Chapter 11

Henry

“So tell me, Mr President. What is it that you’d like to know about me?”

“Well, how about where you grew up? How you came to work for DC Digest?”

Beatrice looks at me with an arched brow through narrowed eyes.

I can’t read minds, but I’m certain that she’s thinking are you serious right now?

“Why ask questions to which you already know the answer?”

And she’s right, I do know the answer to both of those questions.

I’m the president of the United States, and she’s my biographer. There was no way that a background check on Beatrice wasn’t going to be done.

Even if I personally vouched for her.

Protocol is protocol.

“Caught me,” I admit with a small chuckle.

“So why ask?”

“You, more than anyone, should know that there’s always more than what we read on paper. I can see you grew up in Chicago, but I know that there’s more to it than that. There’s always more to what is written on paper—so indulge me, please.”

Her chocolate brown eyes measure me and my words. It’s almost as if she’s looking to find some ulterior motive behind my reason for asking.

There is, but it’s nothing too nefarious. I just enjoy listening to the sound of her voice.

“Well, I grew up in Wicker Park in Chicago. My parents and I lived in an apartment building right across the street from the park. I miss it. Chicago is a city with its own heart and soul, but Wicker Park is something else. The artists. The food. Even the hipsters. It has its own vibe that really sets it apart from the rest of the city. Take a walk down North Wood or North Milwaukee, and you can feel it.”

I’m wrapped up in her voice like a blanket fresh out of the dryer.

The way her eyes sparkle and dance as she speaks. The smile that pulls at the corner of her lips as she thinks back on her youth.

The warmth and love she has for her neighborhood, her home, is so tangible that I feel like I could pluck it out of the air between us.

How could I not get wrapped up in that?

Beatrice catches me looking at her, and a small flush of red rises to her cheeks. Her smile of fondness for her home turns bashful in an instant.

“Did I say something dumb?” she asks, hesitating.

“Dumb? No, not at all. You seem happy when you’re talking about home, is all. It’s endearing.”

She almost looks relieved when I say that. And I can’t help but wonder how many times in the past she’s been told that nobody cares where she came from.

“You really miss home, don’t you?”

“Sometimes,” she answers with a small shrug. “But I love my job here in DC with the Digest. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. And besides, I get to visit my family on the holidays. So it’s not like I don’t go back home from time to time.”

“And how did you get the job at the magazine?”

“Well, I was headhunted. Fiona had seen a lot of the political work and writing I did while in college, and after graduation she reached out to me about coming to work for her. It was like a dream come true.”

That same passion that I saw in her eyes when she talked about home has returned.

Her love for her career at the magazine is just as strong as her love for Chicago—and my love for my career.

That kind of love and passion is admirable. And if I’m being completely honest, it only makes me want her more.

“What’s it like working under Fiona Lawson?”

“I couldn’t ask for a better mentor. Or friend. If it wasn’t for her guidance, I don’t think I’d be where I am today.”

Those are sentiments that I can relate to.

Lawrence has been that same person for me. The man has been a mentor, big brother, and father figure all in one.

I understand that his political affiliations didn’t allow him to be my running mate, but I don’t think someone else can do a better job as chief of staff than him.

“Oh, I’m sure you’d get there eventually. You’re exceptionally talented, Beatrice.”

“Thank you, Mr President.”

“It’s just us. You can call me Henry. You don’t need to keep referring to me by my position.”

“I’ll take that under advisement.”

I’m certain she won’t, but I’m confident that she’ll eventually come around and relax around me.

“May I ask another question? An important one?”

Beatrice looks at me partly confused and partly curious. She leans forward in her seat and purses her lips together in thought.

It’s moments like this where I wish I could read people’s thoughts—or Beatrice’s at the very least.

“Alright, go ahead and ask.”

I lean forward in my seat now, a lopsided smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

“Cats or dogs?”

She looks at me in surprise for a moment before bursting out into laughter.

God in heaven, I could listen to her laugh all day.

“That’s your big question?”

“Yes, it is. You can tell a lot about a person on whether she’s a cat or dog person.”

Beatrice laughs at me again with a beaming smile and a shake of her head.

“Well, if you must know, I do like cats. But deep down, I’m a dog girl,” she answers after composing herself. “Cats don’t really need us. They just see us as big, dumb, hairless versions of themselves. And they’re kind of jerks. But dogs see us very differently. They want and need us, and our companionship.”

“You have a dog, don’t you?”

“You get that from my background check?” she asks, a bit of trepidation in her voice.

“Oh, no. You just talk like a dog owner.”

She blushes at my words.

It’s endearing and adorable.

“Yes, I do. His name is Duke and he’s a golden retriever.”

Of course she would have a golden retriever for a dog. It’s only my personal favorite breed.

The name is also fitting, given that it’s her Alma mater.

“May I ask you a question, Henry?”

It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow in curiosity.

I can only guess it isn’t anything for the official record, as she hasn’t turned on her recorder.

“As far as you’re concerned, I’m an open book.”

“Okay. If you could invite five people, alive or dead, to a dinner party, who would you choose?” she asks with a playful smile.

“Now that’s an easy one. Freddie Mercury, George Washington, Stan Lee, Bruce Lee, and you.”

Her dark eyes go wide in a mix of surprise and flattery.

To her credit, she recovers quickly and acts like it was expected.

“George Washington makes sense. He’s our founding father after all. Freddie Mercury though? You don’t strike me as Queen fan.”

“Everyone is a fan of Queen. It’s impossible not to love Bohemian Rhapsody. It’s like mankind’s national anthem.”

We share a laugh, and she nods in agreement.

“I can’t really argue that. And I’m guessing Bruce Lee because you were a fan of Enter the Dragon?”

“Greatest martial arts movie of all time. And before you ask, I chose Stan Lee because Spiderman is my all-time favorite superhero.”

Her gaze turns away from me as she leans back in her seat.

She hasn’t been expecting me to add her to my dream dinner party. And while she initially acted like it was no big deal—or rather, she tried to—now she’s unsure of how to broach it.

“Why me?” she asks, her eyes looking up at with a hint of fear at hearing my answer.

“Well, you are my biographer after all.”

My reasoning is a lie, but she looks visibly relieved when it’s the answer I give her.

For me, I saw this dinner as kind of a first date. I know it’s wishful thinking, given that she obviously sees this as purely business—but I’ve made a career out of making the impossible happen.

And if I can get Beatrice to open up, then maybe we can reconnect like we did years ago, back during my campaign for the senate.

The doors to the room open and several servers walk in with trays of food.

I had the staff cook some roasted shoulder of lamb with mint sauce, roasted asparagus and peppers, and rosemary potatoes.

The smell of the food makes my mouth water, and when I look over at Beatrice I can see that she’s in the same boat.

“This looks amazing.”

“The cooking staff here are among the best in the world.”

“Well, I wouldn’t expect anything but the best for the president.”

“Good point. Just wait until dessert then.”

Beatrice gives me a knowing look. It’s almost as if she knows what I’m going to say, but needs to hear it from me regardless.

“So, what’s for dessert?”

“Raspberry and rhubarb crumble topped with vanilla ice cream.”

Her lips quirk into a smirk.

“You knew that was my favorite, didn’t you?”

“Well, I am the president of the United States, after all. It’s my job to know what my constituents like.”