The President's Secret Baby

by Gage Grayson

  “Whatever you say. Ten minutes, and after that will be your meeting with the Hereditary Prince of Lichtenstein in the Rose Garden.”

  “Right, the photo op. I’ll make sure to look my prettiest.” I fight the urge to look down at where my finger is still resting on the list.

  “I know how hard that is for you.”

  Lawrence disappears as quickly back into his office as he appeared in mine.

  I flip the list over so I don’t have to look at it any more right now.

  Napoleon once said that, “There is no such thing as an accident; it is fate misnamed.”

  Oh, how true it was.

  Chapter 4

  Beatrice

  “Good night, princesses and princes.”

  Sometimes, Monty isn’t so bad. Like when he shouts some weird goodbye when most of us are just trying to leave.

  It seems like I’m leaving ahead of everybody, almost like I’m trying to win a race out of the office. The reality of the situation is the same as it’s been since this morning—I simply don’t feel like I have as full a grasp of reality as I usually do.

  “Bye, everybody!” I shout to the empty air in front of me.

  Even if I weren’t already outside, I doubt anyone would’ve heard me.

  And I’m usually better at saying goodbye than that, regardless. I’m supposedly known for my way with words. Although I tend to do better in writing, even when I’m not in a day-long shock over crazy news from the freaking White House.

  I stop where I am—in the middle of the empty sidewalk—for a second.

  There’s no reason I should be conflicted about this. Okay, maybe there’s a couple, but nothing that should override how fucking amazing this is.

  I’m just in shock. I should be celebrating. That’ll put me in the proper mindset.

  So, how do I go about doing that?

  I decide that this means stopping at the liquor store I always pass on my way home. It’s an easy walk from my apartment, but it’s not a business I frequent.

  I keep meaning to try that writer thing of having a glass of wine or scotch next to me while I work, but not having anything stronger than coffee on my desk has worked pretty damn well—so far.

  Maybe when I’m an established biographer, I can turn into a Bukowski-style souse, or just go full-on fucking gonzo like Hunter S. Thompson or something.

  But for now I’ll stick with a mid-level bottle of champagne tonight, and that’ll be as crazy as I get.

  I resist the urge to stop at the small farmers’ market that’s starting to close in front of the liquor store—they have the best Red Delicious apples in the city. Instead, I walk into the liquor store like I’ve done it a million times and grab the closest thing that resembles a champagne bottle.

  There’s no price tag on the bottle, and I’m still feeling too distracted and dazed to ask or care.

  There’s one person in front of me when I get to the register—it’s a woman around my age, paying for several boxes of red wine.

  She also has a large gray pit bull with her on a leash. Some stores in D.C. can be lax with those pesky ‘no pets in the store’ laws.

  “Thanks, Don,” the woman says in a raspy voice to the older guy at the register.

  “Don’t leave yet,” Don the cashier tells her.

  He then tosses what I recognize as an expensive-ass dog treat in the dog’s direction. The dog has no trouble catching the treat in his mouth, and soon after that, he and his human are out the door.

  “Are those dried liver treats you have there?” I ask while setting my champagne on the counter.

  “Yeah, for dogs…usually.” Don the cashier smiles at his own joke. “That’ll be forty for the champagne.”

  “Oh, thank Christ, I thought it was gonna be like three hundred or something.”

  “The prices are under the bottles, you know,” he tells me, and for a second, I almost look at the bottom of the bottle before I realize he means on the shelves.

  Fuck, I’m not at my sharpest. It’s time to celebrate, though, and that doesn’t just mean me.

  “Can I buy some of those treats you have by the register?” I ask.

  “We sell those in actual, honest-to-goodness packaging, if you prefer.”

  I end up buying a couple of those honest-to-goodness packages of expensive-ass dog treats, which end up being more expensive than the champagne.

  When I get home a few minutes later and hear my apartment door rattling just before stepping inside, I know it was money well-spent.

  “Duke,” I say, unlocking the door and stepping carefully. “I know you’re excited to see me, but I wish you wouldn’t bang against the door like that.”

  The lovable golden retriever looks up at me quietly, wagging his tail.

  “Oh, who am I kidding? I love it. Here, have all the treats in the world.”

  Duke is an older pup from a rescue organization. I still get a little misty-eyed thinking of the way he was left abandoned on the side of the highway.

  Duke slobbers a pair of treats from the palm of my hand.

  “Time to celebrate!” I tell Duke. “Don’t you feel like celebrating me getting hired by the White House for one of the most prestigious writing gigs in the country?”

  Duke continues to be sweet and quiet, his tail starting to slow down as confusion creeps into his adoring gaze.

  “Let me guess, you don’t really feel like celebrating? You just feel hungry. Well, fuck it, I’m hungry, too.”

  It starts to feel like any other evening after work as I go through the ritual of taking Duke out for a quick relief walk before feeding him and thinking about what to feed myself.

  Instead of opening the champagne, I open the fridge to assess the situation.

  “I should’ve stopped at the damn farmers market, after all,” I say to the sad collection of produce I see.

  There’s still enough to make some sort of dinner, but seriously, how am I still not going fucking crazy celebrating?

  Maybe I should invite some friends over. Or, just maybe, I could start by telling someone about what happened.

  I stick with the routine, gathering ingredients, getting the cutting board ready, moving around my kitchen as if my whole world wasn’t thrown into a crazy, exciting, unforeseen turn into an unforeseeable future.

  A future which just might be fucking amazing.

  Although…I remember the last time I let myself have that attitude. I can’t forget that lesson.

  “Too much apprehension, not enough celebration,” I say aloud to a sleeping Duke.

  Stepping over him, I decide that someone else’s excitement might help put those worries to rest.

  But who would be more excited than I am about my own good news? After I start chopping vegetables, the answer seems obvious.

  I unlock my phone, sift through my contacts, and hit dial. I switch it over to speaker and go back to my chopping.

  I eye the champagne as the phone rings, but I decide to break out some supermarket wine instead.

  “Bea! How long has it been?”

  My mother’s voice is so loud through the speaker that Duke wakes up.

  “I don’t know, a week?” I say while looking for a corkscrew. “Hold on, I’m trying to open some wine.”

  “You’re cooking dinner, aren’t you?” she asks. “It’s around dinner time there, right?”

  “You know it’s only an hour difference, Mom. Wait...how did you know I was cooking?”

  “Usually that’s when you call, Bea, after pouring a glass of wine, and then you say you can use some of it for cooking, too.”

  I pour a generous helping of Pinot Noir into a mug.

  “I guess I do say that.” I take a healthy gulp of wine—now it’s time to celebrate. “So, there’s something that happened.”

  “Is it something good, but you’re confused about it?” my mother asks.

  I lay out a few celery sticks and get to work chopping.

  “I guess…”


  A loud pounding on my door makes me drop my knife so it’s sticking into the wooden chopping board.

  “Fuck, hold on, Mom. Who the hell would be…”

  After another robust swig of wine, I walk over to the door quietly to look through the peephole.

  Getting closer to the door, I hear a muttered sentence on the other side. Something like “The outside is clear.”

  Finally looking through the peephole, I actually gasp.

  “What is it, Bea?”

  I realize I’m still holding my phone.

  “I said hold on,” I tell my mother.

  What I see through the peephole is something I did not predict and probably wouldn’t have in a million years.

  Matching lapel pins.

  Black suits.

  Earpieces.

  I know the getup, and I can tell from where I am it’s no costume. These two are Secret Service agents.

  Before that even registers, I find myself yelling through the door.

  “May I help you?”

  “Miss Barlow?”

  “That’s me. Who are you?”

  “We’re Secret Service agents, ma’am?”

  “Do you have a badge or some credentials?”

  The agent wordlessly flashes his badge in front of the peephole, but I’m already convinced he’s for real.

  “Why are you here?” I ask.

  “Miss Barlow, we have the President of the United States here to see you. May we come in, please?”

  I nod to myself like it’s what I expected to hear.

  But it’s not what I expected to hear.

  Not at all.

  “Mom, I got to go. The president is here to see me.”

  She gets half a word out before I hang up on her—I’ll apologize later.

  I’m sure she’ll understand.

  Chapter 5

  Beatrice

  I can’t believe what I just heard. There’s no way on Earth they said what I think they just said.

  The President, here? In my apartment? How much wine have I drunk while cooking?

  “Miss Barlow?”

  The firm voice booms in through the door, confirming the fact that yes, indeed, the President of the United States of America is just about to walk into my apartment.

  I look around and cringe at the sight, heart thudding in my chest. My one-bedroom D.C. apartment looks as though whoever decorated it has no social life, is obsessed with politics, and lives for their work.

  I mean, it’s not an incorrect evaluation.

  “Umm, alright, just a moment!”

  I mutter a hasty goodbye to my mother on the phone, promising to call her back shortly and hang up.

  I frantically dart around my tiny apartment and pick up what stray pieces of clothing, newspapers, magazines, and wine glasses I can find, and I shove them into a nearby closet.

  I must remember to get those later.

  There’s another impatient knock at the door, and I fight the urge to tell them to hold their horses, given that the Secret Service is the one doing the knocking.

  Of course, what am I doing, making the fucking President wait for me?

  Good Lord, Beatrice, get a grip on reality here.

  I trot over to the door and fumble with the deadbolt while I unlock it, swinging the door open to reveal some very large and intimidating-looking men.

  The man in front brushes past me and into my apartment without a single word and starts looking around.

  “Right.”

  He walks around, searching for what, I don’t know, but I feel like I’m under a microscope while I silently stand there.

  He opens my closet—the one where I had just hastily stuck all my mess into—and chuckles softly, gives me an amused glance, and nods before he shuts it again. He moves to my kitchen area, looking in and around my plants.

  Checking for bugs maybe? Do they do that?

  I don’t know. Maybe I just watch too much Lifetime shows.

  He opens up my tiny hallway linen closet and leans in, poking his head around.

  What’s he looking for in there, the freaking boogieman?

  I’m fidgeting with my hands as another man walks in. Together, they check all the crevices and rooms, opening and closing doors while I’m standing here, stewing in my own thoughts.

  Alright, no big deal really. So what if Henry, the President of the United States, is going to be in my apartment? It’s not like I’ve been obsessing over him for the past six years or like we have some weird history, right?

  Who am I kidding? The man who I stupidly shared an impulsive kiss with right after the election results were in, who then completely rejected me and shunned me, is now the President and is going to be in my apartment.

  He’s only the reason I had gotten so deep into politics and had chosen the career that I did.

  Relax. No reason to panic. Fuck.

  The two men conclude their search and nod to the third man who is standing in my doorway. He mutters something into what I presume is a mouthpiece before he stands to the side, allowing yet another man into my apartment, followed by Henry.

  The President of the United fucking States of America.

  I’m overreacting. He’s got a million other things on his plate—like running a country—and the last thing on his mind is what happened between us years ago, not that anything came of it.

  I’m just being obsessive. I doubt he even remembers me.

  My name is just another on a long list, and I happen to have the best shot at the job. That’s all.

  He walks through my door and goes straight for me, lighting up the room with that million-dollar, campaign-winning smile of his. He reaches a hand out and takes mine into his, shaking it and grinning at me as he spoke.

  “Beatrice Barlow,” he says with a smile. “It’s been a long time.”

  Well, so much for him not remembering me.

  I shake his hand and beam back at him, nodding as I reply.

  “Just a couple of years. I’m sure you’ve been busy, Mr President.”

  He laughs and nods back, still holding my hand.

  “I think the last time I saw you, I was still just Henry to you, wasn’t I?”

  I smile. “Campaign night, if I remember correctly.”

  I see the corners of his lips turn upward with a hint of a smirk, and he takes his hand from mine, eyeing me up.

  Why does he have to be so damn handsome?

  He takes a breath and sighs, interlacing his fingers and smiling at me as he speaks.

  “Anyway, I wanted to congratulate you on getting the position. Your résumé was...ah...very impressive.”

  I can feel my cheeks flush, and I do my best to stay calm and to force a smile, very much aware that there are several eyes on me.

  “I considered listing you as a professional reference,” I joke, “but it seemed redundant. I do really appreciate the opportunity, Hen—Mr. President. I hope I can live up to your expectations.”

  “I just hope you know what you’re getting yourself into. Being the White House biographer, you’ll always be on call, you know. I might need you to be available at the drop of a hat. And you’ll be spending an awful lot of time with me, sometimes at some pretty odd hours. I hope that’s not an issue.”

  He chuckles, and an eyebrow cocks up, the hint of a smirk playing on his lips again, and I take a deep breath, steeling my nerves away. I offer him a warm smile as I speak and try my best to keep my tone even.

  “Of course, Mr. President. I look forward to it.”

  “Please, Bea, call me Henry. And one more thing, I’d like you to move in to the White House. As charming as your apartment is...”

  I feel the tension in the room as my heart thuds in my chest and my breath catches in my throat, the shock of his words hitting me like a brick wall.

  Did he just ask me to move in with him?

  I mentally scold my stupidity and take a deep breath.

  Of course, he doesn’t want me to move in with him. H
e wants me in the White House, so I’m available at all hours.

  Still, not a great idea right now, and I want my independence from this. I need some sort of separation from my job, right?

  “Thank you, Mr. President—Henry—but I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass. I still very much want the job, but I want to stay in my charming apartment.”

  He looks at me like he’s trying to read between the lines.

  He’s a smart man, for a politician.

  “Of course,” he allows.

  He looked around my place with a small smile forming on his lips and gestures to the man on his right.

  “In that case, I’d like you to come in tomorrow and speak with this gentleman here, and he’ll get things started for you. We’ll get your badge done up, get the process rolling to give you the appropriate security clearance, and we’ll get you a tour.”

  I smile at the man, who simply nods in acknowledgment.

  “We’ll make sure to do things quickly but gradually. That way, we can get you transitioned into your new role, giving you enough time to tie up any loose ends with the D.C. Digest.”

  Tomorrow? Wow, things really are moving fast. I’m going to have to explain to Fiona that I’ll be leaving almost immediately and that my projects need to be wrapped up.

  She’s my boss, but she’s also a friend, so I’m sure she’ll understand.

  I grin at him and nod my head enthusiastically, practically vibrating in my own skin. I’m so excited and nervous.

  “That sounds excellent! Again, thank you so much for this opportunity. I won’t let you down.”

  “I’m sure you won’t. I better get back, but I’ll be seeing you soon enough, Miss Barlow.”

  With that, he turns and leaves my apartment, his entourage of security following suit and closing my door with a thud.

  I release the breath that I didn’t even realize I was holding and flop down onto my couch, my mind reeling with what just happened.

  I’m the new White House biographer, the President was in my apartment, and I start tomorrow.

  The gravity of the situation finally hits me, and I squeal with excitement, grabbing a pillow and burying my face into it so my neighbors don’t think I’m some crazy person wailing in her apartment.

  I can’t believe I’m going to work in the White House. I grab my cell phone and dial my mom’s number and greet her excitedly when she answers.