Chapter 5

Beatrice

I can’t believe what I just heard. There’s no way on Earth they said what I think they just said.

The President, here? In my apartment? How much wine have I drunk while cooking?

“Miss Barlow?”

The firm voice booms in through the door, confirming the fact that yes, indeed, the President of the United States of America is just about to walk into my apartment.

I look around and cringe at the sight, heart thudding in my chest. My one-bedroom D.C. apartment looks as though whoever decorated it has no social life, is obsessed with politics, and lives for their work.

I mean, it’s not an incorrect evaluation.

“Umm, alright, just a moment!”

I mutter a hasty goodbye to my mother on the phone, promising to call her back shortly and hang up.

I frantically dart around my tiny apartment and pick up what stray pieces of clothing, newspapers, magazines, and wine glasses I can find, and I shove them into a nearby closet.

I must remember to get those later.

There’s another impatient knock at the door, and I fight the urge to tell them to hold their horses, given that the Secret Service is the one doing the knocking.

Of course, what am I doing, making the fucking President wait for me?

Good Lord, Beatrice, get a grip on reality here.

I trot over to the door and fumble with the deadbolt while I unlock it, swinging the door open to reveal some very large and intimidating-looking men.

The man in front brushes past me and into my apartment without a single word and starts looking around.

“Right.”

He walks around, searching for what, I don’t know, but I feel like I’m under a microscope while I silently stand there.

He opens my closet—the one where I had just hastily stuck all my mess into—and chuckles softly, gives me an amused glance, and nods before he shuts it again. He moves to my kitchen area, looking in and around my plants.

Checking for bugs maybe? Do they do that?

I don’t know. Maybe I just watch too much Lifetime shows.

He opens up my tiny hallway linen closet and leans in, poking his head around.

What’s he looking for in there, the freaking boogieman?

I’m fidgeting with my hands as another man walks in. Together, they check all the crevices and rooms, opening and closing doors while I’m standing here, stewing in my own thoughts.

Alright, no big deal really. So what if Henry, the President of the United States, is going to be in my apartment? It’s not like I’ve been obsessing over him for the past six years or like we have some weird history, right?

Who am I kidding? The man who I stupidly shared an impulsive kiss with right after the election results were in, who then completely rejected me and shunned me, is now the President and is going to be in my apartment.

He’s only the reason I had gotten so deep into politics and had chosen the career that I did.

Relax. No reason to panic. Fuck.

The two men conclude their search and nod to the third man who is standing in my doorway. He mutters something into what I presume is a mouthpiece before he stands to the side, allowing yet another man into my apartment, followed by Henry.

The President of the United fucking States of America.

I’m overreacting. He’s got a million other things on his plate—like running a country—and the last thing on his mind is what happened between us years ago, not that anything came of it.

I’m just being obsessive. I doubt he even remembers me.

My name is just another on a long list, and I happen to have the best shot at the job. That’s all.

He walks through my door and goes straight for me, lighting up the room with that million-dollar, campaign-winning smile of his. He reaches a hand out and takes mine into his, shaking it and grinning at me as he spoke.

“Beatrice Barlow,” he says with a smile. “It’s been a long time.”

Well, so much for him not remembering me.

I shake his hand and beam back at him, nodding as I reply.

“Just a couple of years. I’m sure you’ve been busy, Mr President.”

He laughs and nods back, still holding my hand.

“I think the last time I saw you, I was still just Henry to you, wasn’t I?”

I smile. “Campaign night, if I remember correctly.”

I see the corners of his lips turn upward with a hint of a smirk, and he takes his hand from mine, eyeing me up.

Why does he have to be so damn handsome?

He takes a breath and sighs, interlacing his fingers and smiling at me as he speaks.

“Anyway, I wanted to congratulate you on getting the position. Your résumé was...ah...very impressive.”

I can feel my cheeks flush, and I do my best to stay calm and to force a smile, very much aware that there are several eyes on me.

“I considered listing you as a professional reference,” I joke, “but it seemed redundant. I do really appreciate the opportunity, Hen—Mr. President. I hope I can live up to your expectations.”

“I just hope you know what you’re getting yourself into. Being the White House biographer, you’ll always be on call, you know. I might need you to be available at the drop of a hat. And you’ll be spending an awful lot of time with me, sometimes at some pretty odd hours. I hope that’s not an issue.”

He chuckles, and an eyebrow cocks up, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips again, and I take a deep breath, steeling my nerves away. I offer him a warm smile as I speak and try my best to keep my tone even.

“Of course, Mr. President. I look forward to it.”

“Please, Bea, call me Henry. And one more thing, I’d like you to move in to the White House. As charming as your apartment is...”

I feel the tension in the room as my heart thuds in my chest and my breath catches in my throat, the shock of his words hitting me like a brick wall.

Did he just ask me to move in with him?

I mentally scold my stupidity and take a deep breath.

Of course, he doesn’t want me to move in with him. He wants me in the White House, so I’m available at all hours.

Still, not a great idea right now, and I want my independence from this. I need some sort of separation from my job, right?

“Thank you, Mr. President—Henry—but I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass. I still very much want the job, but I want to stay in my charming apartment.”

He looks at me like he’s trying to read between the lines.

He’s a smart man, for a politician.

“Of course,” he allows.

He looked around my place with a small smile forming on his lips and gestures to the man on his right.

“In that case, I’d like you to come in tomorrow and speak with this gentleman here, and he’ll get things started for you. We’ll get your badge done up, get the process rolling to give you the appropriate security clearance, and we’ll get you a tour.”

I smile at the man, who simply nods in acknowledgment.

“We’ll make sure to do things quickly but gradually. That way, we can get you transitioned into your new role, giving you enough time to tie up any loose ends with the D.C. Digest.”

Tomorrow? Wow, things really are moving fast. I’m going to have to explain to Fiona that I’ll be leaving almost immediately and that my projects need to be wrapped up.

She’s my boss, but she’s also a friend, so I’m sure she’ll understand.

I grin at him and nod my head enthusiastically, practically vibrating in my own skin. I’m so excited and nervous.

“That sounds excellent! Again, thank you so much for this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

“I’m sure you won’t. I better get back, but I’ll be seeing you soon enough, Miss Barlow.”

With that, he turns and leaves my apartment, his entourage of security following suit and closing my door with a thud.

I release the breath that I didn’t even realize I was holding and flop down onto my couch, my mind reeling with what just happened.

I’m the new White House biographer, the President was in my apartment, and I start tomorrow.

The gravity of the situation finally hits me, and I squeal with excitement, grabbing a pillow and burying my face into it so my neighbors don’t think I’m some crazy person wailing in her apartment.

I can’t believe I’m going to work in the White House. I grab my cell phone and dial my mom’s number and greet her excitedly when she answers.

“So, Mom, you’ll never guess who was just in my apartment.”