Page 10 of The Press Secretary's Passion
“Tell her that I’m fine and am going home to drown my frustration in carbs not booze,” I reply. Carter watches me closely, like he’s trying to decide the veracity of my statements. “Really. I’m fine.”
“Oh all right,” he says. “But if she shows up at your house unannounced….”
“She can’t,” I remind him. “She can’t go anywhere without a massive team of secret service agents.
“True.” He smirks. “But I’m sure she could find someone to come check on you.”
“Don’t go there,” I say over my shoulder as I continue on down the hall.
I head to my office and grab my bag. I pull my keys out so I’m ready and head through the offices toward the exit. I see Captain Black out the corner of my eye talking to someone, and I just keep moving. He waves to me, but I don’t stop. I just keep moving through the building.
When I reach the external door, I push it open and take my first deep breath of the entire day. I’m just to my car when I hear someone shout in the distance, but I ignore it. Instead, I pull open the driver door and toss my bag on the front seat.
“Julia!” I hear, and I look to see Ryan at the exit to the offices. I let out a frustrated breath, plaster a fake smile on my face, and toss Ryan a wave I don’t mean before I drop down into my cute little Mercedes. As I pull out of the parking lot, I see him running toward me between the cars.
But that’s a worry for another day.
It takes about an hour with D.C. traffic to get to my suburban neighborhood in Virginia. I don’t listen to the radio, because I can’t let the news updates get to me, so I connect my phone to Bluetooth so I can listen to my playlist. That goes out the window when Ryan calls for the third time, and I dismiss the call for the third time, and I’m tempted to throw my phone out the window. So I hold the button down to shut it off and toss it to the seat next to me.
Rachel is still missing, and while Rick looks like he’s keeping it together, I know he’s frustrated. I haven’t seen Cara since the other day, and I need to check in on her. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to check up on her.
I pull into my garage, scoop up my phone and keys, and toss them in my bag. I let myself in through the garage, which leads to a small laundry room off the kitchen, kicking off my heels by the door and dropping my purse on the kitchen counter.
I’m starving.
I need to figure out dinner and soon. I open the fridge, and there’s some wilted lettuce and a bottle of coffee creamer. That is less than promising. I pull my phone from my purse and power it back up so I can order a pizza. It takes a full minute while it dings with missed calls and a few angry voicemails from Ryan which consist of a tersely spoken “call me” and “I’m done fucking around.” And then I dial my favorite pizza place and order a large pepperoni for delivery. It’s not New York pizza, but it’ll do.
I don’t wash my face or change into sweats, because it would be bad form to open the door for the delivery kid looking like a mess and get spotted by paparazzi. It doesn’t happen often, but after a day like today, I wouldn’t discount the possibility.
So instead, I pad to the bar in my stocking feet and grab a brand-new pinot noir. I pull the cork and pour myself a glass. I guess I was lying after all when I told Carter that my plans excluded booze.
The doorbell rings, and I grab a twenty out of my wallet and another ten to tip.
“Here’s your pizza, Ms. Fairchild.”
“Thanks,” I tell him before taking the piping-hot box and closing the door.
I set it on the coffee table and grab my glass and the bottle. I settle on the couch and eat more pizza than I should and finish the bottle while watchingMurder She Wrotereruns on cable.
With a heavy sigh when I realize it’s grown late, I pick up the pizza leftovers and toss them in the fridge before putting my wine glass in the sink and the bottle in the recycling bin. I make sure the doors are locked and then turn out the lights downstairs before padding quietly up the stairs.
My bedroom is dark when I enter, and I don’t turn the lights on. I toss my heels I picked up on my way through the kitchen into the closet and untie the sash belt of my dress before I work the small buttons down the front with my fingers.
“Christ, it’s like watching your Christmas present unwrap itself,” Ryan says from where I now see he’s lounging on my bed with his legs crossed at the ankles and his hands behind his head.
Of course, I do what any single woman from the city does when she realizes there’s a man in her bed when she thought she was alone in the house.
I scream bloody murder.
“Shh,” he soothes, and he’s in front of me before I can even blink.
“What are you doing here?” I ask accusingly when it feels like my heart has slowed to the point that it’s still beating like a racehorse but not so fast I’m about to die.
“You didn’t answer your phone,” he says like that explains everything.
“So you broke into my house?”
“Yes,” he replies after a beat.
