Page 39 of The Americana Playbook

“How is Parker controversial? You know nothing about her.”

Nick raises his face toward the ceiling. “Because herfatheris. He might be one of the most disliked people in the country at the moment! You don’t find that an issue? I’m trying to get you away from these kind of guys. Notmarrythem!”

“Fuck Walter,” I say, meaning it.

Nick hangs his head before he pulls out his phone.

“What are you doing?”

“You rolled it outbig, Fitz.” He furiously swipes at the screen and hands it to me. “There’s no going back now.”

I don’t know what social media app I’m even looking at. I guess it doesn’t matter. As I scroll through, there are posts sharing the photo of Parker and me walking across the stage at the White House. Nearly all of them havehundredsof comments. I tap on a photo and scroll down.

I heard they were prom king and queen.

Wait, this is the fairy tale we all need.

I smirk and think to myself,Here’s hoping.

They literally are Captain and Mrs. America.

Do you see how he LOOKS at her?

I hand him back the phone.

“If you’re going through with this, which youhaveto at this point, you sure as hell better make sure people care more that she’s going to be yourwifeinstead of caring more that she’s the president’s daughter. You better be ready to sell that story.”

I don’t think it’s a good time to mention Parker will be participating in her dad’s campaign. I’m not sure how much albuterol is left in that inhaler.

Nick continues, “Starting Saturday.”

“What’s Saturday?”

“The Rebels Foundation Gala.”

“It’s not too soon for all that?” I ask. “I mean, that’s a huge event in Boston. There’s press. A red carpet. Maybe we should?—”

Nick roars with laughter, cutting me off.

I wonder for a moment what story we’re talking about exactly—the fictional one or the one based on reality. But the next thing Nick says reminds me it’s a little bit of both.

“It’s not too soon, Fitzy. It’s almost too damn late.”

Not everyone can be perfect.It turns out Fitz uses a two-in-one shampoo.

I overlook this one fault, though, because the scent of it—the scent of him on my skin—is comforting, even if it leaves my long hair tangled.

After realizing I didn’t bring my duffle into the bedroom when I took Madeline’s call, I slip into a robe I pull off the hook. All I heard wasdo this, do that, go here, wear thiswhen she told me the details of the email she was planning to send regarding campaign events. I wanted to hang up every three seconds.

But I reminded myself I was calling the shots in this game and that arguing over kitten heels wasn’t the battle to choose. Instead, I calmed myself by dragging my finger along the light oak furniture before plopping down on the bed with the plush white duvet and navy piping, taking in deep breaths of hints of leather and bourbon cut with fresh laundry. The cloud around me is both masculine but still light and familiar and new all at the same time, and I know I’ll be at as much peace in this room as I possibly can be. It’s a stark difference from where I slept—or hardly slept—in the Executive Residence this past week.

“Come in,” I sit back on the bed when there’s a knock.

The door opens, and Fitz stands there with confusion written into the gentle creases between his eyebrows.

“Sorry. I hope you don’t mind. I needed to wash the day away.” It’s more likedayseven though I showered this morning. The White House is toxic.

Still wearing his charcoal suit pants and light blue button-down, Fitz leans against the doorway.

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