Page 39 of The Press Secretary's Passion
G
Frustration pours through me and I feel something ugly slither in my belly and it’s not nice. My whole life, Gil has been the golden child and I’ve been the red headed stepchild. Gil has never once received the sharp end of her tongue. He’s never been told to watch his weight or to not bother with an education because someday he would make a pretty bride in the society pages. He’s also never held our father’s disappointment. That mantle is solely my own to wear. So the fact that he’s asking me to get mom off of his back does not endear his cause to me, whether he’s joking or not.
Hey, Gil,
Yes to dinner. No to calling Mom. You’re just going to have to suck it up, buttercup. I’m not bending to her wishes this time. She’s yours now.
Love,
Your favorite sister
I don’t think about it once I’ve typed out my response, and I hit Send before I can doubt myself. Gil has always been a great big brother and my friend growing up, even though he’s so much older than I am. He’s always looked after me, even if he never protected me from our parents. Actually, he’s the same age as Ryan when I stop to think about it.
The phone on my desk rings.
“Hello?” I answer.
“Ms. Fairchild, the president would like to see you in the Oval in ten minutes,” the secretary on the other end of the line says without greeting. She’s kind of a bitch. I know that’s not nice of me to say, but I think she has a thing for Ryan. Well, good for her. She can have him. I’m done with men.
“I’ll be there,” I reply, and as soon as the words are out of my mouth, I hear the line disconnect and hold the receiver out in front of me like it’s a poisonous viper. “Good talking to you too. Thanks for the gab.”
“Talking to yourself?” Ryan asks from my doorway, making me jump.
“Eek!”
He lets out a delectable chuckle. “Babe, what are you doing?”
“Shh!” I snap.
“What?” Ryan asks, and I can hear amusement in his tone.
“Don’t ‘what’ me!” I whisper-yell. “And don’t call me babe either.”
“Why not?” he asks with a smile on his face. “You like it when I call you babe.”
“I like it in certain scenarios,” I admit. “But not here. Someone might hear you.”
“You like it.”
“I don’t.”
“You do,” he says, stalking his way into my office. “You like it when I’m fucking you. And you like it now.”
“Don’t be crass.”
“You like that too,” he purrs, and dammit he’s right, but I won’t admit that to him or anyone.
“I don’t have time for this,” I say. “I have a meeting in the Oval in five minutes and just enough time to get there.”
“What a coincidence,” he says with a smile. “So do I.”
“Of course you do,” I mutter under my breath, but Ryan clearly hears it, because his smile grows even wider.
“Shall we?” he asks, holding the door open for me.
“Thank you,” I reply even though I don’t want to, because good manners were practically beaten into me at an early age. It doesn’t bode well to have a society wife who is rude and common at dinner parties.
We walk side by side down the hallway of the staff offices and through to the Oval Office. The bitchy secretary gives Ryan her best come-hither look, and it takes about everything in me not to roll my eyes.
