reason, he felt like escaping from the relentless list of responsibilities.

“I was offended on her behalf,” he admitted to the room at large. “She doesn’t have a man there to enforce proper behavior, and it’s obvious that the staff are taking advantage of that.”

Teague’s whistle was low and long, and Jeff muttered a “fuck” at the same time. But it was Derek who spoke, and as usual, Kamal could tell instantly that he’d blundered into some sort of cultural landmine.

“You do realize that if there were an American woman in this room right now, she’d skin you alive?”

Kamal frowned at him. “Because I think that their woman president should be treated with the same respect as her male counterparts?”

“No, because you said that she can’t command that respect without a man to do it for her,” Teague answered.

“I fail to see the problem with that. I’m saying that she needs a man to protect her, serve as a buffer between her and the people who are there to serve her. Someone to require that those people who are paid to serve her actually do their jobs.”

Derek’s voice was gentle, and even though he knew his friend was attempting to be solicitous, it irritated Kamal. In fact, this entire conversation was irritating him.

“But there’s no reason she needs a man to do those things,” Derek said. “If the president isn’t being respected, then she’s perfectly capable of insisting they change their behavior. She’s the president of the United States. She can manage her own staff.”

Kamal sighed. He’d never be able to make his American friends understand. Did he believe women were every bit as capable as men intellectually? Of course, that’s why Jessica Hampton was president. But women—even women in a supposedly enlightened country like the US—hadn’t been trained from birth to expect respect. And it was that expectation that tripped them up. People subconsciously took advantage of it—the lack of expectation. The expectation that he would be respected was engrained in Kamal, an intrinsic part of his genetic makeup. But for most women he knew, that wasn’t the case. They’d been shown that they weren’t respected for so long that they didn’t know how to command it. And on and on it went.

“As you say,” Kamal answered, knowing it wasn’t worth the fight. “But she’s not doing it, and I think she’s being taken advantage of—or she’s allowing herself to be taken advantage of—whatever the case may be.”

“Sounds like this is really more about Vanessa than the president,” Derek remarked. “She should be setting the tone for the entire White House.”

“You’re only as good as your top general,” Jeff contributed.

“Yeah, if the manager of the firm doesn’t have it together, then the whole place goes to shit pretty fast,” Teague agreed.

“Since Vanessa is the one who let me into the Oval Office without announcing me, I’d say the tone being set is one of disrespect.”

“That I can agree with,” Derek said, nodding.

The discussion moved to some projects the various Powerplay club members were working on, and Kamal allowed the liquor to do its work, relaxing into a warm stupor until his friends were preparing to leave and he realized that he’d missed most of what had been said for the last thirty minutes.

“You okay?” Derek asked as he shrugged into his jacket, his blond hair as rumpled as his dress shirt and tie.

“Yes.” Kamal stood, stretching his fit frame before he set his glass on the bar top and made his way toward the door. “You have Melville’s official announcement in a couple of weeks?”

“Yes. It’s all set, and I’ll meet with the president next week to hopefully get her to sign on. It’s early for the president to take a position, but I’m not hearing rumblings of anyone else in the party having a strong chance, so I’m hoping to create an heir-apparent image from the get-go.”

Kamal nodded. “I’ll be meeting with the president weekly until we get the details of the accord hashed out, so I’ll put in a good word whenever I can.”

As they left the condo and Kamal’s security detail walked him to the limo waiting in the underground garage, he couldn’t help but think back to the conversation about the president. She was an impressive woman, smart, sexy, and skilled in negotiations. She stayed quiet when she needed to listen, but wasn’t afraid to take a stand when an issue was crucial to her nation’s interests. She deserved better treatment than those closest to her were giving. She needed help—whether she would ever admit it or not. And Kamal wasn’t the type of man to leave a woman helpless.

* * *

Jessica hadn’t tried to get ready for a fix-up since she’d first been introduced to John Hampton as a first-year law student at Yale. As she kicked aside the third pair of shoes in as many minutes, she thought back to that fateful night fifteen years before, when her law school friend Margot had taken her to a party to meet up with two guys she’d found at the library.

“You get John,” she’d told Jessica. “He’s from some famous family, and he’s to die for, but realistically, David is too short for you, so I’ll sacrifice myself for the sake of symmetrical couples.”

Jessica had spent two hours dressing for that party, because what she didn’t tell Margot was that she already knew who John Hampton was, and she’d spent the entire first two weeks of Tort Law staring at the side of his gorgeous head from a few rows back.

A knock at her dressing room door jarred her out of the memory. “Yes.”

“Madam President?” said her personal assistant. “Your guests have entered the grounds.”

“Thank you, I’ll be there in just a moment.”

The door snicked shut, and she stood in front of the mirror again, trying to assess her casual black dress, its scooped neckline, and fitted bodice that flared out slightly in the skirt. Her copper hair was smoothed into soft waves that fell past her shoulders, and she wore tiny pearls in her ears, the most unobtrusive jewelry that she could don.

She stared at the reflection of a woman who had to think about every item of clothing she wore, every word she spoke, and every gesture she made. It was stultifying, being president. And particularly the first woman president. She was under a microscope twenty-three out of every twenty-four hours, and she’d grown so accustomed to being the subject of intense scrutiny that she was sometimes paralyzed by the most basic choices—like what shoes to wear with an entirely black ensemble. Really, she thought to herself, what were the options?

Then, in an act of rebellion that appeared out of nowhere, she turned to her shoe shelves and removed a pair of sky-high gold sandals, covered in sequins, beads, and enormous rhinestone buckles across the toes. She’d bought them years ago to match a Halloween costume for a party she and John had attended. They were gaudy, inappropriate, and nearly impossible to walk in. So she slid them on her feet, took a deep breath, and wobbled out to the dining room of the White House living quarters where she met Fiona and Cade Jenkins, a California cowboy.

* * *

“Jessica, Cade attended a meeting at the agriculture department today.”

Jessica looked up from her French green beans and straight into the eyes of Cade, who gave her a small smile, obviously no more comfortable with this entire setup than she was. He seemed like a very nice man, maybe a little tortured, but that could be the fact that he’d been roped into eating dinner with the president of the United States. He probably didn’t agree with her politically, and here was Fiona, trying to get him to date her, for God’s sake.

“I hope our federal staff was helpful to you?” she asked, taking a sip of red wine.

“They were,” he said, setting his fork down and leaning back in his chair. “The truth is, I’m doing the research to placate my younger brother who owns the ranch with me.” He looked down for a moment before meeting her eyes. His were bright blue and complemented his sun-kissed hair. “Our ranch has been in the family for three generations, and we’ve always done things a certain way. While it’s a little tough in the industry right now, I’m not convinced that spending the money and time necessary to go organic is a practical way to address the problems.”

Fiona shot a look at Jessica. She knew how strongly Jessica felt about the environment and was practically screaming, be nice, don’t fight with the hot guy about organic farming.

And he was hot—Cade Jenkins—he had that California-surfer thing going on, and even though he was obviously somewhere near her own age, his face was unlined, eyes bright and intelligent, and his body honed by lots of long days outside on a working ranch. He’d worn a pair of dark wash jeans and a white button-down shirt, and even as out of touch with that side of life as Jessica was, she knew instantly the guy was a catch. Unfortunately, he’d never be her catch.

“The certification process is lengthy,” she said diplomatically. “And I think the decision to embark on it is probably bigger than just what’s best for any particular property. It’s an investment in the future of our economy and our environment, and of course not every property owner is capable of making that kind of investment.”

Cade raised an eyebrow and grinned. He saw right through her. “Well, Madam President, Big Sur Cattle is certainly capable of making the investment. We just have to decide if we’re willing.”

Touché. The guy was tough and obviously wouldn’t be guilted into a business decision he didn’t want to make.

Jessica tipped her wineglass at him. “Perfectly understandable. And please call me Jessica. You’re in my home, not my office.” She smiled at him and heard the air leave Fiona’s lungs in a rush of relief.

Cade grinned more. “Well then, Jessica, maybe you can convince me to make that investment over some dessert. I know our waiter said there was chocolate mousse around somewhere.”

* * *

Fiona had commandeered a car thirty minutes ago and beat a hasty retreat, leaving Jessica alone with Cade in the president’s residence. They stood outside on a balcony overlooking the rose garden, him with a tumbler of scotch, her with a third glass of wine.

“So, this is life as the president of the United States,” he observed, looking at the lights of Washington beyond the White House grounds.

She smoothed her dress, taking note of how warm his smile was and how his shoulders were so broad in his snowy-white shirt.

“Yes, this is it. Although, I spend very little time on this balcony now that I think about it, it’s quite nice.”

“You must put in a ridiculous number of hours at work,” he said, moving a touch closer where he leaned next to her against the railing.

She twirled her wineglass by the stem.

“Well, it would be easiest if they would set up a cot in the Oval Office, but I’ve been told that’s déclassé when you have people come in for meetings during the day. Sort of like entertaining in a studio apartment with your bed in the middle of the living room.”

He laughed, and it was low and deep, and she did definitely understand why Fiona had chosen this man to set her up with.

“Madam President,” Cade said as he gently took her wineglass out of her hand and set it on the railing. “I think Fiona had all sorts of plans for the two of us when she brought me to dinner this evening.”

Jessica breathed deeply. “I think you’re right.” She exhaled as he brushed a hand up her arm.

“I have to tell you that in addition to you being an exceptionally beautiful woman, I find the whole president of the United States thing to be kind of a turn-on.”

She laughed. Of all the things men had said about her position of power, calling it a turn-on had to be a first.

His hand slipped up to her neck, pulling her gently into him until they were leaning against each other chest to chest, his lips only inches from hers.

“But I need to be very honest and say that I’m in no position to have anything long-term with anyone, not even the most powerful woman in the free world.” He smiled, and there was a sadness to it that was so familiar to Jessica, her heart squeezed in sympathy. It was the smile of someone whose responsibilities outweighed their freedom of choice. Someone who was tied to things and people and places that weren’t of their own choosing but that they owed everything to in spite of that. It was a smile of obligation and duty, and dreams lost with hopes gone.

“And as the president, I can’t have anything that isn’t long-term,” she whispered, looking into his eyes. “Or really, anything at all.”

“I thought as much,” he answered, not moving away. “But I’m wondering…would it be possible for the president of the United States to get a kiss good night? It’s one of those things that I could brag about to my grandchildren someday—I kissed the president.”

She chuckled as she wrapped her arms around his neck and leaned in more. “I think the president could do that if you promise to keep your bragging to your grandchildren and not the tabloid press.”

“It’s a deal,” he murmured before he brought his lips to hers, whisper soft and tender in a considerate way. No pressure, no expectations.

She kissed him back sweetly, once, twice, three times, and then he pulled away, taking one of her hands from around his neck and holding it in his big fingers.

“Now you have to walk me out of this palace of yours, or I’ll be wandering around in here for weeks.”

And Jessica Hampton, first woman president of the United States of America, laughed while she walked her new friend through the halls of the White House with a promise to visit Big Sur Ranch the next time she was in California. And as she returned to the residence, saying good night to the Secret Service detail stationed along the hallways, she felt something other than lonely for the first time in more than six years. She felt something that resembled hope, and she knew that when this long journey was finally over in sixteen months, she would never do anything out of obligation ever again.