American Scandal (Their First Lady Book 1)

by Lucia Black

“I’m not toying with you. I’m being sincere. I want to know; no insults or ulterior motives. You keep this off the records. Your online profiles don’t say anything about it. It obviously means something to you.”

  “Um”— I cleared my throat —“my sister . . . my twin sister . . . Luciana, she passed away when we were eleven.”

  Cal’s mouth turned down at the corners, his dark eyes clouded with sympathy. “That really . . . well, it sucks.” He reached across the table and squeezed my hand, just for a second, but it meant something to me. “I wish I had something better to say, but ‘that sucks’ is all that seems to come to mind, as juvenile and ineloquent as it may sound.”

  I gave him a sad smile. “No.” I shook my head, fighting back tears. “That’s the perfect thing to say. It does suck. I hate when people rattle off a quick sorry because then what I am I supposed to say? That’s okay? It’s not okay. It’s never been okay.”

  “No, I can’t imagine it would be,” Cal said.

  “She had leukemia.” It was hard to talk about, but the way Cal held my gaze let me know he was listening, but more importantly, he wanted to listen. “I gave my bone marrow to her, but it still wasn’t enough to save her. So, every second I wasn’t in school I was at the hospital. Eventually my father had me tutored outside of school so I could be with her all day. He saw how miserable we were when we were apart. And . . . and I think he knew . . . She loved when I read to her; so that’s what I’d do. I spent hours reading her books, and getting to do it for these kids now”— I shrugged and smiled through the tears rolling down my cheeks—“it just makes me happy. I like to imagine Luciana is still listening to me after all these years. I want to make her proud, you know. Because I get to live, and she didn’t. I have to live for both of us. I can’t forget that.”

  Cal smiled a genuine smile that reached his eyes and crinkled his nose. “That’s beautiful, Tessa. Thank you.”

  “For what?” I asked.

  “For sharing that with me,” he said.

  “Oh . . . you’re welcome. Thank you for listening to me.”

  He nodded, a small smile on his face. We stared at each other for a moment, and for the first time since this all started, I felt like everything might be okay.

  “So what about—” Cal’s question was interrupted by a camera flash so bright it nearly blinded us. I’d somehow blocked out the commotion from outside during our conversation, but it was harshly brought back to focus. He glanced at his watch. “I better get you back over to the hospital, but I’d like to see you tomorrow night if that’s okay.”

  I smiled and nodded in agreement as we got up to leave. I was surprised at the disappointment I felt that our time together had come to an end.

  Chapter 18

  The next night I stood on the curb just out front of my apartment wearing a simple black dress and teal ballet flats. Cal didn’t tell me where we were going. He just said dinner. Nothing too fancy. I wanted to look good for the photographers, but I didn’t want to overdo the look either when he said it was casual. I was determined to have a good night. The conversation the day before had been good, and the texts we shared with each other since felt real between us, and not forced.

  After the last time Cal picked me up I made sure to be ready and waiting at the time he specified. His sleek town car rolled to a smooth stop right in front of where I stood at the exact time he said it would. The chauffeur, who I guessed was some kind of driving wizard if he could make it anywhere in Manhattan on time, hopped out and opened the door for me . . . and Cal wasn’t inside.

  “Where is he?” I asked once he shut himself inside again.

  “Mr. James requested I pick you up and take you to his apartment.”

  His apartment? I fidgeted in my seat, the anticipation of seeing Calvin James’ personal living space both excited me and made me nervous for reasons I couldn’t pinpoint.

  The drive was short. He lived closer to me than I thought. His building was much grander than mine, even though mine wasn’t exactly shabby. Cal’s was much taller and more modern, all steel and glass with sharp angles.

  As instructed by the driver, I entered the back elevator using the private four-digit pin code and rode it all the way up to the penthouse. When the doors opened directly into a grand foyer, I realized the need for a pin code. Cal had his own elevator.

  He stood just outside the elevator doors wearing a white button-down shirt with the collar undone and gray pair of slacks . . . and not his trademark three-piece suit. But if I knew Cal, and I was getting to, he knew exactly what time I’d step foot in his apartment. His look was on purpose.

  I swallowed, suddenly as nervous as if it were a real date.

  “Hi, Tessa. Come on in,” he said.

  “Hi . . .” I stepped out and into the apartment. Even though he welcomed me, I still felt like maybe I didn’t belong. I hoovered by the elevator. “So, what’s the plan for tonight?”

  Cal motioned with one finger for me to come closer. I did.

  Frank Sinatra sang quietly somewhere in the distance and the distinct scent of garlic tinged the air.

  “This is the plan. We’re staying in. I made dinner.”

  I looked at him in disbelief and left him standing in the foyer as I followed the scents of food into the kitchen. Even though I didn’t know the way, his apartment was easy to navigate. It wasn’t what I’d call an open concept; it was just open.

  “You . . . made this?” I asked pointing to the lemon rosemary chicken breast and angel hair pasta. The counters were black marble and completely devoid of a mess and cooking supplies. It was one thing to cook, it was another to cook and clean up.

  “Yes,” he said, coming over to join me by the counter. “I know it’s not an impressive meal, but yes, I cooked. And cleaned up,” he added like he was reading my thoughts.

  “No, this is impressive.” I felt my walls cracking and letting in a few beams of light. In my Italian world, cooking for someone was an act of love. Cal doing it meant he cared, even if it was only a little.

  “I thought we could use a night away from the public eye so we can have a real, uninterrupted conversation. I figured you’d appreciate the opportunity to scowl at me in private.”

  I laughed. “Okay, I’ll try not to disappoint. But what about the media and the photographers and all that?”

  “We have a fundraiser coming up to accomplish that goal. You said you valued privacy. I think we deserve a little of that, don’t you? Especially if we want . . .” he trailed off as I looked at him expectantly. “Especially if I want to make up for how things have been between us.”

  I smiled. “Well . . . okay, then. A night at Cal’s Diner, it is.”

  “Cal’s Bistro, please. I don’t think diners serve lemon rosemary chicken with an herbed butter pasta.” His eyes twinkled as he smiled, and I couldn’t help but return it. “Can I get you a drink? I made sangria, but I have wine if you’d prefer.”

  “Sangria. Sinatra on the speakers—if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re my college boyfriend trying desperately to seduce me.”

  “Ouch.” Cal feigned chest pain, grabbing at his heart. “I just like his music. He’s so classic New York.”

  “He wasn’t even from New York. He was from New Jersey,” I said.

  “You like to argue with me, don’t you? You should have gone into politics instead of teaching it.”

  “I wouldn’t say I like it.” I took a moment to think about it. “But I do always seem to be doing it.”

  “How did you get interested in politics?” Cal asked as he fixed us each a bowl of pasta.

  “My dad. I didn’t have a choice.” Cal gave me a pitying look. I needed to erase it. “But it’s fine. I love it. I wouldn’t want it any other way. It’s my calling; my dad just helped me see it.”

  “It suits you, but I don’t know if it is really your calling,” he said. It wasn’t rude the way he said it. It sounded genuine. “Let’s eat in here.” He tilted his head towa
rds the living room.

  I glanced at the rigid, imposing dining room table. “Okay.”

  He carried the food, I carried the drinks, and we sat a comfortable distance apart from each other on the plush charcoal couch.

  “I was thinking,” Cal said after we’d both taken a few bites. The food was surprisingly good. Simple, but seasoned just right. “Your platform as First Lady should definitely be education-related.”

  “I have been researching some topics I’d like to explore further, and that was at the top of my list.” Ever since my mother had mentioned it, I decided to take the initiative and be prepared. “Look at that. We agree on something.”

  Cal half-smiled. “I’m hoping it’s the first of many. I plan on being an extremely successful president, and that means also having a successful marriage.”

  I set my pasta aside, then picked up my glass of sangria and took a long swig. “I know things got off to a rocky start, and I won’t make another scene like that again. It’s just that . . .” I stopped myself from carrying on. I was about to be entirely too open.

  “I know. It was both of us that night. I haven’t been . . . easy.”

  I stared at him waiting for more. “That’s an understatement.” I was being too forward. What is in this sangria?

  He must have seen the look of shock on my face. “I know. I think you had certain preconceived notions of me, and I had certain preconceived notions of you . . . and it would appear I was wrong.”

  “This is going to be a weird marriage. I’ll be honest.” I took another sip of the fruity sangria. “And it felt really good to say that out loud,” I admitted. The new human Cal was surprisingly easy to talk to.

  “I know. It’s more than I was expecting too.”

  “Really? What worries you most about it?”

  He shifted, crossing his ankle over his knee and stretching his arm behind the couch. I wasn’t sitting quite close enough for his arm to be behind me. “At first, I was mostly worried about what this was to you. All of this. What kind of person you actually were. Not to insult your family, so please don’t misunderstand, but we both know what they are, even if it’s so well hidden. I was concerned with what kind of woman you would be. But I see those worries were unfounded. Now I think what worries me most is more intimate.”

  My mind immediately went to the gutter. “What do you mean?”

  “I like things a certain way.” He seemed to consider his words in his head. “I like everything a certain way.”

  “Yeah.” I brought my legs up on the couch and tucked them under my butt to get more comfortable. The dress fanned out perfectly around me. “You’ve made that pretty clear. But did you have anything specific when you say that?”

  “It’s my turn to ask you a question and I want you to answer honestly.”

  “But you didn’t—”

  The way he looked at me stirred something inside, and I stopped talking and nodded.

  “What kind of man do you think I am?”

  I had an answer in mind, but it got stuck in the back of my throat. Did I really want to admit this to him? “I don’t know anymore.”

  “I said I wanted you to answer honestly.”

  I sighed. “That is honest, to a point. I don’t know. There is so much of you that is fake and for the cameras, the constituents, and the media—and I get it, you have to be. When you aren’t being a jerk, you’re okay to talk to. But it’s like you’re uncomfortable around me. Just too nice, and overly stiff.” I winced as the words came out. I quickly started to add, “But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate that you are trying and that things are better, because I really do—”

  He shook his head. “I’m not asking for you to apologize for your feelings here. I’m just asking for the truth.” I nodded. “And what you do you think about that? About those different versions of me that you mentioned?”

  I shifted on the couch and gnawed on my bottom lip. I both did and didn’t want to answer at the same time. I couldn’t help the deep breath I exhaled when I finally admitted, “The guy that is fake is someone I struggle to be around because he makes me feel like a prop. The guy that is a jerk to me makes me want to punch him and runaway screaming. And the guy that is just too nice and overly stiff . . . he’s nice to talk to. But from a, uh . . . a relationship perspective, he bores me.”

  Cal broke his relaxed position and leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and much closer to me than before. “And what if I told you that none of those are who I really am? That everything you think you know about me is what you are simply meant to see, just like everyone else?”

  What? That made no sense unless . . .

  “Oh god, are you gay? Is that why you aren’t married yet and you made this arrangement? And why you flinched away when I touched you? It is. Oh my god. Is that why . . . is that what kind of marriage we are going to have?” I felt the tears welling up in my eyes.

  He laughed, deeply and sincerely.

  I glared at Cal. “Why are you laughing?”

  “No, I’m not gay.”

  “What, then? Help me understand this. You pushed my hand away when I tried to touch your knee. Your knee, Cal. Then you started . . . whatever that was underneath the table, but you were so uncomfortable touching me that you couldn’t—”

  “Stop talking.”

  “What?”

  “Stop talking.” His voice was stern, commanding.

  I stared at him, closed my mouth, and nodded.

  Cal rose to his feet and then came to stand before me. Slowly, he leaned forward and placed his hands on the back of the couch on either side of my head. I took a deep, shaky breath as he moved in closer and closer.

  “Do you want me to finish what I started?” he whispered in my ear.

  I nodded and clenched my legs together at the anticipation, already feeling myself getting wet over the way he was talking to me.

  Cal released his grasp on the couch and took a step back. Very methodically and very purposefully, he surveyed me, and even though I was still fully clothed, I felt naked.

  “Take off your panties.”

  I untucked my legs, reached under my dress, and pulled my panties off. It didn’t make me nervous; it only felt right.

  “Give them to me.”

  I handed them over simply because he told me to.

  He brought them to his nose and inhaled before sticking them in his pocket. The gesture should’ve embarrassed me, or at the very least grossed me out, but it didn’t. Not with Cal. All it did was turn up the flame of my desire.

  “Pull your dress up to your hips”

  While keeping full eye contact, I did as he said.

  “Spread your legs.” He kept his voice even, commanding. The only sign he enjoyed what we were doing was the stirring in the crotch of his slacks.

  Heat spread across my cheeks and left me flush. I wanted to; I wanted to please him and do what he said, but the room was so bright, and Cal was fully dressed. Slightly shaking, I did as he said. I spread my legs, and exposed myself to him.

  Cal leaned forward again, but this time he used his left hand to clamp onto the couch and his right to trace between my legs. His face was so close to mine, his gaze holding mine. Because I was granting him easy access, Cal expertly worked his fingers over my clit in a circular motion.

  My eyes fluttered closed. God, it already felt so good. And he’d only been touching me for a matter of seconds.

  “Open your eyes,” Cal huskily whispered in my ear.

  I did as he said, even though it felt intimidating. It still felt sexy somehow.

  He pushed a finger inside me and pumped once, twice, finding me so wet I was ready for anything he wanted to do. He pushed another inside me, working his fingers in and out all while still massaging my clit.

  Between Cal’s commands, my wide-open legs, and my open eyes, I could hardly take the pleasure. My fingernails clawed at the fabric at the couch and for a second I worried I’d puncture it, but then Cal started
moving faster and I couldn’t think of anything but my release.

  I brought my thighs together as much as Cal would allow and clamped down on his fingers, trying to slow his pace. My breathing labored and my canal clenched with the building orgasm.

  “If I tell you to come, can you?”

  I shook my head, nervous at what he was asking. I couldn’t come on demand. Was that really a thing?

  He leaned in again, nearly pressing his lips to my ear. “Then that’s something we will need to work on, isn’t it?” Without missing a thrust, Cal curved his fingers inside me, having no trouble finding my G-spot. I gasped and came on his hand, my eyes fluttering as I did.

  “Look at me,” he ordered.

  I opened my eyes and grabbed his arms, digging into his muscles while I rode out the intensity of the orgasm. Looking into his eyes while I did only made me come harder. I didn’t understand and I couldn’t explain it, but the sensation consumed my body.

  “Are you still bored?” he whispered.

  I could hardly move. I could hardly think. And to imagine, he made me feel what way only using his fingers. One thought managed to fully form in my brain. Who is this man?

  Chapter 19

  Cal and I were dressed to the nines as we rode in the back of a limo like Hollywood royalty.

  “What?” I asked. He sat across from me on the bench seats, one leg on either side of mine. “You’ve been staring at me for two solid minutes.”

  “You look good in that dress.”

  Things were different since that night. He wasn’t suddenly sweet and doting, but there was a comfortableness there like the masks were off and we could be real. Not to mention a burning sexual desire that threatened to make the whole limo combust into flames.

  “Thanks,” I said. It was the dress my mother and I had picked out, perfectly complimenting my clutch and pumps. It was sexy enough to make me feel good, but classy enough to be on Cal’s arm for the fundraiser.

  “Cream is your color.”

  “Black is yours.” He wore a crisp tuxedo, just like the night I’d met him.