The Senator's Secret (A Presidential Affair Book 1)

by Jennifer Rebecca

  I won’t let it happen again. I am strong. I am an independent woman. I will not bend. I will not fall victim to a sexy man with the love of a nation behind him, because that is a recipe for disaster if ever I saw one. Loving a man who has women lining up around the block cannot be good for one’s emotional health and well being.

  This makes last night’s turn of events a… slight setback.

  The last few key people I need to secure the funding for Open Arms only want to work with Senator Chancellor. They feel that he will make a great public face for the organization. Even more so, since it falls perfectly in line with several of his campaign promises, where our nation’s veterans are concerned. And it’s true, he would be great. If I could handle being around his flirty smile and those damn dimples.

  No matter how many charming smiles or politely worded pleas I sent their way, it wouldn’t get them to budge. I need the king of the alley cats as my partner or no money from the fancy rich people. And we need the fancy, rich people money or else we won’t be able to open the veterans’ center. I will find a way to get it done without the state’s resident manwhore. I swear it. Even if it’s the last thing I do before I die. And I may die. Or my vagina will implode. Same thing.

  Part of me wonders if that’s really fair. Is it my own selfishness that’s keeping me from asking the senator for his backing? Or is it self-preservation? I just know that if given half the chance, he would discard me like yesterday’s underwear—just like every other woman in the city—and it would gut me. I would be humiliated to be cast aside so casually. And so publicly. And it would be publicly, because Jake is a U.S. Senator. He’s not only a U.S. Senator; he is the rockstar of all politicians. Jacob Chancellor is fairly young for a politician at forty-three years old. He comes from an old—as in arrived on the Mayflower old—New York family. And he’s gorgeous. With a body still full of muscles and what’s rumored to be fantastic… other parts, he is one of the most sought after celebrities in the city. And let us not forget the fact that the man is a goddamn war hero with more pretty ribbons and shiny medals that he proudly trots out whenever it appeals to him. And why shouldn’t he? He earned them as a freaking Navy SEAL. One would never know by looking at his superior physical form, but he has a scar from a bullet wound on his shoulder and some shrapnel in a hip that occasionally causes a limp when it rains—or so I’ve read in an article in the Post. He is followed everywhere, his every move scrutinized, and I know myself well enough to understand that I cannot handle failure on that public of a stage.

  Even if being near him makes my heart beat faster… he makes me angrier than anyone ever has before. The man truly makes my blood boil. He is a boil on the butt of America. A beautiful boil that I need to lance before I fuck it.

  “Merow,” my cat Spot calls out from beside me.

  I turn to look at him. He’s standing right next to my head, looking at me. It would be creepy to realize there is a cat standing on the side of my bed just staring at me—that is, if I didn’t already have an orange tabby named Subby sleeping on my pillow above my head and gently petting my hair. Somehow, I ended up with the Norman Bates collection of cats, and I don’t even know how, they all just kind of found me, one at a time. But I love every single one of these little weirdos. I let out a frustrated sigh and throw the covers back before climbing from my warm and comfy bed.

  “All right, all right,” I say.

  It’s clearly feeding time at the zoo—or at least that’s what my dad calls my apartment. I make my way down the short hall to the small eat-in kitchen. I pull a stack of eight small bowls down from an upper cabinet, where I put them last night after I washed them, and set it on the counter with the spoon I pulled from the drawer. My heart pangs a little when I see the ninth bowl that is tucked in the back of the cupboard. It’s been three months and still I miss Pepper, a solid black cat who had been no less than seventeen pounds. But she was old and she was in pain. It was her time. Jamie, my favorite vet tech, sat with me the entire time, and together we said goodbye to my first fur baby.

  Pepper and I had been together since I was a young teen, when I brought home a tiny runt who had been abandoned by her mother and begged my mom to let me keep her. I even told my dad that she was “just visiting,” and when he asked how long Pepper would be with us, I had answered him truthfully, that she would be with us forever. Dad laughed at my explanation that “We’re all just visiting this world” and proclaimed me a future lawyer, just like him and my mom.

  And if love could have saved Pepper, she would have lived forever.

  I grab two big cans of cat food from the pantry and set them next to the bowls. As I begin lining up all of the bowls in front of me, the rest of the circus shows up. You would think the way my little kitty tabernacle choir is singing that they are starving, but they are not. They have a huge feeder of dry food and a freaking water fountain to drink out of whenever they please.

  I crack open the first can and divide it into quarters to be evenly distributed amongst the first four bowls, and then I do the same with the second can. My kitty army, all lined up in a row like good little soldiers, waits for me to place their bowls in front of all them before they dive in at once. I wouldn’t believe it myself if I didn’t see it every day. And then I get out of the way.

  I open another upper cabinet and pull down my favorite coffee mug. It’s white with gold letters that reads I love Caturday. Even though it’s Sunday, I use it anyway, because it’s my absolute favorite with its little kitty face wearing a flower crown painted underneath the letters. I plop it under the spout of my Keurig and hit the blue button that makes my magic brew flow. While the magic happens, I pull open the door to my fridge and search for the bottle of creamer.

  My work life may be neat and orderly, but my home life could easily be called chaotic. I like to think it’s how I balance the halves of me.

  When I finally locate the bottle I was looking for in between the old takeout containers and instant breakfast egg cups, I pluck it from its hiding spot and pour it into my waiting mug. I toss the bottle back into the fridge and look over my shoulder when a hear another “Meow.” All of the cats but one have scattered, leaving just my judgy shadow behind.

  “I can figure it out,” I tell him. “I don’t need the sexy senator to help me get this project off the ground.” Spot just sits there, silently disagreeing with me.

  I pick up my cup and make my way to the corner of my small living room where my desk sits. I just know that all of my efforts last night will pay off. I am almost completely sure I convinced those power players who were still on the fence to give me their support—with or without the damn dimples and the jerk who owns them. I sit down in my chair and reach for the slim white mouse. I shake it a bit to wake up my computer and log in to my email. And find disappointment.

  I let out a heavy sigh and lean back in my chair. I sip my now cool coffee while letting my eyes track over the words I don’t want to read. I have to convince them that we do not need Jacob Chancellor. And we don’t, right? But there’s a part of me that whispers I’m not being fair. That my refusing to work with him is nothing but selfishness and my own irresponsibility.

  I can’t solve the world’s problems like this, so I push back from my desk and make my way down the hall to my bedroom. I brush my teeth while I avoid looking at myself in the mirror, another clear indicator I’m not doing the right thing, and I hate that. I don’t want to be this person, and I’m not going to be that person who blames someone else for their lack of moral character. This is clearly my own character flaw.

  I brush my hair out and twist it up into a messy bun. I toss my pajamas onto my bed as I make my way to my closet and pull on my favorite pair of well-worn jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt. I pull my favorite NYU crew neck sweatshirt over my head. It’s navy-blue with big light-blue block letters stitched to the front. I slide my feet into a pair of red canvas Toms and head for the door.

  I grab my black Michael Kors tote and am roo
ting around in its deep depths for my keys when I hear my cell phone ring. I race back to the kitchen, pick it up off the counter, and slide my finger across the cool glass screen.

  “Hello?”

  “Just checking that we’re on for dinner tonight,” Jules, my college roommate, says when I answer.

  “Of course,” I reply. We always meet for dinner every other Saturday.

  “Excellent!” she cheers. “I want to go to Clear.”

  I let out a groan. “I was hoping we could go to The High Dive and maybe grab a burger,” I admit. While I do love the finer things in life, after all the prep of hairspray, tape, and wallpaper spackle that charity galas like last night’s event require, I don’t exactly feel like putting in the effort to meet the dress code of one of New York’s most elite fine dining restaurants. Unfortunately, Jules loves everything about it. And why wouldn’t she? She was bred for this kind of life. I am pretty sure she came out of the womb wearing pearls and heels.

  “What?” she gasps. “You love Clear.” And I do. I just want something a little different.

  “I do,” I say hesitantly. I love Jules, and she loves to get dressed up. She would only show up to my favorite hole in the wall place in Dior anyway. “The usual time?”

  “Yes! See you there!” She hangs up before I can say anything else, and a quick look at the clock on the microwave tells me I need to hustle to get to the animal shelter if I’m going to make it back home in time to change for our dinner reservation Jules is undoubtedly on the phone making right now.

  I toss my phone in my bag and hear the telltale clank of it hitting my keys. I say a silent thanks to the lost keys fairy for helping me when I’m running behind and pull them out. I race out the door and lock it behind me before walking down the hall to the elevator. The doors open on a ding right as I push the call button. This is clearly going to be my day!

  I step off of the elevator and make my way through the lobby, wondering if I can make it to the station that is a few blocks away in time to make the train. I walk with a purpose, as my dad always says, and manage to make it through the turnstiles and to the track just in time to hop on the right train. I almost think I should buy a lottery ticket if this is how the rest of my day is going to go.

  I step off the train at my stop and climb the stairs to the street level before making my way down the street to the animal shelter. I first found this shelter when I began volunteering with Purple Paws, an organization that takes dogs from shelters and trains them to pair with veterans in need of service dogs from PTSD to helper aids. When I was approached with the idea of an organization that takes two wounded souls and bonds them together for the greater good. I was hooked from day one. And then I met the lovely people who run this animal shelter when they aren’t working for the vet clinic to the upper echelon of New York.

  I push through the door with a lot of heavy thoughts swirling through my brain. Winks has been on my mind lately. A sweet-natured gray cat with a big, soulful green eye. The second was lost when someone used him as bait in a dog fight. Winks must have gotten away, but he was still pretty banged up when someone found him before bringing him here.

  Stacy was going to check on him. The vets at the animal hospital say he’s going to make it, but the animal shelter isn’t so sure someone will adopt a one-eyed cat with a lot of emotional baggage. They’ve been hinting for a while now that when he is well enough to come home, it should be with me. And while I haven’t admitted it out loud yet, I’m beginning to think they’re right. I just haven’t wanted to call him mine yet in case he made a turn for the worse. The wound from losing Pepper is still too raw and losing another furry friend so soon would cut deep. But the truth is, I’m already attached. Winks is mine and we all know it.

  “Hey, Grace,” Jamie, the girl working the front desk calls out. “Here to check on your boy or visit all the rest?”

  “I’m here to check on my boy,” I say, giving her a knowing look that she just laughs at. “How is he doing anyway?”

  “Great,” Stacy replies as she walks from the back. “He’s going to be just fine and should be able to go home in a few days.”

  “That’s fantastic news,” I tell her.

  “I thought you’d be happy about that one,” she says. “So, are you finally going to admit you’re adding him to the pack at your place?”

  “Yes,” I drawl. “Winks is mine and you all knew it, and so did I.”

  “Good,” she says on a small smile. “He’ll be right where he belongs.”

  I wave to her as she makes her way out of the building before I head on back to see Winks. He perks up when he sees me come into the back room, and I go right to his kennel. I pop the door open, and he stands up on shaky legs.

  “Merow.”

  “Hey, buddy,” I say to him as I gently scoop him up into my arms. “How’s it going today?”

  Winks just lets out a happy purr as I carry him into the break room. There is a big comfy recliner that had come from someone’s home, and I sit down in it with my new main man in my lap. Out of my bag, I pull a small throw blanket from my home that smells like me and all the other cats and curl it around us to see what he’ll do, but I never should have worried. Winks settles down as if he knows he’s found his pack.

  “I have so much to tell you,” I say in a calm voice. “I went to a gala last night. And I’m pretty sure we got a good foot in the door on the Open Arms project. There’s just one problem.”

  The cat looks at me with his big, green eye as if he’s really listening to me explain my problems. I think he just might be. It makes me feel better to think that someone might actually care what I have to say.

  “Roughly one third of the backers I need will only support the project if I can get Senator Chancellor signed on as a sponsor. They think it will be good to have his name attached to the project for veterans, and I know they’re right, but I just don’t want to work with him. He’s a stubborn jerk, and I know it will be just miserable working with him. He will boss me around and try to change all my plans and… and… and make me like him, and I just can’t do that. It’ll be all right without him, right?”

  “Meow.”

  “Well who asked you?” Oh my gosh, I can’t believe I’m talking man problems with a cat and he has the nerve to disagree with me. What the hell am I going to do? “I’ll just stick to cats. Men always make things complicated. Cats don’t talk back, right?”

  “Meow.”

  I let out a sigh. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Rumors of a Jeffries-Chancellor Wedding Fly”

  Chapter 3

  The trap

  Everything is going to be just fine.

  I smooth down my pencil skirt and stand to greet Jules, one of my best friends from college, when the hostess leads her to the dark booth with crisp white linens in the back of one of New York’s most exclusive restaurants.

  Jules pulls me into a tight hug before removing her coat and handing it to the hostess to hang up outside our booth before sliding gracefully into her seat. Everything about Jules is posh and polished. Where I feel like a fraud, like a little girl playing dress up in her mother’s fancy clothes, Julia Fairchild is the real deal.

  I met her my freshman year of college when I rushed the sororities. She was also a freshman going through the recruitment process. She was a bright light when I was scared out of my mind. Naturally shy, I wasn’t sure what I’d been thinking when I promised my mom I would try to make friends. This was so far outside my comfort zone that I never would have been there normally if I hadn’t made a promise.

  Jules was a legacy, meaning her mom and both grandmothers had also belonged to the same sorority. Her parents met because their mothers were sorority sisters. Jules knew exactly what sorority she was going to, and none of the overly loud parties, theme T-shirts, or silly songs about friendship and sisterhood scared her or put her off.

  She also took one look at me in a sea of freshman women and knew with that one look I
was in way over my head. So, in true Jules fashion, she decided that night we were going to be best friends. She ushered me through rush week and new member activities, and without her I probably would have hated college. Instead, I not only loved it, but I made lifelong friendships, Jules included. I love Jules like a sister, so I’m always happy she’s free for our weekly drinks and dinner.

  “So,” she says excitedly. If anything, Jules loves life as well. “How are things going?”

  I’m not, however, going to tell her that my project is about to sink like a stone. So I smile, open my mouth, and lie. “Things are great.”

  She eyes me seriously as the waiter approaches. “We’ll get back to that in a minute.”

  “Hi, ladies, my name is Anthony,” he greets on a charming smile. “Can I get you anything to drink from the bar tonight?”

  “Yes,” Jules answers immediately as she eyes Anthony like a hungry lion. “We would both like dirty martinis, extra dirty, extra olives, and blue cheese olives at that.”

  “Sounds great,” he says. “Anything else?”

  “A charcuterie board when you get a chance, and keep the vodka coming. I have a feeling we’re going to need it.”

  I feel my lips press into a tight line as she speaks. I should have known I couldn’t keep anything from Jules. She always could read me like a book.

  “Coming right up.”