His First Lady (Capitol Hill Series Book 1)

by Beth Fred

  His First Lady

  By Beth Fred

  His First Lady

  Copyright © 2019 by Beth Fred.

  All rights reserved.

  First Print Edition: June 2019

  Limitless Publishing, LLC

  Kailua, HI 96734

  www.limitlesspublishing.com

  Formatting: Limitless Publishing

  ISBN-13: 978-1-64034-611-6

  ISBN-10: 1-64034-611-2

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to locales, events, business establishments, or actual persons—living or dead—is entirely coincidental.

  Dedication

  This book is for my longtime critique partner Kelly Hashway, who has listened to me ramble on and offered advice about things that had nothing to do with writing and still mentored me in all aspects of writing, editing, and promotion.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 1

  Eric

  We really stand out in this room. Aside from the obvious of being the only two men present among the scantily dressed women, I’m almost sure we’re the only Mexicans, and Evan is definitely the only black guy, half or otherwise.

  His assistant, Monica, leans in closer to him. “Do any of them have potential?” she whispers.

  “I don’t know. We’ll have to interview them. And whoever we choose has to consent to a PI,” he answers.

  I tap Evan on the shoulder. “Come talk to me.”

  He follows me into my office. Evan will be straight with me.

  “Am I really this pathetic?”

  “You know I swore off women—”

  “After Clarissa,” he cuts me off. “And I’ve told you a million times over the years you were working too hard. Eric, you’re the best man for this job, and you know it as well as I do. You’re thirty-five, barely old enough to run, and you look twenty-five. If I knew a way to make you more electable without saddling you down, I’d do it. You know I would. But you pay me to tell you what people want to see. They don’t want to see a bachelor in the White House.”

  “So I really am this pathetic.”

  His eyes say it all.

  “Okay, well, I get to pick the girl.”

  Evan’s face stiffens. “You did choose Clarissa. You should probably let me vet them first. After that, as long as she submits to a PI, I don’t care.”

  A private investigator. Of course. That’s what made me call him in here to begin with.

  “It’s politics, Eric.”

  “Because nothing wins a woman’s love like prying open her diary before buying dinner.”

  Evan’s face remains neutral. “Eric, we’re not looking for a wife here. We’re looking for a first lady. Someone who can help you get elected.”

  “Some days it’s hard to believe you’re my best friend.” I turn back toward the waiting room where all my would-be wives stand.

  “Don’t be like that. Getting mixed up with a woman is nothing but trouble anyway. I quit my job and went on the road with you to make you president. I think I’m a pretty good friend.”

  I roll my eyes. “You’ve put me in the middle of this cattle call.” Probably not the best word choice but I don’t know what else to call it.

  “You look like a frat boy. The only thing you’re missing is a pizza box and a game controller. You know another way to get your numbers up, frat boy? Because when I’m screening beautiful, potentially eligible women, I prefer to be looking for myself.”

  Chapter 2

  Mandy

  “Oh, shove it!” a woman dressed like a cocktail waitress screams as she rushes past me, her heels clink-clinking against the hard floor.

  “Must not have gone well,” the girl in front of me says. She smooths a wrinkle out of her ankle-length skirt and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. The handful of other women in the room wear some variation of an evening gown or a hooker costume.

  Except Monica. She’s standing at the folding table in jeans and a t-shirt. I wonder if I should go to the front of the line and remind her Kristin introduced us. But it could go either way. If Kristin has mentioned that I’m also Sarah Moore from the blogs Sarah Says and Moore on Politics, she would shoo me out of the office in a hurry. Martinez is a staunchly conservative candidate, and the benefit of being an independent is I get to criticize everyone equally. Martinez is a sexist pig. And I love to blog about it.

  I decide against talking to Monica.

  Being in this room is nerve-racking. While I was doing my undergraduate in journalism, I never thought I’d apply to be the virtual version of a mail-order bride. “You look nice,” I say to the girl in front of me. It’s true, and against the contrast of the room, she really stands out.

  She turns to me and smiles. “You can’t say that. You’re the competition.”

  I let my eyes roam the room before landing on her face again. “Seems like there is a lot of that here.”

  She shakes her head. “These other women don’t look the part. It will be one of us. I almost went with a business suit, but I decided this looked more Mom-ish.”

  “I didn’t really put that much thought into it. It’s an interview, so I wore a suit.”

  Her eyebrows shoot up. “So you’re not an actress?”

  I laugh. “Of course not. Nothing that exciting. I’m a grad student and a blogger.”

  “You know if you get the gig, it’s going to be hard to manage school and the campaign trail.”

  “That’s probably true, but I need a check for tuition or I’m not going to graduate.”

  “What are you working on?”

  “An MFA in journalism. You’re an actress?”
<
br />   She smirks. “People at an audition usually are. But without being a movie star, this is the highest-paying gig I’ll ever get. And it might even come with health insurance.”

  “Good luck.” I paused for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Sure.”

  “Why did you want to look Mom-ish?” He’s buying a wife.

  She grins. “The audition is for ‘Conservative Wives.’ He’s looking for the symbol of the Christian Republican wife and mom, who theoretically shows up for PTO and feeds the poor.”

  I laugh. “Are you saying a presidential candidate is basing his campaign strategy around trophy wives?”

  She straightens her back and puts her hand on her hip. “It’s just a gig. With the kind of pay attached, it has to be recurring. And from my point of view, my job is to play a role. It wouldn’t be that different than playing a trophy wife in Hollywood. Let’s face it. Dallas, Texas, is less competitive than Hollywood.”

  She doesn’t know. She thinks this is some commercial. How did I get this desperate? “I don’t think this is for me. I’ll figure out something else.”

  I step out of line. The polished concrete is wet and slick. I slide across the room until I hit something solid and hard as marble.

  Hot liquid splashes on my arm. I yelp in pain, still trying to figure out what happened.

  “Shit! That was hot!” a man snaps.

  Strong arms wrap around me, and before I hit the floor, I’m being pulled up. He tosses me into a foldable chair beside him.

  I wipe the coffee off my arm. “I’m so sorry.” Then I realize the man sitting beside me is Eric Martinez. Eric always walks onto a debate stage looking like an old-school soap opera doctor, but in person he’s more attractive than that. Dark hair, dark brooding eyes, a chiseled body, dark suit over a fuchsia dress shirt and tie, and a casual smile. Yeah. He looks good enough to eat. But if he’s hotter in person than on camera, he’s probably more misogynistic in person too. Maybe not. He did keep me from falling.

  “It’s okay. Are you hurt? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I notice a crushed cup in his hand, and the fuchsia shirt has a giant wet spot in the middle. “Oh my God!” I slap my face with my hand. “Are you okay?” I pull a tissue out of my purse. “Here, let me help you.” I wipe at his shirt to no avail.

  He chuckles. “I’m fine, ma’am, really.”

  His eyes trail from my face down the length of my dress suit and back to my eyes. “I like your suit.”

  “Thank you. I’m really sorry about your shirt.” I should offer to pay for the shirt, but that costs money, and he lives well off my tax dollars. So I can live with myself.

  I push myself out of my seat. “I should go. I’m sorry again.”

  “Wait, why are you leaving?”

  I let out a laugh. “I was on my way out before my graceful fall. I can’t be a trophy wife, as tempting as it is.”

  “A trophy wife?”

  “That’s what you’re looking for, isn’t it?”

  “Look, I know this is pathetic, but it wasn’t my idea. And I’m not looking for a trophy wife. I’m not really looking for a wife at all, but my campaign manager says this is what I need to do to win.”

  “So you’re not looking for a trophy wife, but you’ll take one?”

  His eyes dart around the room. “What are you? A reporter? And keep your voice down. The others don’t know.”

  “If I said I am a reporter?”

  “You’d be lying. There is no way Evan would have put a reporter on the list. It’s not like this was advertised.”

  “Maybe you have a leak.”

  “Well, are you a reporter?”

  “No.” It’s true. I’m a political commentator, a columnist. Until I find a gig.

  “So if you’re not looking for a trophy wife, what are you looking for?”

  Chapter 3

  Eric

  “I don’t know. A smart woman who can handle the hardships of a dirty election against the most volatile wench reality TV star the country has ever seen and who can also be a companion.”

  Her blue eyes bore into me. “So a smart woman who can handle an election and is also available for sex?”

  Heat pumps under my cheeks, and I laugh. A woman has never made me blush before. That’s usually the other way around. “No. A smart woman who is also supportive. You could make a sailor blush.”

  Her face colors, and she smiles. “No point in beating around the bush. I should go.”

  “Don’t leave.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, since you like to be blunt, I think I’d like to get to know you.” I lower my voice. “But either way, I think you may be the only woman here qualified for the job.”

  She cocks her head. “I doubt that. There was a girl in front of me dressed like a Republican mom. She researched you and studied the role. She seems serious. She might be a good option.”

  “I’ve been on TV—”

  Her mouth forms a perfect “O.” She brings her hand up to cover her lips. “Wow! You’re a real celebrity.” She rolls her eyes. “Yeah, shutting down the government doesn’t make you a star.”

  “That’s not what I meant. It’s just—a lot of these women may find it hard to speak openly with me. You obviously don’t.”

  “You’ve made choices that I don’t agree with. Besides, I’ve talked to a lot of well-known people.”

  My brow arches. “Were you being serious when you said you might be a reporter?”

  I wish. “No. It’s just—I’m Amanda Buchanan.”

  “As in Senator Buchanan’s daughter.”

  “Yes, as far as elections go, this wouldn’t be my first rodeo.”

  “Your dad hates me. He would kill me for this.”

  She grins, blue eyes sparkling. “Really? You seem like just the kind of jer—person my dad would like.”

  I chuckle. “You really don’t have a high opinion of me.”

  She bites her lip then shrugs like it’s no big deal. “You’ve made comments that make me sick, which is why I’m surprised my dad doesn’t like you.”

  “He thinks I’m not conservative enough in some ways and too aggressive in others. I think if we’d met in school, we would have been friends. But he’s thirty years older than I am and feels I make his job harder.”

  “You’re buying a wife. I don’t know how you could be more conservative.” She giggles.

  “Don’t say that too loudly, please. Evan told me most of these women think they’re at an audition for a commercial.”

  “Sorry. You’re right about one thing, though. My dad does not like anyone who creates more work for him.”

  This girl drives me crazy. She’s right. The actress would make a good choice. “I’m not buying a wife. It’s a freakin’ show.”

  “Like most of politics.”

  “So you know. Why are you making such a huge deal of this? And why isn’t your dad paying your tuition?”

  “I’ve been on my own for a while, so I don’t really want him to. But if you must know, he has something against basket-weavers.”

  Basket-weavers? Before I can ask if this is some tree-hugging cause she has taken up, Monica is behind us patting me on the back.

  “Evan wants to talk to you in your office.”

  So the tree hugger gets the last word. “I’ll see you later, Miss Buchanan. We must finish this conversation, though.”

  “Nice to meet you.” Amanda turns for the door, pausing only long enough to smile at me over her shoulder. That smile is the cross of a Cheshire Cat grin and a tease. This is insane. Part of me wants to send her to a basket-weaving convention, and part of me wants to keep her here. While my daily life is filled with people telling me how wrong I am on any given subject, the sparring isn’t always so much—fun?

  “No. No.” Monica throws her hands up and jumps in front of the door, blocking Amanda in.

  “Monica—” I start.

  “We would like to spe
ak with Amanda too.”

  Chapter 4

  Mandy

  She called me Amanda. Does she remember meeting me with Kristin, or does she only know me as Senator Buchanan’s daughter? Well, it doesn’t matter. I’m not interested in being his trophy wife.

  “I was just leaving,” I say.

  Monica smiles. “I’m sure you can spare a second to talk to me. Right?”

  So this is how it’s going to go. “Oh, I have the final interview for my thesis soon. I really should go.”

  Monica purses her lips. “Oh. Kristin said that was Friday night. That’s why you can’t come to my birthday party.”

  Okay. So it’s either talk to Monica for a few minutes here then dart out or listen to whatever she wants Friday night anyway. Ten minutes on a Thursday afternoon is worth less than a Friday night. “That’s right. I forgot it was rescheduled.”

  We follow Monica to an office behind the concrete room. Monica opens the door and waves for Martinez and I to go in first. I lead the way. As soon as her candidate steps in, Monica comes in and pulls the door shut behind her.

  The room is too silent. What is going on?

  Monica crosses to stand in front of Evan’s desk. The man can deftly handle a reporter. He’s one of the few people under forty my dad would pay full price to work with. “You two have an interesting dynamic. Have you met before?”

  “What do you mean?” I ask.

  Evan stands. He’s almost as tall as Eric, not quite. “Eric, it’s your choice, but as your campaign manager, and more importantly as someone who fears Kourtney Simpleton, I strongly recommend the selection of Miss Buchanan.”

  Eric laughs. “You know her dad will never allow it.”

  That is too much. I spin around to face him now. “Excuse me, I’m twenty-eight. I don’t need my dad’s permission to do anything.”

  “No. But his money would be nice to finish school on, right?”

  “My parents don’t even pay for school. I told you that. Jerk!”