Chapter 7

Beatrice

“Holy shit.” I whisper leaning against my door after locking it with Henry Thatcher and two of his Secret Service men on the other side.

“Holy shit.” I repeat a louder while feeling a rush of emotions attack me; weakening my knees and causing my hands to tremble. I tightly close my eyes and whisper the words one final time, expecting to be in a completely different situation when I open them again.

To my non-surprise, nothing changes.

I am going to be working closely with Henry Silas Thatcher: The man I’ve wanted to dip in honey and lick clean ever since our first kiss six years ago.

I shouldn’t be so shocked. I mean, I’m fully qualified to be a White House biographer, but I honestly didn’t think this moment would come. Henry totally ghosted me after he’d won a seat in the U.S. Senate.

Henry. Ugh! Sexy ass Henry! Does he expect me to call him ‘Mr President’ like we hadn’t shared a bond strong enough to lead to the passionate kiss that flipped my world upside down?

I hit the back of my head against the door, frowning in frustration.

I’ve pictured him bending me over the desk in the Oval Office, hungrily pulling my skirt over my waist, and fucking me with the aggression of a lion. He’d cover my mouth with his hand to keep my moans from escaping while he pushed his giant cock deeper into me.

If I could only be so lucky.

Duke gently bumps my leg with his head and looks up at me with a fretful expression in his eyes. I notice I’ve been standing against the door talking to myself much longer than what is socially acceptable, even by my dog’s standards.

I squat down so that our faces are level. Squeezing his cheeks, I tell him I’m losing my mind. Call me crazy, but I think he agrees.

“Come on, boy. We deserve a little indulgence.” Duke and I walk to the kitchen where I toss him one of his new gourmet doggy treats, and I pour myself a glass of champagne.

In the living room, I plop onto my navy blue couch, releasing an exasperated sigh on the way down. I sink into the cushions and curl up under the plush throw blanket.

Duke gently sets his head in my lap while I take my first sip of champagne and scroll for Fiona’s number in my iPhone’s recent call history.

I remember how nervous I was the day I told her I’d applied for the White House biographer position. I coyly sat in one of the guest chairs across the cherry wood desk in her office with my hands folded in my lap.

I could hardly look directly into her eyes. I felt like a rebellious teenager asking her mother to bail her out of jail or something.

When I finally told her about my application, she was ecstatic. I hadn’t seen her so happy since her son, Tommy, scored the winning touchdown at his high school’s championship football game the year before.

Her number is in between Lee’s Chinese Carry-Out and Duke’s vet in my recent calls list.

I need to get a life.

“Fiona Lawson.” She answers on the first ring.

“Geez, why so formal?” I ask.

“Oh, Bea, darling!” She replies in a silly, fake British accent. “I couldn’t see who was calling. I answered on my Bluetooth. I don’t know where the hell that damned phone is.”

“What else is new?” I sarcastically grunt.

“Yea, yea. What’s up?”

“Ha. Let’s meet for a drink. I’ve got something to tell you.”

“Like I need an excuse to drink!” she laughs. “Alright, meet me at Cooper’s in half an hour.”

Fiona walks into our favorite bar, Cooper’s Place, 45 minutes after we hung up.

“I see you’re late as usual.”

Fiona shrugs and takes a seat across from me at the wooden high top table.

Tony, the 30-something bartender who gives off serious Michael B. Jordan vibes approaches our table with his usual Cheshire smile, a sign that he’d gotten some young, hot girl’s number.

“Hey, ladies! You want your usual?” His baritone as smooth as ever.

“Absolutely. Thank you, Tony.” Fiona replied.

She directs her attention to me, “What’s your news?”

“The short version is, you are looking at the new White House biographer!”

“Beatrice, that’s fucking amazing!” She exclaims, jumping from her bar stool and pulling me into a hug.

“Okay. Okay. Calm down, people are watching us!” I whisper yell.

“Alright.” She sits down with a childish pout.

“One Manhattan and one Long Island Iced Tea. Anything else I can get you, ladies?” Thankfully, Fiona chills out with Tony around.

“We’re good, Tony. Thank you.”

I squeeze lemon into my Long Island and take a sip before telling Fiona more about my visit from the fucking President of the United States; or as I like to think of him, The President of Unbelievable Sex.

Fiona and I agree Henry’s asking me to move into the White House for the job was really weird. But hey, I wouldn’t mind living with him as the wife he fucks like a mistress.

Of course, Fiona’s advice was, “Don’t shit where you eat, Beatrice. This is a once-in-a-lifetime career opportunity. Please don’t be one of those idiot girls who blows her shot by sleeping with the boss.”

“Yea, but things with me and Henry are differ—“

“Ugh, don’t even.” Fiona’s voice suddenly has more bass in it. “This shit never ends well for the women involved. C’mon, you know how politics work.”

I break eye contact with Fiona and signal Tony to bring me another drink. He nods and excuses himself from the young chippy he’d been flirting with.

“You’re smart, Beatrice. I’m hard on you ‘cause I know you can do better.”

I think it’s best to switch gears before I say something I‘ll regret. But, the truth is, Fiona doesn’t know the Henry I know.

She didn’t feel the heat I felt when he came to my apartment tonight. There’s something between Henry and I. Something that didn’t die over the 6 years we spent apart, and if that isn’t worth exploring, I don’t know what the hell is.

When Tony set my second and final Long Island in front of me, I proceeded to tell Fiona about tomorrow’s plans.

“I will be at the White House for part of the day to pick up my badge and get acclimated. Afterwards, I’ll come to the office.”

She doesn’t acknowledge the topic change. She just nods.

“I‘ll finish my high priority projects myself and delegate the remainder among the staff. I think Henry, Mark and Alice will be able to handle things.”

“Ok, that sounds good. So, you will be phasing out of your position before jumping completely into your work at the White House?”

“Yes.” I say with a smile, hoping to break the tension.

Fiona returns the smile and says, “Drinks are on me tonight. Congratulations, Bea.”

We chit chat about home life and beauty trends for a while until I finish my drink. Fiona decides it’s getting late and we should head home.

I’m feeling a nice buzz during the Uber ride back home and foolishly allow myself to think about how sexy Henry looked standing in my apartment in his designer suit.

Ugh, that man.

When I get home, Duke is waiting at the door for me. “What did he really mean when he asked me to move in?” I ask. Unfortunately, he doesn’t have an answer for me.

After throwing my jacket and purse down on the couch, I begin to walk to my bedroom. “Alright, Bud. Tomorrow is gonna be a busy day, and I’ve gotta look good for Mr President.”

I look back at Duke with half a smile, “Help me pick out an outfit.”

He happily follows me to my closet wagging his tail along the way.