by Gage Grayson
The tie just happens to go perfectly with my pumps and earrings, and I internally squeal at the fact that we match. I guess the black and gray was a good choice, not that it matters that we’re wearing complimentary colors, but it’s certainly not a bad thing.
He’s got his face buried in a binder of some sort, firm and focused. The second I step inside though, he sees me, and his face lights up with that gorgeous smile of his. He beams at me and gives me that grin that makes my knees feel weak and my heart flutter, and I smile back at him nervously.
“Beatrice! Come in, sit down, I’m so glad you’re here.”
I walk in and he gets up and pulls my chair out for me, holding it for me as I sit down and then helping me push it in before walking back and taking his own seat.
“Thank you, Mr President, I—”
He cuts me off with a wave of his hand and laughs, placing his hand midway across the table and leans forward, chuckling as he speaks to me.
“Please, Beatrice, it’s Henry. It’s just us here.”
I smile and nod, feeling the heat rise in my cheek— and I’m sure they must be of a scarlet color by now.
He takes his hand back and rests his elbows on the table, interlacing his fingers together and resting his head atop of it. He gazes at me and smiles, and I look away as I grab my briefcase from at my feet.
I pull out my notebook and place it in front of me, along with my tape recorder. I set it up off to the side; close enough to hear our conversation clearly, but not so close that it will pick up every breath or pen scratch on paper.
I bring my gaze up to his and smile, gesturing to my list of questions in front of me.
“Alright, shall we get started, then?”
He leans back in his chair and smirks, tilting his head and chuckling as he speaks.
“All business so soon? Would you mind if we just sat and chatted for a while, without that?”
He nods at the tape recorder at the side and grins, shrugging his shoulders.
“Why don’t we just talk for now, off the record, and do the interview later?”
I shrug my shoulders and nod, flashing a flirty smile his way.
“If that’s what you’d prefer, that’s not a problem at all.”
He claps his hands together and leans forward again, resting his elbows on the table.
“Excellent. So, tell me about yourself, Beatrice. I’d love to get to know the woman who’s going to essentially document my every move for the world to read.”
I giggle and nod, looking back at him with a smile.
Maybe this won’t be such a difficult meeting after all.
Chapter 11
Henry
“So tell me, Mr President. What is it that you’d like to know about me?”
“Well, how about where you grew up? How you came to work for DC Digest?”
Beatrice looks at me with an arched brow through narrowed eyes.
I can’t read minds, but I’m certain that she’s thinking are you serious right now?
“Why ask questions to which you already know the answer?”
And she’s right, I do know the answer to both of those questions.
I’m the president of the United States, and she’s my biographer. There was no way that a background check on Beatrice wasn’t going to be done.
Even if I personally vouched for her.
Protocol is protocol.
“Caught me,” I admit with a small chuckle.
“So why ask?”
“You, more than anyone, should know that there’s always more than what we read on paper. I can see you grew up in Chicago, but I know that there’s more to it than that. There’s always more to what is written on paper—so indulge me, please.”
Her chocolate brown eyes measure me and my words. It’s almost as if she’s looking to find some ulterior motive behind my reason for asking.
There is, but it’s nothing too nefarious. I just enjoy listening to the sound of her voice.
“Well, I grew up in Wicker Park in Chicago. My parents and I lived in an apartment building right across the street from the park. I miss it. Chicago is a city with its own heart and soul, but Wicker Park is something else. The artists. The food. Even the hipsters. It has its own vibe that really sets it apart from the rest of the city. Take a walk down North Wood or North Milwaukee, and you can feel it.”
I’m wrapped up in her voice like a blanket fresh out of the dryer.
The way her eyes sparkle and dance as she speaks. The smile that pulls at the corner of her lips as she thinks back on her youth.
The warmth and love she has for her neighborhood, her home, is so tangible that I feel like I could pluck it out of the air between us.
How could I not get wrapped up in that?
Beatrice catches me looking at her, and a small flush of red rises to her cheeks. Her smile of fondness for her home turns bashful in an instant.
“Did I say something dumb?” she asks, hesitating.
“Dumb? No, not at all. You seem happy when you’re talking about home, is all. It’s endearing.”
She almost looks relieved when I say that. And I can’t help but wonder how many times in the past she’s been told that nobody cares where she came from.
“You really miss home, don’t you?”
“Sometimes,” she answers with a small shrug. “But I love my job here in DC with the Digest. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else. And besides, I get to visit my family on the holidays. So it’s not like I don’t go back home from time to time.”
“And how did you get the job at the magazine?”
“Well, I was headhunted. Fiona had seen a lot of the political work and writing I did while in college, and after graduation she reached out to me about coming to work for her. It was like a dream come true.”
That same passion that I saw in her eyes when she talked about home has returned.
Her love for her career at the magazine is just as strong as her love for Chicago—and my love for my career.
That kind of love and passion is admirable. And if I’m being completely honest, it only makes me want her more.
“What’s it like working under Fiona Lawson?”
“I couldn’t ask for a better mentor. Or friend. If it wasn’t for her guidance, I don’t think I’d be where I am today.”
Those are sentiments that I can relate to.
Lawrence has been that same person for me. The man has been a mentor, big brother, and father figure all in one.
I understand that his political affiliations didn’t allow him to be my running mate, but I don’t think someone else can do a better job as chief of staff than him.
“Oh, I’m sure you’d get there eventually. You’re exceptionally talented, Beatrice.”
“Thank you, Mr President.”
“It’s just us. You can call me Henry. You don’t need to keep referring to me by my position.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
I’m certain she won’t, but I’m confident that she’ll eventually come around and relax around me.
“May I ask another question? An important one?”
Beatrice looks at me partly confused and partly curious. She leans forward in her seat and purses her lips together in thought.
It’s moments like this where I wish I could read people’s thoughts—or Beatrice’s at the very least.
“Alright, go ahead and ask.”
I lean forward in my seat now, a lopsided smile tugging at the corner of my lips.
“Cats or dogs?”
She looks at me in surprise for a moment before bursting out into laughter.
God in heaven, I could listen to her laugh all day.
“That’s your big question?”
“Yes, it is. You can tell a lot about a person on whether she’s a cat or dog person.”
Beatrice laughs at me again with a beaming smile and a shake of her head.
“Well, if you must know, I do like cats. But d
eep down, I’m a dog girl,” she answers after composing herself. “Cats don’t really need us. They just see us as big, dumb, hairless versions of themselves. And they’re kind of jerks. But dogs see us very differently. They want and need us, and our companionship.”
“You have a dog, don’t you?”
“You get that from my background check?” she asks, a bit of trepidation in her voice.
“Oh, no. You just talk like a dog owner.”
She blushes at my words.
It’s endearing and adorable.
“Yes, I do. His name is Duke and he’s a golden retriever.”
Of course she would have a golden retriever for a dog. It’s only my personal favorite breed.
The name is also fitting, given that it’s her Alma mater.
“May I ask you a question, Henry?”
It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow in curiosity.
I can only guess it isn’t anything for the official record, as she hasn’t turned on her recorder.
“As far as you’re concerned, I’m an open book.”
“Okay. If you could invite five people, alive or dead, to a dinner party, who would you choose?” she asks with a playful smile.
“Now that’s an easy one. Freddie Mercury, George Washington, Stan Lee, Bruce Lee, and you.”
Her dark eyes go wide in a mix of surprise and flattery.
To her credit, she recovers quickly and acts like it was expected.
“George Washington makes sense. He’s our founding father after all. Freddie Mercury though? You don’t strike me as Queen fan.”
“Everyone is a fan of Queen. It’s impossible not to love Bohemian Rhapsody. It’s like mankind’s national anthem.”
We share a laugh, and she nods in agreement.
“I can’t really argue that. And I’m guessing Bruce Lee because you were a fan of Enter the Dragon?”
“Greatest martial arts movie of all time. And before you ask, I chose Stan Lee because Spiderman is my all-time favorite superhero.”
Her gaze turns away from me as she leans back in her seat.
She hasn’t been expecting me to add her to my dream dinner party. And while she initially acted like it was no big deal—or rather, she tried to—now she’s unsure of how to broach it.
“Why me?” she asks, her eyes looking up at with a hint of fear at hearing my answer.
“Well, you are my biographer after all.”
My reasoning is a lie, but she looks visibly relieved when it’s the answer I give her.
For me, I saw this dinner as kind of a first date. I know it’s wishful thinking, given that she obviously sees this as purely business—but I’ve made a career out of making the impossible happen.
And if I can get Beatrice to open up, then maybe we can reconnect like we did years ago, back during my campaign for the senate.
The doors to the room open and several servers walk in with trays of food.
I had the staff cook some roasted shoulder of lamb with mint sauce, roasted asparagus and peppers, and rosemary potatoes.
The smell of the food makes my mouth water, and when I look over at Beatrice I can see that she’s in the same boat.
“This looks amazing.”
“The cooking staff here are among the best in the world.”
“Well, I wouldn’t expect anything but the best for the president.”
“Good point. Just wait until dessert then.”
Beatrice gives me a knowing look. It’s almost as if she knows what I’m going to say, but needs to hear it from me regardless.
“So, what’s for dessert?”
“Raspberry and rhubarb crumble topped with vanilla ice cream.”
Her lips quirk into a smirk.
“You knew that was my favorite, didn’t you?”
“Well, I am the president of the United States, after all. It’s my job to know what my constituents like.”
Chapter 12
Beatrice
“Hey, Duke. Just another typical night, right?”
Duke is looking up at me the way he always does after I get back home from somewhere.
For once, it feels like I share his excitement.
“It’s a typical night for you, my friend,” I continue, and Duke seems to understand, or at least appreciate, what I’m saying to him. “But it’s not typical for me, not in the goddamn least.”
I’m in a state that I’m used to being these days: exhausted, confused, excited, and elated.
“One of these things is not like the other,” I say to Duke, thinking about that array of emotions.
When boredom starts to set in around my dog’s eyes, I know that I need to focus on something other than blabbing to him and get my thoughts in order.
Sometimes I have trouble starting projects; sometimes I don’t. But once something is started, I’ve never had trouble continuing—never.
Until…
“What is with me, Duke? And why are you wandering into the kitchen and putting your head down?”
I wish I could do that whenever I got tired of something. But I’m not tired of this, not at all.
In fact, this feels so little like work that it’s almost suspicious. On top of that, it’s making my resistance to actual work even stronger.
My feet fall heavily on the floor on the way to the kitchen, following the path that Duke blazed.
The evidence of my energy being off is piling up. First, Duke walks away from me not two minutes after I walk inside. And now the moment I step into the kitchen, he’s looking up at me with confusion.
Those eyes are always expressive, but I don’t think they’ve ever been more expressive than they are right now.
Usually, Duke’s eyes don’t say much more than I’m so happy you’re home, or I’m so happy you’re awake, or I’m so happy you’re about to feed me, or When the hell are you going to feed me again?
This time, all his look seems to say: What’s going on with you, lady? You going nuts or something?
The thing is, I’m standing in my kitchen right now, with the lights off, and I’m staring at my dog—who’s only illuminated by the dim light coming from my living room—and I’m feeling confused and oddly tipsy, and…
Holy fuck, do I feel fantastic!
Still confused, still suddenly and weirdly tired, still feeling lingering sugar rush from that excellent dessert, still bowed over from the surreality of discussing Queen with the president of the United States…
And still feeling utterly, hopelessly, fucking fantastic.
Like the way Duke must feel when I finally return home from work each evening—with the vague sense of confusion and everything.
Duke, though, is still looking at me like I’m fucking nuts, and I’m still standing in the middle of my kitchen with the lights off.
“You can see in the dark, can’t you, my friend?”
Although I can glean a little more than the faint light reflected from Duke’s eyes, I swear I can also make out my dog shrugging at me in the dark before putting his head back down to sleep at last.
“Right. Time to sleep for you, time to work for me.”
Swiveling around back towards the relative light of the rest of my home, I find it odd that I’m still feeling that crumble-borne sugar rush.
Like I said, just utterly fantastic.
Maybe that’s the residual glow from spending time with such a charismatic public figure. After all, there’s no way somebody could climb that far in politics without having some serious charm.
It’s different from the type of charisma that comes across on TV or even on some shitty YouTube video, because you can really feel it in person.
Nearly tripping over my own feet on my way to the bedroom, I find just enough focus and coordination within myself to turn off the damn overhead light above the living room. That nice sugar rush sensation lingers, but seeing a big chunk of my apartment go dark adds a strange ominousness to the feeling.
I can’t help but feel euphoric as I r
ecall having dinner with the president. He was so charismatic, and he made me feel so good.
But is it all just politics?
Why does it still feel so formal, with no sense of history—our history?
I mean, it’s not like I really broached the subject, either.
I come even closer to falling on my face as I walk to my bedroom door. I burst into laughter before I even realize what’s happening, catching myself on the doorknob and lifting myself back up to my feet.
Fuck, it’s almost like I’m drunk. It’s understandable. It’s not every night that I get to have dinner with heads of state, though I’ve had many meals with this head of state before he was elected to any office.
He’s president now, and it’s a whole new ball game. Spending time with him is as easy, as exciting, and as invigorating as it ever was in the past.
I swallow audibly while pulling down the chain to switch on my traditional banker’s style desk lamp.
My laptop is sitting closed and unloved under the illumination of the naked LED bulb.
This is my biggest project so far, and there’s a very good chance this may be the peak of my career in many ways. Yet running my fingers around the rim of my computer, it feels like it would take a serious force of will to simply open the machine and turn it on.
The idea of sitting, hunched over a laptop at my desk here or anywhere, feels like an absurdity right now.
In my head, I’m still at dinner with the president, with all the excitement and bewilderment that comes with it.
Before I realize what’s happening, I switch off my desk lamp. As a dreamy fatigue washes over me, I realize that tomorrow morning will be the time for work.
My head is way up in the clouds right now, but hopefully, a good night’s sleep will cure me of that affliction.
And then I can get started on the most important work of my life.
Chapter 13
Beatrice
Six months pass before I’m truly aware of it. If I thought my previous job was fast-paced, then this is surely an Olympic sprint.
“So, make sure you bring flat shoes, Beatrice,” Hope says, finishing her barrage of things I need to remember for an event in a couple of days.
I nod my head in acknowledgment.
Hope has been indispensable over the past six months. I have a lot to thank her for for teaching me.
