Ten, nine, eight… Lachlan would have frisked him. That would have been the deal. He got in to see me, but he’s not wearing a wire. Of course, you can never be too sure about these things, so my answer can’t be my fist through his face, no matter how much I want it to be.
I pull out my phone—the official PM phone—and dial Caroline. My teeth are clenched so hard that when she answers, my jaw cracks as I start to talk. “Pull the CAN News interview. Bullies don’t get any attention from this government. And set up a live interview with as many of the other stations as want one. They each get three minutes of my time tomorrow, live to air on their morning shows.”
“Bullies?” She clears her throat. “Of course. Consider it done.”
I hang up the phone and toss it onto the table. Then I take off my jacket and loosen my tie.
Rick shifts restlessly on his feet. Clearly this is not how he thought this would go.
The best defence is a good offense. I cross my arms and sneer at him. “I will not be threatened. Run whatever you want, but in the morning your competitors are getting an exclusive quote that makes your story look like something the National Enquirer would be ashamed to print. Get the hell out.”
“Is that on the record?”
“Fuck you, Rick. And tread carefully with how you treat Ellie. You don’t want to end up on the wrong end of this story.”
“Is that a threat?” Sweat beads on his temple, just a spot here and there, but he’s fucking nervous. Good.
I crowd closer, herding him toward the door. “When I threaten you, you tiny little shit, it won’t be in a private hotel room. It’ll be on national television. Tune in to any station other than your own in the morning to hear it for yourself.”
His face is ruddy with frustration and he clearly wants to say something else, but I'm done talking. I stalk closer and he pulls the door open, scurrying away like a scared mouse.
"That didn't go quite as I planned," Lachlan says, and I don't fucking believe him for a second.
"No?"
He shrugs. "I thought you'd plow him in the face."
"Wanted to."
"Being a grown-up sucks sometimes."
"Tell me about it." I sigh. "Let's get my bag and head to the airport."
I have a sweet woman to wrap myself around. And in the morning…well, we'll worry about that in the morning.
36
Ellie
I’ve been drifting in and out of semi-conscious sleep state for hours, so when the mattress shifts under his weight, I immediately turn and reach for him in the dark.
He’s naked. My fingers skate over his warm skin, working their way down to the erection I know is there. Because it’s always there when we’re close.
He grabs my wrists, trapping them above my head as he takes my mouth hard, his tongue insistent. I open for him in every way, pliant and soft still from sleep, but that's not the only reason. There's a tension running through him. He needs this from me right now, and he can have it.
He can take anything he wants.
But even as his grip tightens on my wrists, as his body flexes above me, he's still gentle as he climbs between my legs, nudging them apart with his knees. I'm slick and ready for his cock to slide deep inside, filling me completely.
Hard and thick, he stretches me to the point of aching. I try to rock my hips to adjust, but he's already dragging his cock out of me again, and his hands shift, pressing me harder against the bed. Be still, he's telling me. Take it. He thrusts his hips hard and fast, his lips devour me, and all I can do is lay there. But that’s okay. I’m giving him exactly what he needs.
It's rough and fast, a whirlwind of heat and motion. He's bigger in the dark, and heavy. His touch is coarse—a hard squeeze of my breast, a bruising press against my hip. Every flex of his body moves me closer to the head of the bed as he fucks into me, grinding his pelvis against my clit.
I don't say anything, but we're both breathing hard, shaky, desperate sounds in the quiet of the night. He's shaking now, and I know the feeling. Inside, I'm so close. I want to fight for it, but I know it will be better if I just give in.
And it is. He doesn’t last much longer, his last few thrusts wild and uncaged, but even in his need, he makes sure I'm coming before he lets himself go.
I wasn't expecting a nice little orgasm tonight. I wasn't expecting anything like this, and I don't know what it's all about, but the endorphins are racing through me and I'm so tired, I can't keep my eyes open. Gavin settles his weight on top of me again and alternates between peppering my face with gentle kisses and nuzzling my neck.
I feel like a lioness after mating, and I’m grateful we’ve moved on from condoms, because they are not conducive to blissing out after sex.
Eventually, he pulls out and shifts to the side before rolling me over on my side. He snuggles up behind me, wraps his arms around me and holds me tight to his body.
Now I can sleep.
37
Ellie
Gavin’s up at five. He whispers for me to go back to sleep and I do because I swear we only fell asleep an hour ago. When I wake the second time, there’s a note on the pillow that says he’s left me breakfast—a travel coffee mug and a muffin—and if I’m up by eight, I should turn on the TV.
It takes me a minute to find the remote for the small flat-screen mounted on the far wall. I’ve never noticed it before.
When I turn it on, it’s already tuned to a morning news show. The anchor is doing a summary of the day’s headlines.
I pick at the muffin as I slowly wake up. I’m thinking about having a quick shower while I wait for whatever I’m supposed to see on TV when my phone rings. It’s Sasha.
“Hey,” I answer.
“What is going on?” She’s out of breath. “I got a breaking news alert email that the PM is doing an interview in half an hour, addressing questions about his personal life.”
“No clue,” I whisper, my eyes huge as I watch the same teasing headline suddenly scroll across the bottom of the screen.
“He didn’t tell you he was going to do this?”
No, he didn’t. I don’t know how I feel about that. “We didn’t talk last night. He came back in the middle of the night and left again before I was up for the day.”
“He didn’t wake you up?”
He did. Just not to talk. I press my thighs together. “It was really late.”
“What is he going to say?”
I huff out a breath. So this is really happening. “I think he’s going to say that we’re in a relationship and point out repeatedly that it’s not news until they believe him.” Something must have happened. I flash back to the night before and the urgency with which he took me.
“Is he going to name you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Have you told your parents?”
No. “You think I should call them?”
“I think your mom watches the news every morning.”
She’s right. I groan. “Gotta go.”
I glance at the clock. It’s half past seven. My father won’t have left for work yet. They might be in the kitchen having breakfast, or they might be done by now and reading the paper while they finish their coffee.
My mother picks up on the second ring. “Hello?”
“Morning, Mama.”
“Ellie!” She makes a sweet humming noise. “Oh, it’s good to hear from you, sweetie.”
Oh, Mama. Just wait. I wince as I grip the phone tighter to my ear. “How’s Daddy?”
“He’s good. Just getting ready for work.”
“Good.”
“Is something the matter?”
“Well…no. Nothing’s wrong. I just have some news.”
“What is it?” I can tell she’s sat down. In the kitchen, maybe? I try to picture it. Orderly and neat. Everything in its place and as it should be.
I’m so the odd duck in our family. Wild and free, and now about to cause a ruckus on the national stage. �
��I’m seeing someone. And it’s serious.”
“Oh! Are you…” She trails off. “In a family way?”
Oh, God. “No. I’m not pregnant, Mama.”
“Okay. Good. Although, you know, you’re not getting any younger. But make him marry you first.”
“Yeah, we’re not that serious yet.”
“Well, that’s exciting anyway. When will we get to meet him?”
A hysterical giggle burbles up in my throat. “You already have, actually.”
My mother doesn’t update Facebook very often. I think the picture of her and my father meeting Gavin on the campaign trail is her most recent photo.
“Is he someone from school?”
I glance toward the TV. The anchor is now setting up the interview. “Are you watching the morning news?”
“It’s on in the other room.”
“Go put it on CTN.”
“Why?”
“Just…do it. I’ll stay on the phone.”
She calls for my dad, and I hear the TV change. My father mutters something about Gavin looking…I’m not sure. Too pretty for so early in the morning, maybe. He’s never been as much of a fan as my mother has been, although they both voted for him.
“Mama, maybe send Dad to work.”
“It’s not time for him to go yet, sweetie.”
Kill me now. “Right.”
“So what are we watching for? The prime minister is on there now.”
I know. He looks stern, a muscle flexing in his jaw as he adjusts the earpiece so he can hear the interviewer. “That’s him.”
“That’s who?”
“That’s who I’m dating.”
Silence is the only response from the other end of the line. I wish my mother would say something. In stereo, both from the TV on Gavin’s wall and over the phone from my parents’ living room in Montreal, I hear the reporter wrap up the introduction and lob a first, easy question. “Mr. Strong, you were in Washington yesterday talking trade deals. You’ve spoken publicly before about needing to undo a lot of messy deals that were negotiated by your predecessor. Did you make any progress on that promise yesterday?”
In my ear, my mother clears her throat. “Ellie?”
My mother hates lying above all else. Although maybe she just thinks I’m delusional, not lying. I don’t answer her. My attention is locked on Gavin as he pours his attention into the camera, answering the question masterfully. That would be the trade—he gets to talk about trade first. Then the next question will be…
“And we understand that you got a phone call yesterday in the middle of a meeting?”
He flashes a quick grin. “My phone rang. I wasn’t able to take the call, because of that meeting.”
“Your ring tone drew a lot of attention. The reporters that have followed you on the campaign and as you’ve settled into office have never heard Jann Arden come out of your phone before.”
“She’s a national treasure.”
“Indeed she is. But coupled with the reports that you were seen on a date earlier this week, and we doubt that the caller was actually Ms. Arden—”
“That’s quite the presumption,” he says with a chuckle.
“The fact remains that you are an eligible bachelor and people want to know, Mr. Strong—who is the lucky lady?”
It’s a total softball question. I wonder what else he had to trade to get it pitched like that, and my chest pulls tight with worry. How much am I costing him?
“In an ideal world, I wouldn’t have to answer that question. Let’s be honest here for a second—this is good gossip, nothing more. But yes, I am in a relationship. It's new and getting serious. It's also private. I think most Canadians can appreciate that I'm not the easiest man to date, and it would be great if I was allowed to fumble my way through impressing this woman on my own terms.”
“When will we get to meet her?”
“When she’s ready. She’s a private citizen, and I hope everyone continues to respect that fact.”
“How did you meet?” This question is less soft. This is what they get.
He doesn’t flinch. “She’s a PhD candidate at one of the universities here in Ottawa. We met through work.”
“She worked in your office?”
“Briefly. She’s an incredibly bright woman, and I was lucky to benefit from her input on a number of issues for the short time she worked with my chief of staff.”
I let out a breath that I hadn’t realized I was holding. In my ear, I hear my father talking about going to work. My mother, like me, is still totally silent.
The interviewer wraps up the interview with one last question about trade, then they cut to a commercial.
“The prime minister?” my mother gasps in my ear.
“Yeah. Yes,” I repeat, because my mother hates casual answers.
“The prime minister what?” my father asks, and I thunk my skull back against the headboard.
“Is Ellie’s new boyfriend.”
I can see it now. My father’s brow furrowed as he bobble-heads back and forth between my mother and the TV as he slowly processes what he just saw.
“Ellie’s the incredibly bright woman?”
“Seriously?” I exclaim, jerking upright. “That’s what he grabs on to? I have a Master’s degree. I’m ABD on my PhD and—”
“Sweetie, you know we don’t know what those letters mean.”
“All But Dissertation. Seriously, Mama, we’ve had this conversation.”
“I can’t remember those things. Well, I hope you don’t get hurt.”
And this is why I don’t go home more often. I’m used to her missing the point like this, but it still stings a little. I bury that deep. “Thank you.”
“He’s a good catch,” she adds, trying to soften her response, but that’s really not the right approach.
I sigh. “Tell Daddy he should have a good day at work.”
“Will we see you on TV later today?”
Not if I can help it. “I love you guys.”
I call Sasha after I finish freaking out and we agree I can legitimately avoid campus for at least a day. I don’t have any posted office hours right now anyway, so she doesn’t even need to put a note on my door. Which is good because the last thing I want is video footage on the news of my office door with a note posted on it, practically screaming that I’m hiding.
Because I totally am, but I’d prefer to hide in secret.
Lachlan shows up mid-morning and asks me if I want to go back to my apartment. He claims he can get me out of 24 Sussex without anyone being aware—and I don’t even have to get in the trunk of a car. But I’ll have to come back sooner than later because if I don’t, Gavin will come to my place and that can’t happen. The Prime Minister’s Booty Call, the headline would scream. No, no, no.
So I’m staying put. Instead I have Sasha pack me a bigger bag and pick up some of my work from my office, and she meets Lachlan a few blocks from our place. Fancy spy work, I tease her, but it works.
Really, hiding out at 24 Sussex isn’t that bad. And it seems that nobody is aware I’m hiding in the prime minister’s residence, which is even better.
I poke about in the kitchen and discover Gavin has the makings for the most epic sandwich ever. I make myself one for lunch, then text him a picture of it.
BJ: I want one for dinner.
Lee: Awww, the first meal I’ve ever made for you.
BJ: You made me nachos.
Lee: No, I made myself nachos and you came over uninvited and helped yourself. Not the same thing. This sandwich will be crafted with love.
BJ: And the nachos were…
Lee: Built from tears of sadness.
BJ: LOL
Lee: My tears of sadness aren’t funny
BJ: Sure
Lee: No sandwich for you
BJ: We’ll see
Lee: I’m holding strong on this
BJ: Sure
Lee: Stop it
BJ: What? I’m not doing
anything.
Lee: Don’t you have work to do?
BJ: Doing it right now. Multi-tasking.
Lee: I love you. You can have a sandwich.
By the end of the day, the media has my name and the internship details, but not much else. They have zero footage of me or Sasha, or even our apartment. A few nice photos are lifted from my social media pages, but those are mostly locked down thanks to my teaching time as a grad student, so the ones they take are the ones I intend for public consumption anyway. The rest of my much-discussed biography is culled from my academic curriculum vitae which they must have grabbed from my very sparse university web page.
When Gavin arrives, I’m in the living room, and the TV is on but I’m ignoring it because I’ve gone back to my work. My laptop is open and I’m surrounded by a stack of journals on one side and a couple of confidential reports I’m summarizing for Stew on the other.
“We should probably stop using you for those position papers,” he says from the doorway.
I glance up at him, then back to the report in my hand. “What? No, I love doing these. And if or when I get asked about what I did for you, I want to say it was more than fetch your coffee.”
“Did you ever fetch my coffee?”
“No.”
“Then…”
“I like these,” I say again, clutching the report to my chest. “Don’t take them away from me.”
He strolls over and leans in, kissing me lightly before tugging on my hair—a little not so lightly. “Okay.”
“I’ll make you that sandwich in a minute.”
“I’m going to go take a shower and change. Finish your work. Or I can make my own sandwich.”
“This might be the one and only time I ever offer to cook for you.”
He can barely suppress his smirk. “Cook?”
I laugh. “Prepare something.”
“I should’ve locked you up in my gilded tower sooner,” he murmurs, then swears under his breath when my face crumples. “No, sorry, that was a shit thing to say.”
“It’s okay.” I school my features into something more understanding. “We can play kidnapped princess another day. I’ll regain my sense of humour about it soon enough.”
Prime Minister (Frisky Beavers #1) Page 24
