The President's Secret Baby: A Second Chance Romance

by Gage Grayson

  I haven’t had much sleep the night before. My nerves are on fire, and I’m much too excited to start my day today and get to know some of the people that I’d be working with.

  I’d be lying if I said I’m not also excited about the fact that I’d be seeing Henry every day.

  The thought of it has brought a whole new set of butterflies fluttering into my stomach, along with nerves and apprehension. I need to make sure that my attraction to—and let’s face it, slight obsession with—him is kept under wraps. I don’t need to be that girl in the office.

  There are also some rumors going around that Hope and Henry have a bit of a thing going on, which is yet another reason to add to the pile of why it is a bad idea to pay my attraction to him any mind.

  Not to mention the fact that he’s out of my league and has shot me down years before. The fact that I’m even entertaining the idea of a romantic relationship with him, the President of the United States of America, is ridiculous.

  Little old Beatrice, journalist and aspiring politician, chasing after the president. Get a grip.

  I shake myself from my thoughts and speak up, nodding to her with an eager smile, hoping that my nerves aren’t giving me away. Speaking with someone as important as she is something I’d have to get used to if I’m going to succeed here.

  “How about this, Miss Olivier and Miss Barlow are for formal settings, but for now, let’s go with Beatrice and Hope. What do you say?”

  She turns and gestures for me to follow her as she speaks, heading towards a hallway just ahead.

  Alright, so maybe she’s not so scary after all.

  I nod and smile, following her through the hallway and into a much larger foyer, where we stop. She turns to me and glances around with a smile before letting her gaze come back to mine.

  “Well, here it is, Beatrice. Welcome to the White House.”

  I look around the large conservatively decorated room that we’re standing in, admiring the décor and atmosphere, as well as the sounds of busy people just beyond the room—phones ringing, people talking, computers, and hasty footsteps.

  It finally feels real, and I can’t help the smile that creeps up to my lips as I soak it all in.

  She grins at me and gestures for me to follow her into the next room.

  I follow her obediently while she takes me through the White House room by room, and she explains each one to me with precise intent. There are obviously rooms I can’t go into yet, but those will come with an explanation once my full security clearance goes through.

  We stop in one of the meeting rooms, and she sits down and motions for me to do the same.

  I take a seat, and she smiles at me, tapping the table.

  “So, what do you think? I know it can be a bit overwhelming, and it’s definitely a fast-paced environment, but I think you’ll fit in well here.”

  “I’m really looking forward to being here and working with everyone.”

  She’s happy to hear my enthusiasm and threads her fingers together on the table, relaxing a bit.

  “That’s good to hear, Beatrice. You and I will actually be working together quite a bit, so I’m very happy to hear that. Once your full security clearance goes through, you’re essentially going to be shadowing the president. That way, you’ll get a good idea of how to get started with the biography and get a true feel for how things are done around here.”

  I feel the heat rise in my cheeks and my stomach flutter as she continues to explain what my day-to-day would look like, and it takes a lot of willpower not to grin like a child upon finding out that I’ll be spending so much time with the president.

  “I’m really looking forward to getting to know you and working with you, Hope. Thank you so much for showing me around today.”

  She nods at me and stands, reaching her hand out once again.

  I stand to meet her and shake her hand, and we make our way back out to the main foyer where she brought me initially.

  She continues to tell me all about how things are done, and I try to pay attention. However, my mind keeps wandering back to the fact that I’ll be spending so much time with the president and how I’m going to deal with that.

  I know I’d be working closely with him and probably attend a few of his meetings. But shadowing him?

  Things have just got more interesting.

  Chapter 9

  Henry

  “Thank you, gentlemen. I will take all of this under advisement,” I say, dismissing this Joint Chiefs of Staff meeting.

  It’s been a long, though enlightening session. However, if I’m not careful, the commandant of the Marine Corps could go on for hours.

  All the men file out, one after the other, and I make my own way out of the conference room, heading toward the Oval Office. I pass a slew of interns hovering outside the offices, waiting to be called on, while other are dashing around, acting as pages.

  Everywhere I look, people are bent to some crucial and consequential task.

  The West Wing is a frenetic hive of activity and though I might be at the top, I know I would accomplish nothing without the tireless efforts of every person here. It’s a humbling thought—and one I remind myself of every day.

  No man is an island, after all.

  I’m about to ask Eugene, my personal aide, if he can find a copy of John Donne’s poems—when I spot Beatrice moving my way.

  Her head is cocked attentively as she listens to Hope, her lush brown hair spilling over her shoulders in smooth waves.

  I pause, momentarily transfixed while watching her weave her way through the flow of people. She’s so intent on her task and absorbed in what she’s doing that she doesn’t seem to notice I’m here until she’s almost mowed me down.

  She stops abruptly, giving me a momentarily wide-eyed stare.

  “Ah, Mr President, there you are,” Hope segues smoothly. “I was just filling Beatrice in on her duties, though I’m sure she’ll need to get with Harriet for a complete rundown of your day to day.”

  Ah yes, Mrs Harriet Beecher, my gatekeeper. I believe her official title is Special Assistant to the President for Appointments and Scheduling, but most people call her the Guard Dog. Unless you have a special walking in privilege, if you want to get to me, you have to go through her.

  And she runs an exceptionally tight ship.

  In fact, I should probably be heading to another appointment right now, but I can’t seem to tear myself away. Beatrice’s gaze holds me captive, her look a heady mixture of wariness and awe.

  Hope clears her throat. “If you two will excuse me, there seems to be a minor emergency involving the press secretary and the chief of staff.” She waves her smartphone in explanation. “I’ll leave you two to it,” she says with a secret smile, before turning back down the corridor.

  Beatrice and I both stand there staring at each other, neither one of us making a move to say anything.

  We seem to exist, at least in this moment, apart from the rest of the bureaucratic bustle, within our own universe like islands in a stream. The world of the West Wing seems to ebb and flow around us.

  “How are you—”

  “I want to thank you—”

  We both stop. She gives me a tentative smile so I wave to my side.

  “Walk with me,” I say. She nods and follows me as I head down the hall to my private study.

  Once there, I signal to Eugene—and the rest of my retinue of aides, secretaries and assistants—that we don’t need anything else. I shut the heavy oak door with a wave of relief—and a little of excitement.

  “Please, have a seat,” I say. Beatrice looks around at the small room and selects one of the plush leather club chairs.

  “Cozy,” she remarks, with a somewhat skeptical eyebrow raise. I let out a soft laugh, taking the other club chair in front of the windows.

  “You know, I actually do most of my work in here,” I say, leaning back and stretching out my long legs. I point to the heavy mahogany desk pushed up against th
e wall. “At that desk.”

  “Really?” she asks, sounding a bit surprised. “When you have the Oval office right next door?”

  I nod. “I do,” I say. “Unless there’s a meeting, or I’m signing important documents. I prefer to do most of my day-to-day work in here. I find that intimate quarters, the coziness if you will,” I give her a glance and she gives me a playful half-smile, “helps me think.”

  I watch as she opens her bag to grab a notepad and pen and starts taking notes.

  “So,” I say, checking the time. I suppressed a sigh. I have a meeting with the speaker of the house in ten minutes. “How’s your first day?”

  “I think it’s going really well. Miss Olivier has been showing me around so that I can familiarize myself with the layout. Who to avoid, who to sweet talk if I want the good coffee.”

  I huff out a laugh.

  “Well, then Hope must really like you, because she doesn’t give that information away to just anyone. I swear I was in office for six months drinking swill before I got the hookup.” At this, Beatrice snorts over her notes, then looks up at me, aghast.

  “No! There’s no way the leader of the free world would be given swill in the White House.”

  I lean back and throw both hands up in surrender.

  “Scouts honor.” But I can’t keep a straight face. With a laugh, I say, “No, you’re right, the coffee for the president of the United States is amazing. But I have tasted the garbage they serve in the staff break room, and it’s pretty terrible. So count your blessings,” I throw in as an afterthought. And suddenly, her face becomes earnest.

  She clears her throat. “I do. And I wanted to say thank you again for this opportunity. It is a privilege to be such an intimate observer of history in the making.”

  She breaks off, glancing out the window as if she was gathering her thoughts.

  Then, she takes a deep breath and continues in a rush, “I’ve been a huge supporter of yours and I’ve followed your political career from the beginning. It’s such an honor to actually be a part of it,” she finishes.

  Then a delicate rose tint stains her cheeks. “Not that I am a part of it. I promise, my hope is for you to not even notice I’m here. To just blend in to the background. I want to strive to be as objective an observer of history as I can be.”

  I’m not going to lie—the thought that she, personally, has been following my career gives my ego a stroke. Though I arch my eyebrow in disbelief that she could ever do anything but standout.

  “So, is there anything you need from me?” I ask, shifting slightly in my seat and holding her gaze. I know what I need from her, though now is not the time nor the place for it.

  Her dark eyes dance, and a curious smile tugs at her lips before her expression turns thoughtful. “A background interview would be nice. I know I’m the White House biographer, so I’ll be covering life within the White House during your tenure, as well as the presidency itself. But it’s always good to frame the story. People want to know how you got here, as much as they want to know the inner workings of the White House during your time here.”

  With her elbow braced on the arm of the chair, she cups her chin in her hand and taps her index finger thoughtfully against her lips.

  “Yes,” she says, almost to herself. “I think that would work. What better place to start, than at the beginning?” Then she hits me with another one of her dazzling smiles.

  “I’ll just get in touch with Mrs Beecher and set something up,” she says.

  I glance at my watch and realize I’m going to be late. I begin to stand and she jumps up from her chair.

  As we make our way out of my study, my brain mentally reviewing my agenda for my next meeting, a thought crosses my mind. “That won’t be necessary,” I tell her. “We can do it tonight.”

  “Tonight?” she asks, stunned.

  “Yes,” I say as I walk the few steps down the hall to the Oval Office, my staff poised and at the ready. “Yes,” I repeat. “Why don’t you come up for dinner after you’re done for the day? We can eat and you can ask me all the questions your heart desires.”

  My heart pounds, and there’s an uncomfortable twist in my stomach, much akin to nerves. Why do I feel so nervous?

  Because I can see the reticence in her eyes, she’s thinking about saying no. And I desperately want her to say yes.

  “What time?” she hedges.

  “How about 8:30 P.M.?”

  She glances away, doing some sort of calculation in her head. I can hear Eugene clearing his throat, trying to let me know I’m late for my meeting. Still, I’m rooted to the spot.

  Finally, she has mercy. “Yes, that works. I’ll need to head home first and take care of some things, but I can be back here for our interview at that time.”

  “Just come to the residence. I’ll have an usher bring you up to my suite.” At that she looks a little nervous, and I have to stifle a chuckle. However, the look is fleeting and her professionalism slips over her face like a mask of cool neutrality.

  “Thank you, Mr President. I’d be delighted. I appreciate you giving me the time.” And then she excuses herself, no doubt to find Mrs Beecher to go over my schedule and appointments.

  I turn toward the Oval Office and feel a twinge of guilt as my staff seems to give a collective sigh of relief. Nothing for it. Business before pleasure.

  Eugene opens the door for me and I step inside. “Ah, Mr Speaker, my apologies for being late. Now, what can I do for you?”

  Chapter 10

  Beatrice

  I’m standing in my bedroom with a towel wrapped around me, having just gotten out of the shower.

  After I got home and let Duke out, I decided that a quick shower would help refresh me, and get me ready for my date—for my meeting—with the president.

  I mumble to myself and shake my head, looking at all of the outfits I have laid on my bed, trying to pick the right one.

  “Okay, Beatrice, don’t overthink this. This is a business meeting, not a date.”

  I hear a whine to my left and see Duke, tilting his head to the side and wagging his tail. His tongue is hanging out of his mouth sideways and I can’t help the laugh that bubbles up before I can catch it.

  “You’re looking sophisticated as always, Duke. No worries there.”

  I stroll over and scratch behind his ears, eliciting a happy series of pants and tail wags as I do.

  “Are you going to help me pick out what I’m going to wear?”

  Duke whines again and walks toward the bed with me, and makes like he is going to jump on to it.

  I panic and put my arm in front of him, chuckling and scolding him softly.

  “Oh no, you don’t! I said help me pick out what to wear, not trample all over my clothes! The last thing I need is dog prints all over my dress.”

  He wags his tail and trots around to the edge of the bed, hopping on the chest at the end of it and sitting. He peers down at my comforter that’s covered in clothes, as if he’s actually considering which outfit would work best for me.

  I’ve got it narrowed down to three choices: a black dress, a navy dress, and a gray dress. All are of similar style; fitted and mid-length, conservative neckline and a zip in the back.

  Very pretty but classy, like something a first lady would wear.

  Good grief, I have got to get a hold of myself. I’m not going to be the first lady, this isn’t even a date! This is a business meeting, and I need to start thinking and acting like a professional if I want to excel in this or even keep this job.

  Focus.

  I toss the gray dress to the side and look at the two left—black and navy.

  “What do you think, Duke? Black or Navy?”

  Duke whines and looks at the clothing on the bed, then back at me, before he jumps off the chest and strolls across my room.

  He jumps into the dog bed, turns around three times, and then flops down, huffing and looking up at me.

  I scoff and mumble, my eyes darti
ng between the two dresses I’m now holding up.

  “Well, that wasn’t very helpful at all, Duke.”

  After a few moments, I eventually decide on the black dress—as black goes well with everything. Then I pair it with a set of gray pumps and a subtle silver necklace with small, matching gray stones.

  I sit at my vanity and look at my jewelry box, scouting for the earrings to go with the necklace. I find them after a moment, a pair of small, smoky pearl studs.

  I walk over to my standing mirror and evaluate my outfit, and I’m quite pleased with my choices. I smile and tuck my hair behind my ear, then opt to tie my hair into a neat bun.

  Once I’m satisfied with my preening in the mirror, I walk out of my bedroom and into the main living area where I’ve got a small desk. I grab the folder on top of it and open it to reveal the questions I had written down for tonight.

  I made the list so I can stay on track and focus on my job, instead of the handsome man in front of me who I keep thinking about locking lips with again. I start going through the questions just when my buzzer rings, and when I answer it a man talks through the voice box, telling me that the car is here to pick me up.

  I call out to Duke who’s still lying on his bed in my room as I lock the door, and he gives me a sleepy whine in response.

  “Well, here goes nothing. See you later, Duke. Wish me luck!”

  I make my way downstairs and get into the town car waiting for me.

  During the entire trip, I go over my questions and potential points of focus, memorizing and practicing them in my head.

  We arrive at the White House and I’m pleased to see that it’s much less busy than it was earlier, with most of the non-essential staff gone home for the day.

  An usher meets me and takes me upstairs into the main residence, and then through a hall into the dining room. He leads me inside, and when I step through the doorway, there’s Henry—or the president, I’ve got to stop calling him Henry—sitting at the table, looking dashing as ever.

  He’s wearing a navy pinstripe suit, a smooth white shirt, and a gray tie.