Prime Minister (Frisky Beavers #1)

by Ainsley Booth

  I’m a little surprised when, forty minutes later, the delivery car actually shows up. And then the guard at the gate doesn’t want to let him in, proving that no good deed goes unpunished. I step outside and wave, and only then does the guard let him through, watching suspiciously as I pay the driver.

  It’s a constable I haven’t seen before, but he knows who I am. “I’m sorry, Ms. Montague. I thought for sure it was a trick to get in. I didn’t think…”

  “It’s fine. I just thought…the PM likes pizza. And in case he comes home tonight. You know?”

  “That’s a nice idea.”

  “Thanks.”

  We say an awkward goodnight before I duck back inside. I carry the pizza into the kitchen, where I pick at a piece while reading news on my phone. No updates, really, but there’s a lot of chatter on Twitter that makes my head spin.

  I put the rest of the pizza in the fridge and write a big note to stick on the front.

  Leftover pizza inside! Loaded with love. And pepperoni. Ewww.

  I draw a heart beneath it and slowly climb the curving staircase up to the second floor. It takes me ages to fall asleep and I wake up before dawn.

  The bed beside me is still empty, and when I turn my bleary attention to the TV that I left on all night, there’s still no real update.

  40

  Gavin

  When I was in Washington, I had the briefest of meetings with the President. His daughter was sick, and I’m going back again in another month for a more focused leadership visit, so it didn’t seem like a big deal at the time that our planned one-on-one sit down had turned into a five minute handshake and photo-op.

  After a night of waiting in a queue to talk to the guy, and then after we talked—which was good, but short, because the Russian President called him, and I get bumped for that call. I get that.

  But fuck it’s frustrating when I think we might be aligned in how to deal with this situation and I spend most of the night sitting on my hands. Figuratively, of course. I’ve actually spent most of the night pacing, tearing at my tie, kicking things, and yelling at Stew.

  “We need an action statement by the morning,” he says for the third time.

  “I’m not going to say something that we walk back from. And I’m not going to say something that doesn’t go far enough if we decide to go fucking further.”

  “We can’t commit to much. Our defence budget is in shambles.”

  That just makes me yank at my tie again. “When is the defence minister’s plane landing?”

  “Two more hours.”

  My cabinet is so junior it hurts. I chose my ministers carefully, and they all have relevant experience, but governing is its own thing, and tonight that thing is a powder keg.

  “When he lands—”

  “He’s coming here.”

  “And the Chief of Defence?” I’ve only asked for this update a half dozen times. Stew glowers at me, because I know that General Finnette was an hour away half an hour ago, and I can do math.

  “Thirty minutes out of the city. You can get him on the phone again, but it’s not going to do any good. He has to stop at DND HQ and get the options from the analysts. He’ll be here as soon as possible.”

  And on it goes. By six, we have an idea of what we can do—not much. We could contribute planes to a bombing campaign that won’t work. We could send our special forces to train African peacekeepers. And we could immediately rejig the budget and find a way to finance just about anything else…if we wanted to.

  I don’t want to, and it’s not because I’m a pacifist.

  At the moment, I’m feeling downright murderous. But that’s the battle of terrorism. It’s not at the gates of an embassy or six embassies. It’s in the hearts of the leaders that feel that wound like it was on their own skin, and retaliate.

  These terrorists want our retaliation. It will contribute to the chaos that makes them stronger.

  I don’t want them stronger. I want them choked out, obliterated from existence. They’re spineless, pathetic monsters.

  And I don’t have the first clue how we’re supposed to deal with that.

  Beth steps into my office and hands Stew a new call sheet. She came in to work last night and like everyone else has been here ever since. At some point, we’re going to need a backup crew of staff from the PMO to give these guys a break.

  “The British Prime Minister,” Stew says. “In ten minutes. And then the American President after that.”

  Thank Christ. “Okay. Can I have the room for these calls, please?”

  I roll my shoulders as everyone files out. I wave at Stew that he should stay, then I redo my tie.

  When I accept the call from the UK, I do it standing up, my shoulders back, and my best listening ears on. The only way I’m going to convince anyone that today is not a good day to declare a new war is by finding the part of their argument that makes that point for me.

  41

  Ellie

  I take Gladys for her inaugural drive midmorning. I’m feeling crazy restless and I need to get out of the rambling mansion. And with the entire country watching and waiting for news on what the G7 leaders are going to do, nobody is paying any attention to me driving my shiny new RAV4 out the gates of 24 Sussex and over to the university.

  I find Sasha in her office.

  “Who are you, strange person I haven’t seen in days?” She stands up and gives me a hug. “I’m guessing your birthday was interrupted?”

  “A little bit. It’s fine, of course.” I wave my hand aimlessly in the air. “Thank you for the help you gave him. Sneaky girl.”

  “Just doing my best friend job.”

  “I know you’re not sure about Gavin…”

  “No. It’s fine. I mean, I don’t think any man is good enough for you, but he genuinely seems to care about you.”

  “The feeling is mutual.”

  She gives me a careful look. “You scared about what’s going on?”

  I nod, desperate to talk about it. “Really scared. Too much so, considering he’s safe and I know he’s going to make the right decisions.”

  She presses her lips together. We don’t always share the same politics, and I’m not sure if we agree on what Gavin should do today. But instead of going there, she turns the conversation to our own work, filling me in on department gossip that I’ve missed in my absence, and then we go and get coffee, and for an hour, my life is almost normal.

  When I get back to 24 Sussex, Gavin’s returned. He’s in the shower, and I strip out of my own clothes and join him. He holds me close for a minute, then I turn him around and slowly scrub his back with a washcloth.

  “Thank you for the pizza,” he says as he leans against the tile, letting the water beat against his muscles.

  “I thought…just in case you got a break…”

  “It was perfect.” He sighs. “I’m only here because the water pressure at the Hill is brutal. But I need to get back. I’ve got a caucus meeting in an hour and then I’ll be making an announcement tonight.”

  I don’t ask him what it is. If he wants my counsel, he’ll ask. And right now, he needs a few minutes of quiet.

  “I drove Gladys today,” I tell him as we dress again.

  “I noticed. Did you enjoy your freedom?”

  “Very much so.”

  “Good.” He kisses me, hard and fast, then just looks at me as he tugs on my hair. “Good,” he says again, and my heart aches for him. “But be safe, okay?”

  “I will. Nobody even noticed me today. I just went to campus.”

  He nods. “Yeah.”

  I’m confused for a minute, then it dawns on me. “I was followed?”

  “You have a security detail, Sprite.”

  “I thought you got me the car because they were glorified chauffeurs!”

  “One has nothing to do with the other.”

  Today is not the day to tell him he doesn’t need to keep paying for bodyguards for me, so I let it go. “They were good,
then. I had no clue.”

  “That’s how it should be.”

  “But I’ll keep that in mind if I’m trying to plan you any surprises.” I stick my tongue out at him, but then he hauls me close to him, roughly, and I gasp as his palm lands flat on my bottom. “Oh.”

  “No sneaking around, Sprite.”

  “Or there will be consequences?”

  He grins. “Or there won’t be consequences.”

  “I’ll be good.”

  “And then you’ll be rewarded.” He gives me one last kiss, then swears under his breath. “Gotta go. Back late tonight.”

  “I love you.” I follow him down the stairs to the central hallway.

  He grabs his briefcase and gives me a quick wave over his shoulder as he heads out the front door.

  “I believe in you,” I say in the silence. I should have said that sooner.

  But Gavin doesn’t need to hear that—he’s got this. I watch on the news as he strides from the caucus room, his party streaming out behind him. He looks hard and commanding, and when the news breaks away for an announcement from the American President, I know it’s going to be good news.

  “Early this morning, an elite group of American operatives captured two key members of the leadership of the terrorist organization responsible for last night’s bombings. They will be transported to The Hague in the coming days. This was not our only response to the devastating events of the last twenty-four hours, and I assure you, it will not be our last.

  “We will not be invading a foreign country to rain down our anger, however. We will work harder and smarter with our allies to choke those that wish to plunge this world into anarchy. We will shut them down at every possible turn. But we will not give in to their attempts to engage us in all out warfare played out on top of an innocent civilian population.

  “I have spent much of the last day and the previous night on the phone with my counterparts in Canada and Germany. Soon you will hear from Prime Minister Strong and Chancellor Wagner, and they will reiterate our common affirmation. Terrorism is criminal and should be punished at the highest levels, and that is where our response will be focused. These are common thugs, petty gangsters. They don’t control us. It is time to lay down the law, and we will do that in a way that best protects the world’s citizens.”

  I’m stunned. Impressed. And crying.

  I wipe away my tears, but they slide down my cheeks as the Canadian news channels break away for Gavin’s speech. He covers a lot of the same ground, and then adds, “Canadians are divided on the best way to fight terrorism. I understand that. In the coming months, we’re going to have a national dialogue about fear and aggression. I’m going to bring in experts to help us all understand the best way to keep ourselves safe. But bullies don’t get to push us around. And that might sound juvenile to some of you, but that’s the narrative they want to trap us with. I am not afraid to ask our Parliament to use force when force is needed. Tonight I announce the funding of a new special task force for rapid response…”

  I lose the rest of his speech because my face is wet and my heart is pounding, but I get the gist of it.

  My boyfriend is a superhero, and I think he just saved the day for the entire planet.

  42

  Ellie

  Life returns to a new normal. The last few weeks of summer slip by with simple dinners, amazing sex, and lots of work for both of us. Gavin’s gearing up for his first full session of Parliament as PM, and there’s a new, restless energy radiating from him at all times, but he locks it down when we’re together. I spend more nights than not at 24 Sussex, but I ignore the little voice inside me that has started to ask what exactly we’re doing.

  We’re happy. That’s all that matters.

  Labour Day weekend is the last chance Gavin has to play hockey for a while, because Tate’s on pre-season work-up already, with less time to play for fun, and the team will be disbanded until next summer after this game.

  Of course, he could play pick-up hockey with anyone else. The fact that the PM is playing in a beer league of sorts is getting a lot of buzz, and at the last game, there were a few people who’d snuck in to watch.

  “You have puck bunnies,” I tease him as he gets ready. I’ve come to the Sensplex to watch him play, and the women across the way are giving me dirty looks.

  He gives me a lazy, sexy smile that makes me instantly wet. “They’re just fans. Probably here for Tate more than me.”

  Nope. Doesn’t look like it from my vantage point. “Super-eager, wanting-to-get-in-your-pants kind of fans.”

  He double-checks the tape on his stick one last time. “The only puck bunny I have eyes for is you, Sprite.”

  “Don’t distract me from my rant.”

  “Okay. Rant away.”

  “They’re practically advertising themselves as breeding partners.”

  “Breeding?”

  “Don’t mock me. They’re….frisky beavers.”

  He snorts. “I have to get on the ice.”

  “Don’t get too close to them when you do your charming skate by.”

  “To the frisky beavers?”

  “Yep. That’s what I’m calling them now.”

  “So what does that make you?”

  “Wait, I take that back. They’re eager puck bunnies. Boring name. Pffht. I’m the frisky beaver.”

  “The most special of all the rink-side cheerleaders.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Mmm. I like the sound of that.”

  I grin the entire way through his game, which is even more fun to watch than I expected. Gavin’s good. This doesn’t surprise me at all, but it’s still thrilling to see him be awesome at yet another thing.

  At moments like this, it’s hard to remember that he’s mortal. I know he’s slightly uneasy about being put on a pedestal, but he makes it so damn easy.

  I cheer myself hoarse, and when he comes off the ice, I plaster myself against him and kiss him senseless.

  “I’m all sweaty,” he says under his breath, and I make an appreciative sound. “Really? You like it?”

  I. Love. It.

  I’m coming to hockey more often.

  As we leave the rink, Tate’s ribbing Gavin about constantly kissing me.

  Gavin tugs me close and lays a relatively chaste peck on my lips. “When it comes to Ellie, one kiss is never enough,” he says with a laugh.

  And that’s when we see the cameraman. There’s a videographer and a reporter here from a news station, and it looks like they’re getting ready to go inside for something not related to us, but the camera is up on the guy’s shoulder and pointed our way.

  Gavin tenses and I press my hand against his side. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “That was pretty tame.”

  His muscles ripple under my touch but he nods and turns us around, so his back is to the camera and I’m in front of him.

  “See you guys later!” he calls as he moves us toward the car. Lachlan’s got the door open, and I hop in and slide right over so Gavin can join me.

  He swears under his breath as we pull away, then turns toward me. “I’m sorry.”

  I shrug. I’ve been waiting for something like that, and in the grand scheme of things, it’s no biggie. I tell him as much and he settles down, but it’s still bugging him.

  Of course, that off-the-cuff comment to Tate becomes tomorrow’s headline and we wake up to One Kiss is Never Enough on the front page of the Ottawa Spectator. I convince Gavin we should head out to the country house for a day and ignore it while it dies over the holiday weekend, but on Tuesday, the first day back to work and school and news for most Canadians, it’s still getting some play.

  CAN News spends a solid ten minutes on it on their morning show, which is ridiculous.

  I’m at the university, watching Gavin at a press conference on my laptop—love streaming video, oh my God—when he finally snaps.

  The press conference is supposed to be about federal support for provincial funding of childho
od vaccines.

  Rick Stupes stands up and asks Gavin if being involved in a new relationship is interfering with his job.

  My coffee mug lands hard on my desk as my jaw drops open. He didn’t just say that. He didn’t just—

  “Oh my God,” Sasha yells, running into my office.

  “Are you watching it?” I ask her. I keep my eyes glued on the screen. Gavin just ignored question and moved on to the next reporter.

  “I was on Twitter and saw someone mention it.” She leans over my shoulder. “Was that it? Will they replay it?”

  “I dunno.”

  Suddenly Stupes stands up, interrupting his colleague—so rude—and asks, “Does that mean you don't always kiss her twice?”

  I think Gavin would have ignored him again if the room didn’t laugh. But there was a faint tittering wave that rolled through at least some of the people present, and I can see that get under his skin. Because it’s not funny—it’s cheap and baseless. Gavin’s a damn hard worker and our relationship has never impacted on his work.

  Much. Other than the lamp. And I distracted him through a few meetings. But in general, it’s a stupid question.

  Gavin waits until the room goes silent. Everyone’s realized that he’s going to respond, but when he opens his mouth, it’s pure perfection and a complete slap-down instead. “It means, Rick, we have a serious problem with preventable childhood illness in this country and that's what I want you to ask me about.”

  The reporter huffs and squares his shoulders. “We'll ask the medical experts about that. But since we have you here, and everyone wants to know—”

  Gavin’s got no time for that shit. “I’m not a doctor, but I can tell you that vaccines save lives, and when we fail to protect at a population level, there are devastating consequences. I know this because I went on a student exchange program to Russia in 1997. And the first question on the application form was, Are you vaccinated against diphtheria? I’ll tell you, nothing puts the importance of vaccination into perspective like being told you’re walking into the remnants of an outbreak.” My heart skips a beat as Sasha claps behind me. “Our goal is that no Canadian community should face a preventable outbreak. Our standard should be that no Canadian parent has to make the call to keep their child home from school or avoid the playground because they don’t know if it’s safe. And those are the questions I’m going to take today, Rick.”