Page 28 of The Press Secretary's Passion
“Press Secretary Officially Off the Market”
Chapter 8
Apparently, Africa is Out
Taylor Swift’s “I Knew You Were Trouble” blares from the speaker on the docking station that sits on top of my nightstand. It’s a fitting tribute to the heap of trouble I keep finding myself in over and over again.
And yet, I stay on the merry-go-round.
Without opening my eyes, I blindly reach out and grab my phone from the dock and silence my alarm. I drop it back down on the tabletop before reaching across the bed for the mass of man and muscles I let talk me into bed last night. Again.
And also again, it was a wishful hope I shouldn’t have engaged in, because my arms encounter nothing but cool sheets that obviously haven’t been slept in for some time.
I open my eyes, and in the early morning light, I can just barely see the indentation in the pillow next to mine, left by his head. I close my eyes tight against the memories of him lounging there, naked and aroused for me, as they slam into my brain. But I can’t let that happen.
It’s like he was never here, but my body feels otherwise, and the way my leg muscles shake reminds me they were well used the night before.
I see a ton of notifications on my phone, but I don’t bother to look at them. I leave it where it’s sitting on my bedside table and make my way into the bathroom. I brush my teeth while the water heats up, and I feel my eyes widen as I take in the handprint bruises on my hips. Not once, ever in my entire life, has a lover taken me so roughly or used me up so thoroughly that they left marks on my body. And not once last night did Ryan do anything to hurt me.
I shake off more memories that flash through my brain of the last night we shared together. Something felt… I don’t, different, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. And trying to is a wasted effort. Nothing on that front will ever change. I need to get my head on straight and end this mess once and for all before someone gets hurt. And by someone, I mean me, because I’m obviously headed for a crash if my behavior yesterday is anything to go by.
I step out of the shower and quickly towel off. I comb out and blow dry my hair and pull it up in a strategically messy ballet bun. I brush my teeth and then dust on more makeup than I honestly feel like having on my face, but I have to be camera ready at any moment. Not to mention a little red lipstick goes a long way toward helping me build back up my armor.
I’m really regretting promising I wouldn’t move to Africa last night. I should have jumped on a plane instead of coming upstairs. Now I’m going to have to stick by my decision to stay, and I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that it was a huge mistake.
I step into my closet and pull on lace panties and a matching bra. I tuck a white poplin blouse into wide-leg gray slacks and wrap a skinny black leather belt around my waist. I thread my diamond studs through my ears and loop my silver watch around my wrist before stepping into a pair of sky-high Louboutins. I grab my cell phone and take the stairs down to the kitchen. I grab my purse and toss my phone inside it before plucking my keys off the hook by the back door and leaving for the day.
I drop my purse on the front passenger seat where it buzzes some more, but I ignore it as I head for my favorite coffee house with a drive-thru. When I pull up to the window with a fake smile on my face and my cash ready to hand over, the kid at the window stutters and makes a weird sound before shaking his head and fixing his expression. That was weird. I wonder what was up with that.
I don’t bother to ask. I just get on the highway and head into the capitol. I would find out soon, that was a mistake.
I stay lost in my thoughts as I sip my coffee through the early morning traffic, and again while I park my car and make my way through the security line. I toss my coffee cup in a nearby trashcan and then pass through security, saying a quick good morning to the guards before heading down the hall to my office.
I pull out my cell phone and set it on my desk before dropping my purse into a drawer. There’s a stack of papers for my attention in a basket on my desk, and I push out a sigh. Today might be the Mondayest Monday ever. With Ryan’s alleged hunting accident, the truth of which the world can never know, and Rachel finally being home—again, something the world can never know about—it’s going to be a long press day.
Not to mention House Bill 2250 is still circulating. Jake is probably going to pop a gasket this morning, because I must have heard it mentioned no less than twelve hundred times Saturday night at the State Dinner. That is, when Ryan didn’t have me cornered either in a broom closet or after.
I fire up my computer and log in. It’s time I get a jump on the day before the morning press conference, when my phone buzzes again, and I reach for it. But before I can look at the screen, my office door swings open with a slam, and Grace’s assistant Carter barrels in.
“Where the fuck have you been?” he accuses me, and my stomach clenches. Something must have happened.
“What’s happened?” I ask.
“What hasn’t happened?” he squawks, pushing a hand through his hair, and I can practically see the tension rolling off him in waves. “How could you be sleeping with the enemy?”
I freeze in my chair. How could anyone know I was with Ryan over the weekend? He’s been so careful to sneak in and out without being seen. Hell, I don’t even know how or when he gets in. But for Carter to call Ryan “the enemy” doesn’t sound right to me.
“So you don’t deny it?” he snaps.
“Calm down, Carter,” Grace says, panting as she pushes her way into my office. “And Jesus, you’re built like a linebacker but move like a jungle cat. It’s an unfair advantage in my present state.”
“And what state would that be?” he asks, batting his eyelashes innocently.
“Huge,” Grace replies on a laugh as she takes a seat in one of the club chairs that face my desk. “Now, what’s this about you being in love with my villainous father-in-law?”
“What?” I shout, because I never in my wildest dreams would have thought that’s what Carter wanted to confront me about.
“This,” he says, tossing the Sunday edition of the Washington paper, “is what everyone is talking about.”
