Prime Minister (Frisky Beavers #1)

by Ainsley Booth

  However, most of the time I’m asked for informal position papers, a page or two of tight, sound-bite fodder on any number of issues. Some of them I can anticipate from the election and the PM’s first three months in office. Others come out of nowhere—storm clouds gathering in the dark and bursting at the start of the day, derailing the news cycle.

  I’m mainlining coffee and packing brown bag lunches because invariably the thirty minutes it takes me to step out to grab something is the same window where all hell breaks loose and I have to play catch-up when I get back.

  I’m already working at the disadvantage of not being able to read anyone’s mind. Stew and Gavin only seem to speak out loud when they’re barking at each other. The rest of the time they communicate in grunts and nods that I can barely follow—and they expect me to keep up.

  When I wake up on my fifth Tuesday on the job and reach for my phone, eyes still blurry with sleep, I’m almost convinced I’ve got a handle on what today will look like.

  I am, of course, completely full of shit.

  We’re well into the summer break for the House of Commons, but the PM plans for us to hit the ground running when the House reconvenes after Labour Day. That’s part of what these internships are about, I’ve realized—not just making sure that young people from all sectors have voices in the various departments of the government, but so the government quietly has in-house sounding boards.

  He’s scary smart, Gavin is. I’d never want to cross him. I’m not sure who he’s more intent on besting come the fall—the Opposition, or the doubters within his own party.

  And Stew has his back. Today, that means that Gavin sent a terse email to his Chief of Staff at…

  I blink. Jesus. Ten after four in the morning. My sleep-deprived heart whimpers.

  Since then, there’s been a chain of emails, mostly between Stew and someone in the party I don’t know, and I’ve been copied on the entire exchange.

  I look at the clock.

  Quarter to six.

  That’s a lot of emailing in an hour and a half.

  Another email lands in my inbox, this one from the PM, replying to the chain.

  Call Ellie and wake her up. I need her thoughts on this by breakfast.

  Seriously? For one thing, I am awake, like I have been at this hour every day since I started this job. I’ve responded to emails at this time of day at least a dozen times.

  It’s the height of arrogance to assume I’m still asleep.

  Sure, I’m lying in bed, because it’s still dark outside. But in forty minutes I’ll be walking into his office, my brain at his disposal for what will surely turn into a ten or twelve hour day, so he can suck it.

  I need coffee. Honestly, I can understand why some people in politics do cocaine. Coffee barely touches the level of fatigue I’m working at right now.

  And Gavin Strong was up at four in the morning, stewing about…

  I scroll back to the top of the email chain. I’m not awake enough for this yet, but I read it twice.

  It’s dense. I think Stew and I were looped into the conversation after the first few exchanges, but they’re talking about—

  I jerk upright in bed.

  They’re talking about radically changing the tax code.

  Fuck.

  It’s too early in the morning for a conversation that’s way out of my depth.

  And Gavin wants my thoughts on what?

  My phone rings. Stew. I sigh and hit answer. “Morning.”

  “Are you on your email?”

  “Yes. Reading it now. I’ll be there in forty minutes.”

  “Make it thirty.”

  “Stew…”

  He sighs. “It’s fine, Ellie. He just wants your opinion.”

  “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.”

  “Tell him what you really think.”

  Easier said than done.

  But as I hang up and flop back on the bed, a stupid grin spreads across my face for the first time in days, maybe weeks. Gavin wants my opinion.

  That shouldn’t make me nearly as happy as it does. But it’s all I get of him, so I’ll grab on to it with both fists, earnestly and eagerly.

  I walk in to the main reception area of the PMO and Gavin’s assistant is waiting for me.

  “Stew wants you to join them in the PM’s office.”

  I give her a quick nod and say thanks before dumping my messenger bag at my desk. I sling my lanyard around my neck. It’s become a bit of a security item for me. I’ve discovered that if I hang on to it during meetings, my fingers looped around the cord, I don’t futz with my skirt and my hair nearly as much.

  I was mortified when someone asked me if I was nervous.

  I mean, of course I am. By all rights, I shouldn’t be anywhere near the leader of the country. Definitely not being pulled into his office to talk about tax law.

  Of course, when I knock and enter, it turns out that’s not why they’ve asked me to join them.

  The real reason is even worse.

  “Thank God you’re here, Ellie,” Stew says from the corner, where he’s leaning against a glassed-in bookcase. “We have a tampon problem.”

  First issue with this statement: Stew has never been grateful for my sudden appearance before.

  Secondly, I’m not a tampon expert. Yes, I use them. No, I don’t want to talk about that with either of these men.

  My cheeks grow warm, and I’m sure they’re fast on their way to burning red, and I hate myself for that reaction. Because there is a small chance that this is a reasonable request for my expertise.

  Probably not, but it could be.

  “Jesus, Stew, you have a way with words.” Gavin turns from where he’s been standing in front of the window and gestures for me to sit. He’s looking extra tall and broad this morning. He doesn’t look tired in the least.

  He looks fantastic. Black suit today. I can’t help myself from noticing, even when grumpy. Mental image recorded…white shirt, red tie. Classic. Into the memory bank it goes.

  He leans on his desk. “You saw the emails.”

  “I did.”

  “What do you think?”

  This is the moment of truth, because I’m smart, but I’m not that smart. Not universally smart like Gavin or bone-deep smart like Stew. Sometimes, the bravest thing to do is be honest. “I have no clue.”

  He laughs, and it takes me by surprise because it’s been a month since I’ve heard that sound.

  I miss it. A happy warmth fills my chest as his blue eyes look straight at me. Something else I’ve missed way too much.

  “I don’t expect you to intuitively understand the technical side of it,” he says roughly. “I just need to know if I’m barking up the wrong tree.”

  I flick my gaze over to Stew. “What’s the tampon problem? We don’t tax feminine hygiene products anymore.”

  The previous government had been embarrassed into action by a series of online petitions campaigning to remove sales tax on what is obviously a necessity. Gavin presented them in the House of Commons.

  “Exactly. So we’ve set that precedent—and it’s one we’re committed to. Taxation shouldn’t discriminate or take advantage of different needs based on any—”

  “Let’s cut to the point,” Gavin interrupts. “The real question is, what’s the next tampon problem that we’re not seeing here?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrug. “I won’t know until I see the list of products that will and won’t be taxed. That’s what you’re talking about, right? You want to change what consumption products people are taxed on. Move more of the daily consumables into the necessity column, like tampons and diapers and groceries.”

  Gavin snapped his fingers and pointed at Stew. “See? She gets it.”

  She really doesn’t. I wrack my brain trying to see the complete picture. “But that’s not all you were talking about in the email. That’s just the thin edge of the wedge.”

  “Yes…” He’s staring at me intently now
, waiting for me to see it.

  See what?

  “Wait.” I swivel my head back and forth between Stew and Gavin, moving closer and closer to his desk as I fit the puzzle pieces together. “You don’t want to add individual items to that necessity column. You want to somehow work it so that nothing at the grocery store is taxed. You want to remove sales tax completely at that level.”

  It’s huge. Stupid and expensive, but huge.

  Gavin holds my gaze, his eyes glittering with intensity as he nods. “It was an idea put forward by one of my economics advisors.”

  “That’s a big hit to the budget.”

  “Massive.”

  “So it’s gotta be worth it.”

  “And that’s my question for you. Is it worth it?”

  I want to say yes. And a part of me wants to say no, too, because I can see arguments on either side. But something I’ve learned over the last month is that my role isn’t to say yes or no, but to voice the perspective that doesn’t yet have a seat at the table. I take a deep breath. “Not right now. This isn’t what will make the biggest difference in people’s lives.”

  “Sales tax is regressive.” He’s not lecturing. It’s debate-bait.

  I nod. “Definitely. And a year or two into your mandate, it’ll be a strong re-affirmation that you’re committed to easing the cost of living for lower and middle class Canadians. But if I don’t understand it immediately, neither will the average voter. Don’t give them a headache in your first full session of government.”

  “And you thought you didn’t know what to tell me,” he says softly.

  “Is that what you wanted to hear?”

  “No.” But his eyes are smiling. Not his mouth. That’s set in a firm, thinking line that’s ridiculously hot. “But it’s what I needed to hear.” He turns and nods at Stew. “Thanks. We’re done.”

  This time those two words don’t turn me inside out.

  I go back to my desk, and when I get called across the road to a meeting about the fundraiser, I’m practically skipping.

  I can see how people get sucked into the pulse of this world. Sliding back into academia at the end of the summer is going to be a challenge.

  10

  Gavin

  One of the first lessons drilled into me by the protocol officer assigned to my transition into the role of prime minister was on the role of official gifts. They can’t exceed a certain dollar amount, for example. Any gifts I receive in my role really become national property.

  Max mailed me a gorgeous leather flogger as soon as he heard that, the fucker. I pointed out to him that, one, I don’t open my own mail any more, and two, my assistant has almost certainly read Fifty Shades of Grey, so there’s no pretending it’s some kind of Western paraphernalia. Having a harassment charge levelled against me in the first week on the job would have been awkward.

  He sent her the largest, most ridiculous bouquet of flowers by way of apology. Now she thinks he’s the funniest man in the country, and she bends over backwards to accommodate any request he sends her way—like an invitation to the party fundraiser next Friday night.

  I’m ninety percent thrilled that my best friend is considering a move to the capital. Ten percent of me is seriously worried about the impact his lifestyle will have on me—the me that is now the PM, which I’ve fragmented from the rest of me. But that makes me a shitty friend, so I shove that worry to the back of my mind.

  Anyway, at the moment I have the much more pleasurable task of figuring out how to present the gift I had commissioned for Ellie.

  Because she’s an intern and we don’t officially have a personal relationship, there are rules of protocol around what is an acceptable gift. I may have bent them a little. I felt the need to make up a little for the weak coffee cup apology.

  If only circumstances were different. In my perfect world, I’d be giving her a strand of pearls. I’d have her strip, stand before me so I can inspect every last inch of her, then drape the pearls around her delicate neck.

  Instead, she’s getting an eighteen karat gold Canadian flag lapel pin. Because nothing says I want you body, mind, and soul like a fucking symbol of patriotism.

  And as much as I hate to admit it. I do want her mind and soul every bit as much as I want to dominate her body. Maybe even more.

  I cut myself off from another fantasy. It took a few weeks, but Lachlan’s found a Sunday morning hockey game for me that he assures me will be private. It’s a summer thing, but then so is Ellie’s internship.

  Come September, we’ll need a new plan.

  Maybe one that involves pearls.

  For now, I have to behave.

  I leap out of my chair and lean out my office door. “Beth, does Ellie know she should attend the fundraiser?”

  “I don’t think so—do you want me to send her an invitation?" She holds up a creamy envelope. "I've got an extra right here.”

  I reach for the envelope. "No, I'll walk it over. If I've got fifteen minutes?" The pin has been burning a hole in my jacket pocket for days and I’m grateful for an innocent opportunity to pass it along.

  Other than Stew, Beth has known me longer than anyone else on my staff. Unlike Stew, she doesn’t know how much of a bastard I am. And she’s a diehard romantic. Her eyes light up and I groan inside.

  “Actually, I probably don’t have time.” I step away from her desk, back toward my office.

  “Not at all.” Her fingers fly fast across her keyboard then she beams at me. “You have thirty minutes.”

  Lachlan appears as if conjured from thin air—probably by Beth—and before I can think better about this plan, we’re heading out.

  My security detail is actually pretty light. An officer heads across the street before us, then I’ve got two men behind me. It takes a solid fifteen minutes because I need to stop and take pictures with two groups of tourists on the lawn, but these kinds of impromptu walks aren’t that big a deal. I’ve got it easy compared to some international leaders.

  The Langevin Block is where most of my staff work. Some of my predecessors have spent more time over here than I do, and I’m sure once the House is in session, I’ll do the same. But there’s something about working in my Centre Block offices, something that appeals to my dominant nature.

  I want my staff to come to me. For them to understand the weight of the authority I carry every day. That when I make decisions, sometimes against their counsel, I do it from the seat of power.

  That took some of my newer staff by surprise.

  Stew and Beth? They weren’t shocked at all. They know I’m ruthless when I want something. Everyone else sees a dragon slayer fighting the good fight.

  The truth about that knight in shining armour? He doesn’t think twice about cutting the heart out of his enemies.

  I finally make it to Ellie’s office. Lachlan and the rest of my security detail don't follow me around inside the PMO, so after I make sure to make everyone else feels like they've gotten a slice of my attention, nobody pays any notice to the fact that I've really just come to see her.

  Her door is open and I stand there for a moment, just watching her. She’s so fucking sexy when she’s thinking.

  I knock on the door frame and she looks up. “Got a minute?”

  “Absolutely.” She leans back in her chair.

  I close the door behind me and walk to her desk, but remain standing.

  “The fundraiser is just over a week away, and it’s only just come to my attention that you might not be aware that your presence is required.” I pull the invitation from my jacket pocket and hold it out to her. “You’ll need this.”

  Her eyes dart to the creamy envelope. “Oh. It never occurred to me that I’d be invited. I’m just an intern.”

  “Actually, you’ve been the driving force behind keeping this fundraiser from being a public relations disaster. You’re definitely more than just an intern.”

  Her face turns the most adorable pink and suddenly all I can think of is wha
t kind of pink I can turn her ass with my palm.

  That is an incredibly distracting image, and my body instantly reacts to it, but I force myself to stay on point. “And on the subject of your stellar performance, I wanted to present you with a small token of my appreciation.”

  I dig into my pants pocket and retrieve the little gold pin. It had come beautifully boxed, but I didn’t want to make it appear a bigger deal than it was, so I thought I best present it naked.

  I can’t risk touching her skin. My groin is at her eye level and I’m already fighting off an erection, so I lay it gently on the desk in front of her.

  She picks it up and studies it for a moment, a small smile turning up the corners of her mouth. “It’s lovely. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome." I pause a beat. There's so much more I want to say. None of it appropriate, and the door to her office has been closed long enough. "I look forward to seeing you at the fundraiser.”

  I turn to leave, but stop when she makes an indecisive noise, almost a little whimper. It's official—everything between us turns my mind to sex now. “About that. Um…I'll let Beth know...I mean, of course I'll try to be there—”

  I spin back towards her and lean over her desk, my face inches from hers. Fuck, she’s got such pretty eyes. “The invitation is a formality. Your presence is not optional. And the correct answer is yes, Sir.”

  Her breathing becomes shallow as her lips make a silent O that would look perfect around my cock. I squelch that thought, reminding myself where I am and who I’m with, before I do or say something neither of us can recover from. I try like hell not to notice how her pupils dilate and her lips darken as her system drives blood to the body parts she's suddenly aware of.

  I fail spectacularly.

  I straighten up and take a step back and repeat myself. “I look forward to seeing you at the fundraiser, Ellie.”

  She nods slowly and gives me the most perfect response. “Yes, Sir.”

  It’s back-to-back meetings all day and I don’t get home until well after ten. I’m starving and after the nearly disastrous visit to Ellie’s office this afternoon, I need to talk to Max.