Then, as though Gremlin didn't have a care in the world, he yawned widely. His mouth clicked shut, and he innocently resumed playing with the children.
Lauren's voice turned scolding as she glared at her four-legged friend. "Gremlin!" You are in so much trouble, you little shit. "I'm so sorry, Madam President."
"Devlyn, remember?"
Lauren ducked her head. "Right. And I am sorry. That's so strange." Pale brows furrowed. "Grem loves everybody." Seeing Dev's scowl, she realized how that must have sounded and added, "But he has had a really stressful day. But he's totally, one hundred percent safe, I swear. He's usually afraid of his own shadow."
Dev suddenly growled back at the dog and he jumped, scooting under the bed with a loud yelp just as fast as his tiny legs would take him. "Okay, I'll buy that," Dev agreed amiably, quite pleased with herself. Mental note: consult David about finding the best dog bribes for dogs more chicken than canine, who obviously hate me.
Dev pushed herself to her feet, groaning. It had been a long day. And she'd been looking forward to relaxing. Reluctantly, she roused the kids. "I think we should give Ms. Strayer her privacy now."
"Don't go," Lauren heard herself say, a little bewildered by the urgency in her own voice. She could feel her cheeks tingling with heat.
"Okay," Dev replied immediately, a grin forming. "Wanna chat while the kids play?"
Lauren nodded, and the women moved to the sofas. The younger woman sat down first, and Dev fought the urge to plop down next to her, moving to the opposite couch instead.
"That's a pretty skirt." Lauren's gaze swept down Dev's legs. She should wear them more often. Fantastic legs. The thought might have been startling, but for the fact that it was so undeniably true.
Dev's voice called her back to the moment, and now it was the President's turn to blush as she picked nervously at the material. "Thanks." Devlyn rooted around in her pocket until her hand emerged holding a foil wrapper. A sweet aroma drifted toward the writer.
"Wanna share my Hershey Bar?" Dev passed over a piece of chocolate.
"Sure!" Lauren reached out happily. A Hershey Bar? Oh, boy. Thank God we're not on a bus.
CHAPTER II
February 2021
Tuesday, February 23rd
LAUREN PAUSED IN her writing and pushed away from her desk. She tilted her head to the side in deep thought, her fingers absently twirling a pen as she read over her latest journal entry. This wasn't a private journal, although her personal thoughts were woven around her professional observations. She would extract them later. Or not. Depending on exactly what they were and how they related to what she was trying to convey. This was her collection of handwritten notes about her 'subject'. And they already filled a single, heavy-duty, three-ring binder.
The writer had to admit that her first month as Devlyn's biographer had been little more than a blur. A whirlwind of motion and activity. Pledges and compromises. Deals and sacrifices.
It had taken every single one of the last twenty-nine days for her to begin to become accustomed to rising at five in the morning so she could start the day with Dev. Lauren had actually groaned out loud when she found out that on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays the President and a flock of Secret Service Agents went jogging. She smirked to herself as she began scratching out a few more thoughts. That wasn't quite true. They didn't jog. They raced the three miles around south lawn jogging trail as though their feet were on fire. Their blistering pace kept press corps participation to a bare minimum, and Lauren already knew Devlyn well enough to know that was no accident.
The President approached her workouts with the same single-minded intensity with which she approached everything. Dev wanted to sweat. She didn't mind if some good conversation took place while she was doing it though, which was the only reason Lauren could make herself attend. But President Marlowe wasn't going to slow down to let it happen. She set the pace. And that made Lauren even more determined than ever not to fall out. After the first week she stopped wishing Dev were dead and started wishing she was. But then, begrudgingly, grouchily, as the days ticked by, her body began to accept this new demand.
On Tuesdays, Thursdays, and Saturdays Dev worked out in the White House's private gym for at least an hour and a half, which was something Lauren found infinitely more palatable than the running. In this arena she had even shown the President a thing or two. Sunday was 'family day'. And Dev, 'the no good, lazy whelp' – Lauren underlined the words, drawing a wickedly smiling devil's face, complete with horns and flames shooting from her nose – didn't 'officially' exercise. But the woman got twice as much of a workout as normal because she always gave Emma the day off and took to chasing after Ashley, Chris and Aaron herself.
Dev even slept in until seven thirty or eight on Sundays, unless something crucial required her attention. Which, so far, had happened four Sundays in a row. But to Devlyn's credit, she usually wrapped up her business before the children even woke up and didn't pick back up with it until they were tucked safely in bed.
The blonde woman quickly discovered that Devlyn was always working, even when she wasn't. And while Lauren could sneak back to the privacy of her room and collapse on her bed, Dev was always in a series of meetings or just one more phone call away from a little time to herself. Many nights Lauren would lay awake in bed, listening for Devlyn's quiet footsteps as she slowly padded her way from her office to her bedroom... well after midnight. Lauren privately wondered if anyone could keep up the maddening pace established in this first month. And more importantly, why would they want to?
But, despite what she'd come to call the 'grind', there were still a heaping handful of pleasant memories that stood out in her mind and made her smile just to recall them. She had discovered that Dev was at her most Presidential away from the White House.
Lauren got a surprising thrill when she traveled with Devlyn in the Presidential motorcade. It wasn't the motorcade itself. Well, okay, she admitted privately, it is a great ego trip to feel like the world is spinning just for you. But what was even better, was that it gave her the opportunity to sneak a few moments alone with Devlyn. And although she wasn't positive, she suspected that Devlyn felt the same way. The older woman's sly grin, as she would shuffle them toward the waiting car, gave her away.
It was at times like these, alone in the back of Dev's limousine, that they enjoyed some of their best conversations. In the past, Lauren had always prepared questions on note cards for her other subjects, stuffing them into her pockets to be used at a moment's notice. So far, with Devlyn, she hadn't even bothered. Dev was always willing to talk. She was honest and funny, and Lauren wasn't sure how it happened, but one day she heard herself laughing and telling Devlyn about her own college days, her research long forgotten in the wake of genuine smiles and a growing camaraderie.
They were becoming friends. Lauren could feel it. And while professionally she was certain this was a bad idea, personally she couldn't dredge up a single drop of will power to fight against it. She liked Devlyn Marlowe. And the more she got to know her, the more she wanted to know.
During the times she wasn't trailing after the President like a wayward puppy, Lauren was researching Devlyn's family tree, consulting several well-known genealogists and even a cultural geographer. While Devlyn's lineage wasn't going to be the focus of the biography any more than the campaign was, most readers seemed to appreciate it if you started at the beginning. Though, on occasion, Lauren would skip around chronologically and focus on the present day, trying to fit pieces of information with other bits and scraps of knowledge that would ultimately paint a portrait of an American President and a truly unique woman.
Lauren had already turned up at least one interesting tidbit that had required considerable digging. All evidence pointed to the fact that Devlyn's great, great, great Grandfather was a Native American. Chippewa to be precise. And the biographer suspected that Devlyn could trace her dark hair, lightly tanned complexion, and angular bone structure back to th
is side of her family. It was likely that this information had never come to light before because, by the early 1800s, the Marlowe family had evolved from French fur trappers into society bluebloods. And in 19th century America, having an Indian lover was something no daughter of privilege would have ever admitted to.
Lauren turned the page in her notebook. She dropped her pen when the newest pile of photographs she'd taken caught her eye. One in particular captured her attention, and she pulled it from the stack.
It was of Dev and the kids, stretched out on the floor of the residence living room. Dev was sprawled on her back, holding a book slightly above her face, and the children were all lying on her, their heads each resting on a different body part. It was a fairytale, Lauren recalled. She had been invited to spend the evening with the family and remembered enjoying the story nearly as much as the children. Dev looked younger, her face relaxed and happy. Dark hair spilled onto the light-colored carpet, and her blue eyes stood out vividly against the shadows created by the book and the fireplace.
The writer sighed audibly as she traced the photograph carefully, lingering over Devlyn's face. She has such interesting eyes and lips. So expressive.
It was a beautiful picture. A portrait of domestic bliss that, to Lauren, looked as alien as it did comforting. For the most part, her own childhood had been unremarkable. While not overly loving, it wasn't abusive either and was characterized more by simple indifference than anything else.
Her parents were stuck in their roles as 'provider' and 'keeper of the house', and she always considered them in a never-ending rut. Each living out his and her lot in life with a stoic acceptance of their place in the world and an almost intentional blind eye to their own happiness or the happiness of those around them.
Lauren's own dreams of travel and education were neither encouraged nor discouraged. And she learned very early on that she was expected to make her own way in life, unburdened by the sentimentality and support of family. Still, she loved them, and felt that love timidly returned in the form of actions, if not words.
There were sporadic moments of harshness amidst the general blandness of her youth, but she didn't dwell on them. She had grown up and gotten out, saving most of her contact with her parents for her monthly telephone calls home and short visits home at the holidays. Lauren glanced at the photograph again, and a bittersweet smile flickered across her lips before disappearing completely. No. She shook her head a little. Her childhood hadn't been anything like that.
She compared the photo in her hand to several others where Dev was in full Chief Executive mode, exuding power, intellect, and an unsurpassed determination. Lauren grinned in amazement. Each picture perfectly suited a different aspect of the President's personality. She was never 'in' or 'out' of character as so many people were. These were all Devlyn. Every last one.
At first, four years studying Devlyn and her life sounded like more of a prison sentence than an opportunity.
Now Lauren wondered whether four would be nearly enough.
Friday, February 19th
"Well," David stood directly in front of the boss' desk, a thick stack of newspapers in his arms. "Twenty four days isn't quite a month."
Dev didn't even bother to look up; she just sighed and extended her hand. "What?" she asked in a voice that wavered somewhere between amused and annoyed.
"I." He dropped a copy of the Washington Post on the desk under her nose. "Told." Next came the New York Times. "You." Followed by the Los Angeles Times. "So." Then he just tossed the rest of the stack, which consisted of a majority of the papers with the largest circulation in the United States.
Dev picked through them until she found The Columbus Dispatch. "Oh, look. They're trying to figure out what caused the explosion at the gunpowder factory." She drew a deep breath, pursing her lips and covering them with a finger as her face scrunched up in contemplation. "Could it be... oh, I dunno... gunpowder?"
"Top half of the front page, Madam Smartass." David flipped the paper over and pinned it to the desk with a long, ruddy finger. He gestured with his chin.
Devlyn made a show of squinting at the page. "You mean that tiny, little one column, barely two inches long announcement that a biographer has been hired?" She snorted. "Big deal."
"That one is nice to you because it's your home state, and you know it. The New York Post is comparing you to Bill Clinton and wants to know if you and Lauren are playing house inside the White House."
She grinned rakishly. "No, but you can call the AMA and let them know I wouldn't mind playing doctor..." Dev instantly bit down on her tongue and chanced another glance up into David's wide, practically bulging, brown eyes. "You didn't hear that." She shook her finger at David. "I didn't say that!"
"Oh, yes, I did! And, oh, yes, you did!" He nervously tugged at his tie. This was not good. No. Actually, this was outright bad. "Deeeeeeev," he drew out her name menacingly.
"What happened to Madam President? Hell, I even liked Wonder Woman better than Deeeeeeeev." She imitated his worried tone perfectly.
"What aren't you telling me here?"
His voice was low and stern, and Dev felt like a child caught with her hand firmly entrenched in the cookie jar. "Nothing, I swear." She crossed her heart. "Nothing is going on; nothing will be going on." Dev frowned, unable to keep how she felt about that prospect from showing on her face. "She's writing a book, and I'm the subject of that book. End of story."
"Me thinks thou doth protest too much." David pushed aside Dev's steaming mug of coffee and leaned forward. "Something is going on between you and Lauren Strayer, isn't it?"
"No." She looked him straight in the eye.
He searched her face. She was telling the truth. So far. "Do you want something to be going on between you and Lauren Strayer?" David carefully enunciated the words, not giving her a way out.
Devlyn's eyes went slightly round. She wasn't expecting that. Damn you, David. "No." Then she shook her head, knowing that was a bald-faced lie. "I mean 'yes'." But that wasn't quite the truth either. "Shit! I mean, 'maybe'." Jesus Christ, I sound like a hard core Democrat. "I don't know, David."
David's eyes softened at the look of distress and confusion on his friend's face. He backed off a little, sitting on the edge of the desk and dropping his hands to his lap as he waited for Devlyn to continue.
"I know that when I'm in the room with her, I feel like a giddy teenager. I find myself thinking about her all the time. Wondering what she's doing. What she's thinking." Why she always smells so nice and what she's wearing, she added privately. Dev stood, turning around to stare out the window and into the dingy, gray, winter sky. "I think I've been alone so long that I'd forgotten what it's like to spend time with someone new, where it felt easy... comfortable."
"Lauren doesn't want anything from me except for me to talk and be myself. I mean... I know she's just doing her job." She shrugged one shoulder. "But it feels like more. Like she really cares about what I think and feel. Not like I'm under her microscope."
He blew out a frustrated breath. David didn't want to see his friend hurt. And Lauren could devastate both her career and her heart. But it was time that Devlyn started living again. Samantha had been the love of her life. But that life was over. And Dev had embarked on a new one the moment her wife had died. David was more than anxious to acknowledge that it was okay to feel again... even if the timing and circumstances sucked great big donkey balls. "Feels good, doesn't it?"
She nodded without turning around, but he caught her weak smile in the window's reflection. "Yeah," she admittedly softly. A pause. "It really does."
David allowed the conversation to dwindle down, which was never very hard to do when Dev was working through something in her mind. The tall woman was prone to lapse into long moments of silence as she thought, even if it was in the middle of a conversation. He chewed at his mustache for a moment, and just as he was about to speak again, there was a knock on the door, and Liza entered the office.
; "I'm sorry for the interruption, Madam President." Liza gave her watch a perfunctory glance – the eighth one in the past five minutes. "It's time for your press conference."
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