by Ivy Jordan
MR PRESIDENT
By Ivy Jordan
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2017 Ivy Jordan
Click here to get my book The Sexy Billionaire for FREE
MR SERIES
Click here to read Mr. Doctor, Book #1
Click here to read Mr. SEAL, Book #2
Click here to read Mr. Billionaire, Book #3
Click here to read Mr. Cowboy, Book #4
Click here to read Mr. Lieutenant, Book #5 – Coming April 30th
Click here to read Mr. Firefighter, Book #6 – Coming May 6th
Click here to read Mr. Sheriff, Book #7 – Coming May 13th
Click here to read Mr. President, Book #8 – Coming May 20th
Click here to read Mr. Roommate, Book #9 – Coming May 27th
Click here to read Mr. Neighbor, Book #10 – Coming June 3rd
Click here to read Mr. Mechanic, Book #11 – Coming June 10th
Click here to read Mr. Daddy, Book #12 – Coming June 17th
Click here to read Mr. Lumberjack, Book #13 – Coming June 24th
Click here to read Mr. Prince, Book #14 – Coming July 1st
Chapter One
The small Minnesota office was crowded with campaign staff, supporters, and the hopeful presidential candidate, Adam Andrews, current governor of the state.
He looked so confident, so calm. I was falling apart inside, my nerves beginning to get the better of me as the reporter updated the race. One by one, Adam was winning the major states, and it was looking like a clear victory.
“Another glass of wine?” Adam whispered in my ear.
His hot breath startled me as it rolled down my neck from behind. “Yes, please,” I smiled, trying to hide my nerves as he handed me the glass of chardonnay. “It’s looking good,” I said, staring up at the large television hanging on the desolate blue wall.
I wondered what this office would be once we cleared out, what it was before we arrived. “I’m a mess,” he admitted, still with confidence that made him unbelievable.
I chuckled. “You look fine to me.”
His smile was wide and inviting, contagious, and nearly intoxicating. “I hide my stress well,” he sighed.
Unlike me, I thought to myself. The soft blue eyes he laid upon me made it clear he thought I needed some assurance.
Adam, 49 years old, a veteran that served in the U.S Air Force, ranked Chief Master Sergeant, was twenty years younger than his presidential rival, Grant Owens, a loud cowboy with outdated views and unorganized thoughts.
Adam was a Democrat, and everyone said our country was in need of a party change. I agreed, and strongly believed in everything Adam stood for and behind.
“What are your plans when this is all over?” he asked, staring directly at me instead of the television that held his fate.
“I guess I’ll go back to the paper,” I smiled, unsure if that was what I truly wanted.
“Ah, yes. You were a force to be reckoned with there. I’m sure they’ll be happy to have you back,” he stated, his eyes shifting from mine to the screen above.
I hated to admit I had a crush on him, one that would somehow be amplified if he was truly going to be our president.
The reporter soon announced Adam Andrews the winner without the final states being calculated. There was no way Owens could win, even with the remaining states. That was it. I was standing next to the next President of the United States.
The entire office cheered, letting off confetti bombs into the air as their yells of victory flooded the room. “Congratulations,” I shouted over the noise.
He sipped his wine, smiled, and then set his glass down on the table behind us. I watched as he took center room, commanding authority effortlessly, and exuding confidence that was more than strong: it was sexy.
I gulped my wine, emptying my glass as he thanked everyone for their support. My moment of excitement and happiness was quickly glazed over with sorrow, realizing I would no longer be spending long hours by his side.
My desk was cluttered with campaign materials and only one small picture frame. I picked it up, staring at the woman inside the tiny frame, her head bald, her eyes worn and tired, and her smile, faded, but present. Rowena Hamilton, my older sister, and one of the strongest women I knew, or had ever known. Only a few years older than myself, she’d carved herself an important editorial position at a prestigious paper in Washington D.C, raised twin boys, both in medical school, and survived cancer.
She hated that I gave up my position as a journalist to run Adam’s campaign. She had pushed me my entire life to chase my dreams, and she didn’t believe Adam had a chance in hell against the quick-talking cowboy he was up against. Rowena was wrong for once, a revelation that both shocked and pleased me.
There wasn’t much else on or in my desk I needed to gather, just a few notebooks with my campaign strategies scribbled inside, and a picture taken with Adam at one of the rallies.
I shoved the small picture frame and notebooks into my purse and then held the picture of Adam and myself between my fingers. In it, he wore the blue polo that I encouraged him to wear. It brought out the blue in his eyes and made him impossible to ignore. He was casual and relaxed that day, and when the picture was taken, his hand was resting on my lower back. I could still feel the sensation of my weakened knees, tightened breasts, and speeding heart from his touch.
“That was a great day,” Adam’s voice sounded from behind.
I turned, blushing and nervous from his closeness. “Yes, it certainly was,” I admitted.
“That was all thanks to you. In fact, I don’t think I’d have gotten here if it weren’t for you,” he grinned.
“No. You got yourself here. You deserve it,” I replied.
“I’m serious, Quinn. From telling me what to wear, what to say, and even how to run my campaign, you’ve been amazing,” he said.
“Thank you. Those are very kind words,” I blushed.
“Any chance you’d consider moving to Washington, D.C.?” he asked.
My heart raced. I loved the idea of continuing to work with Adam. He was a brilliant, charming, and intelligent man, who just happened to make my pussy swell whenever he was near.
“It’s just the power.” I could still hear my sister’s words echoing through my brain.
She knew of my crush, but I’d sworn her to secrecy. I’d had a crush on Adam since I was just a girl, barely hitting puberty. He was my first crush, the first boy—well, man—that had made my heart flutter and gave my skin goose pimples when he was near. Rowena argued that also had only to do with power. Adam was twenty-four, home from the Air Force and wearing that beautiful blue uniform that brought out the kindness in his eyes. I was just twelve, no breasts, braces, and no hopes of gaining his attention as he sat at our dinner table, brought home on leave by my brother Garrett who’d become his best friend while serving our country.
Garrett never came home again after that, but Adam remained close with our family, having none of his own.
“Is that a no?” he chuckled.
I pulled out of my memories, my daydreams, and the struggle within my brain that told me all the reasons I should say no. I was a journalist, not a politician, even though the rush of power had flooded through my veins like heroin these last few months. “No. I’d love that. But I’m sure there are more qualified people in line,” I said graciou
sly.
“I need people around me I can trust. I need people who aren’t afraid to tell me when I’m wrong,” he smiled.
My cheeks burned as his eyes pierced into me with a wild amusement. Yes, that was me, the one who liked to point it out when Adam Andrews was wrong. I felt foolish now, realizing this was my president, the president of the United States—POTUS, as us journalists liked to say for short.
“I’m sorry I’ve been so pushy,” I sighed.
He laughed. It wasn’t a heavy or deep laugh, but a soft, light, and free laugh. It calmed me just to hear it, similar to the ocean gently slapping the shore. “You pushed me all the way to the White House,” he smiled. “Just give it some thought,” he said just as someone pulled him away for an interview.
It was late, we’d all been drinking wine and champagne, and the giddiness of the lack of sleep, stress, and the excitement of the moment had him saying things he probably didn’t mean. I mean, seriously. Me, in the White House?
I shoved the picture still gripped tightly in my fingers into my purse, carefully placing it between the notebooks, so as to avoid it being bent.
“I’ll drive you home,” offered Sal, one of the faithful campaigners, as I walked toward the door.
I’d planned on calling an Uber, but knew at this hour I’d have a decent wait for it to arrive. I was exhausted, and all I wanted to do was climb into bed. “That’d be great. Thanks, Sal,” I accepted.
Sal opened the passenger door to an older Camry, quickly pushing in front of me to sweep the pile of papers from the front seat onto the floor. The car was filled with fast food bags, campaign buttons, and loads of papers. It looked like my life felt in that very moment: messy, neglected, and overwhelming.
“Sorry for the mess,” he apologized, starting up the car and adjusting the heat buttons.
“It’s okay. We’ve all been busy,” I laughed nervously, realizing that was true. We all had been busy, and tomorrow, there was nothing to do.
“So, what are your plans now?” he asked.
I looked over at him as he pulled the car away from the curb. His thick glasses made a glare when the street light shone through the windshield, making his bright green eyes almost disappear. I realized I’d worked side-by-side with this man for months, yet knew nothing about him.
“I’ll probably get my job back at the paper. What about you?” I asked, curious about this kind soul who’d spent weeks of his life to help Adam, gaining nothing in return, except maybe the satisfaction that he’d helped put his president-elect into office.
“I’ll probably just start writing again,” he said calmly.
“You’re a writer?” I asked, hoping the surprise in my voice wasn’t offensive.
“Yes. Political views mostly. ‘Donkeys have worked their asses off for over five-thousand years, while elephants have played in the circus,’” he said, reciting the passage of a book I’d read.
“You wrote that?” I asked, even more surprised.
He grinned proudly. It was a good book, at least what I’d read. It was a very unique view on the history of the Democrats and Republicans. “You’ve written several autobiographies of past presidents,” I pointed out, as if he didn’t know.
“Unauthorized versions, but yes,” he agreed. “I’m actually surprised you weren’t asked to join President Andrews in Washington, D.C. Damn, that’s the first time I’ve said that aloud: President Andrews,” he said with a chuckle.
It was strange to hear, but the part he said prior to that was even stranger. “Why would you think that?” I asked.
“You two were pretty close. He seemed to rely on you for direction,” he stated.
“I’ve known Adam—err, President Andrews—for years,” I said, unsure why I was becoming defensive.
“That explains a lot,” he said.
“What do you mean?” I asked carefully.
“Well, just the way you two interacted with one another. There was certainly something there, a connection, an attraction. I actually thought it was romantic, but if you’ve known each other that long, that makes sense,” he explained.
“He was in the Air Force with my brother. He became a close friend of the family before my brother passed away, and he’s just always been there,” I explained.
I wasn’t sure why it made me so uneasy that Sal had noticed something between Adam and me, maybe for the fear it was more than just a closeness shared between two friends. I’d yearned for something romantic to blossom between us during the last few months. What if others noticed my feelings, or worse, what if Adam had?
Sal pulled up in front of my apartment building as I directed him. “I guess this is it,” I said sadly, not so much because I wouldn’t see Sal again, but because I might not see Adam for a long while.
“Look for my new book. I plan to write about the campaign trail,” he smiled.
That explained the loads of papers scribbled on and floating throughout his car.
“Will do, Sal. Thanks for the ride,” I said, sliding from the car and shutting the door.
What if he wrote about what he thought were romantic vibes between Adam and me?
Chapter Two
Adam stood proudly in front of the podium as he unleashed his first speech as POTUS. It was two in the afternoon, but I was still wearing my sleep pants, and the only thing I’d eaten was a pint of cherry ice cream.
It was strange watching Adam, now the president, from my couch. I was used to being by his side, guiding him on what to say, and how to say it. I wondered who was doing that now as I stared at the light-green dress shirt that washed away his baby blues, and the perfectly pressed handkerchief in his jacket pocket that made him look like he was on his way to church.
His words were from the heart, and as I listened to them, it was clear he’d insisted on writing them himself. I’d read enough of his raw, unedited speeches and corrected them to realize he hadn’t hired anyone, or allowed anyone to take my place.
My phone rang with a strange number from the 202 area code: Washington, D.C. I gripped the phone in my hand so tightly it hurt. My heart raced as I quickly slid my thumb across the answer button before it stopped. “Hello?” I answered, sounding so unprofessional it made me cringe.
“Quinn Hamilton, please,” the female voice requested with a coldness that made me shudder.
“This is she,” I said quickly.
“President Andrews has requested your presence at the White House after his inauguration,” the cold voice ordered.
I was stunned. Maybe he hadn’t been just being nice or allowing the alcohol and adrenaline to say things he didn’t mean that night.
“May I ask what this is about?” I questioned.
“President Andrews will have the details,” she snapped. “A car will be sent for you Monday morning at seven sharp after the inauguration; your airfare is already arranged. Do you have any questions?” the woman asked.
Yes. I asked what this was about, but she couldn’t answer that. I decided it was useless to ask anything else “No,” I replied.
“Good. Have a great day,” the woman said, sounding somewhat human right before hanging up the phone.
My entire body tingled at the thought of visiting the White House, not on a school tour, but upon request of the president of the United States himself.
The phone rang twice, three times, four, I was about to explode when my sister finally answered. “Oh my God!” I squealed into the phone.
“What is it?” Rowena asked excitedly.
“I’m going to the White House,” I blurted out.
There was a silence over the phone for a moment as I waited for my sister’s reaction of excitement to match my own. “Is that what you really want to do?” she asked.
I hated that she knew me so well. My dream, of course, had nothing to do with the White House, or politics, but this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.
“I don’t want to go back to being a political correspondent in Minnesota,” I gru
mbled.
“Yes, because you said you hated politics,” she reminded me.
“I don’t hate politics, I just hate politicians,” I argued.
She chuckled. It was good to hear her laugh after her long battle against a rare cancer, but I never liked it when that laughter was directed at me.
“You don’t think you’ll be swarmed with politicians in Washington, D.C.?” she sighed, catching her breath from her good laugh.
“This is a huge opportunity,” I pointed out.
“This is about Adam, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice quickly filling with concern.
“No. This is about bettering my career, adding something to my resume that very few can add,” I stated as firmly as possible.
Another silence. I knew she was analyzing my words, my tone, my motives. I was doing the same thing. I wasn’t really sure if this was about Adam, or about the opportunity. All I knew for sure was I didn’t want to go back to my old job.
“I just don’t want you to get hurt,” she said softly.
I couldn’t imagine Adam would ever hurt me in any way. “I’m a big girl, sis,” I assured her.
Even through her illness, and her treatments, Rowena always tried to take care of others, mainly me. Our mother had passed while I was in college, and Rowena took it upon herself to take her place, and she’d done a great job, for the most part.
“So, when do you leave?” she asked, changing the topic before it turned into a long lecture that would end with us not speaking for a month.
“Monday morning,” I said excitedly.
“That’s less than a week,” she said, causing my stomach to churn with anxiety.
“I don’t know if I’m ready for this,” I admitted.
Rowena sighed, and then reassured me with praise and encouragement. She’d worked closely with White House representatives over the years, mainly checking sources, but that was closer than I’d ever been to the White House, or anyone in it. Her tone became more excited once I asked for her advice, which she gladly gave.
“Can I stay with you?” I asked, knowing her answer would be yes.
