She went still, the curve of her cheek dappled by the sunlight filtering through her bedroom window. “You got permission for that?”
“It won’t be front-page news,” he warned. “More like the Lifestyles section. But yes, I have permission for all of it.”
In his final talk with his editor yesterday, he’d made his position clear. Either the paper ran the story he’d proposed and gave him the next several days off, or he’d find another newsroom to haunt. And given how well-known his name had recently become, she’d been willing to hear his demands and agree to them.
Plus, she knew any mention of his entanglement with a former source would draw readers to his article. She was no fool.
“I don’t know what to say.” Jenny shook her head, her eyes wide. “A simple thank-you just doesn’t seem sufficient. I don’t…” She hesitated. “No one’s ever tried to help me like this before. No one’s ever cared enough.”
He didn’t know whether to preen or go find all her exes and kick them in the nuts. But since the latter would probably land him in jail, he supposed he’d better skip the testicular damage and keep talking.
“In the article, I also intend to address how the painters of the political portraits really feel about their subjects. That is, if those painters are willing to jeopardize their jobs by stating their opinions on the record.” He tightened his arms around her, flattening her to his chest. “You’ll have to think hard about it, sweetheart. Artify Yourself! might not respond favorably to an employee insulting a client.”
Her eyes reached full-on Cartoon Princess Status. “You just called me sweetheart.”
“Yeah, I did. Because that’s what you are.” He tangled his fingers in her curls and brought her head down for a brief, wet kiss. “And soon, everyone who reads the Chronicle will know it too.”
After brushing her mouth against his one more time, she rolled off him and sat up. “You need to listen to your messages, David. You said last night you’d gotten calls from various television shows. Call them back and schedule interviews with them.”
He laid a hand on her sternum and gently pushed until she was horizontal once more. “Relax. There’s time for that later.”
“The foundation self-dealing story was a huge coup.” Her mouth was pinched, her brow creased in determination as she looked up at him. “You need to take advantage of that scoop for the sake of your career, especially since Bigelow will try to ruin everything soon enough.”
“You’re important to me. Just as important as my work.” He held her stare. “And I just got here. I’m not leaving you so soon.”
Some mistakes in his life he might repeat, but some he wouldn’t.
“I’d understand.” She trailed the backs of her fingers along his cheekbone, and her voice turned gentle. “I’m not your ex-wife, Ace.”
“You might understand. I wouldn’t.” And that was final. However… “That said, my condo is so empty it echoes. And one of the unused rooms on the top floor has lots of windows and a couple of skylights. It’s not huge, but it’ll do the job.”
Her breath caught. “Are you asking me to come to D.C. with you?”
He let a kiss supply his answer. “Stay at my condo for a while. Set up your studio on the top floor.” Stroking a stray curl back from her face, he met her warm blue eyes. “Paint and relax and spend time with me.”
“Are you sure?” Her hand covered his, and she intertwined their fingers. “I don’t want to be a burden or a distraction.”
Lowering his head, he rubbed his nose against hers. “You could never be a burden. And you’re the best sort of distraction imaginable. I want you with me, Jenny. Please.”
She beamed at him, her characteristic wide smile stretching her face and catching at his heart. “In that case, I have an exclusive for you.”
“What’s that?” He climbed on top of her once more, nudging her legs until he could settle between them. They immediately hooked around his thighs as her arms circled his back. And when he rolled his hips, she rubbed against him in response.
She whispered her news into his ear, the tickle of breath searing a path to his cock. “I’ll come with you to D.C. later today.” Without warning, she maneuvered them both until she was straddling him and he lay beneath her, her willing captive. “But first, you’re going to come with me, Ace.”
He had the distinct feeling this was going to be the best, most satisfying story of his life.
“Anything for such a valuable scoop,” he said.
And then he stroked a hand up her back, pulled her down for a kiss, and got to work.
* * *
Thank you for reading Work of Heart. ♥ If you enjoyed this story, sign up for my newsletter! Readers get exclusive sneak peeks at future books and sometimes even early review copies.
Also by Olivia Dade
Lovestruck Librarians
Broken Resolutions (Book 1)
My Reckless Valentine (Book 2)
Mayday (Book 3)
Ready to Fall (Book 4)
Driven to Distraction (Book 5)
Hidden Hearts (Book 6)
About the Author
While I was growing up, my mother kept a stack of books hidden in her closet. She told me I couldn't read them. So, naturally, whenever she left me alone for any length of time, I took them out and flipped through them. Those books raised quite a few questions in my prepubescent brain. Namely: 1) Why were there so many pirates? 2) Where did all the throbbing come from? 3) What was a "manhood"? 4) And why did the hero and heroine seem overcome by images of waves and fireworks every few pages, especially after an episode of mysterious throbbing in the hero's manhood?
Thirty or so years later, I have a few answers. 1) Because my mom apparently fancied pirates at that time. Now she hoards romances involving cowboys and babies. If a book cover features a shirtless man in a Stetson cradling an infant, her ovaries basically explode and her credit card emerges. 2) His manhood. Also, her womanhood. 3) It's his "hard length," sometimes compared in terms of rigidity to iron. 4) Because explaining how an orgasm feels can prove difficult. Or maybe the couples all had sex on New Year's Eve at Cancun.
During those thirty years, I accomplished a few things. I graduated from Wake Forest University and earned my M.A. in American History from the University of Wisconsin-Madison. I worked at a variety of jobs that required me to bury my bawdiness and potty mouth under a demure exterior: costumed interpreter at Colonial Williamsburg, high school teacher, and librarian. But I always, always read romances. Funny, filthy, sweet--it didn't matter. I loved them all.
Now I'm writing my own romances with the encouragement of my husband and daughter. I have my own stack of books in my closet that I'd rather my daughter not read, at least not for a few years. I can swear whenever I want, except around said daughter. And I get to spend all day writing about love and iron-hard lengths.
So thank you, Mom, for perving so hard on pirates during my childhood. I owe you.
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https://oliviadade.com
The President’s Protector
Kris Ripper
Introduction
Dear Reader,
I’m sure every president imagines writing a memoir in which they describe the period of great prosperity their administration ushered in, or the peace between long warring factions that they helped broker. I imagined those would be my stories as well; that I would gloss over a few rare and unfortunate bumps in a road otherwise paved in successes, and you, dear reader, would forgive me for doing so.
My years in the White House had more bumps than I’d imagined, and exposed deeper divisions in my country than I’d realized existed. But they also illuminated our compassion, hope, and love.
My husband Hank, who died just weeks after I took office, used to say that I had to pretend no one noticed I was a woman, because if I really considered what my fellow politicians thought of me, I’d lose my temper. Accordingly, this isn’t a memoir of the
first woman president.
Then again, it really is.
1
The thing no one ever tells you about becoming president is that while the list of things you’re expected to know and understand gets longer, so does the list of things people want to specifically keep you from knowing. Because you’re busy, or it’s beneath your consideration, or because they can handle it without you. Which is invariably true.
But I’ve always been nosy. My staff was used to it.
I only heard the argument because I happened to wander around the right corner on a Saturday morning when my chief of staff assumed I’d be taking a run.
Jules’s voice rose in that way it usually only did when she’d sunk her teeth into an argument about high level principles. “—saying that he’s not a good enough agent? How many subpar Secret Service agents do you have working for you?”
“Would you please attempt to discuss this rationally?”
Now that was interesting. It had been two months since the inauguration, and I hadn’t expected to hear my COS fighting with the agent in charge of my protective detail—a guy called Trevor Pia whom I’d only had cause to respect. He was effortlessly competent, and the few times I asked him a question he didn’t know the answer to, he told me he’d find out instead of making something up. That’s a quality one can go for weeks in Washington without encountering.
I stopped walking to listen for a moment. You’d think the president shouldn’t be eavesdropping on private conversations, but when you’re the president…well, you justify a certain amount of impoliteness based on being the president.
“On what rational grounds are you rejecting his application? He’s a former Marine, he’s been with the Secret Service for almost a decade—”
“You know why.”
That seemed like a good note on which to interrupt. I stepped into the doorway. “I don’t know why. Someone want to enlighten me?”
One of my favorite things about Jules Elmsworth was that she just barely made a show of acting like I was the president unless we were in public. Most of the staff—even those who were with me before—straightened up and adjusted their language and overall acted a bit skittish when The President walked into the room.
Jules didn’t do anything like that. Her expression of triumph, though, was a bit alarming. “Madam President. How fortuitous.”
Agent Pia nodded curtly. “Ma’am.”
“Why don’t you tell President West why she can’t have this highly qualified to say nothing of highly recommended agent at her back?”
The pause was long enough for me to suck down half my bottle of water and notice there was a small divot in the door casing to the chief of staff’s office. If I mentioned it to someone they were likely to disassemble the entire door and haul the works away to an underground shop where it would be completely overhauled at tax payer expense.
I decided not to say anything.
“It’s a delicate situation,” Agent Pia said finally. “Given that the agent in question—while I will agree he is qualified—is not without certain complications.”
“I see.” I smiled at him. “I don’t see at all, do I?”
“Madam President—”
“He’s trans.” Jules snapped her fingers. “That’s the whole ‘complicated’ situation right there. The agent, whose name is Ruiz, is transgender.”
My first thought, and this will betray my sometimes lacking faith in my own institutions, was: I’m so pleased we hire trans agents in the Secret Service. I made my voice sweet and entirely untrustworthy. “Trevor, I’m absolutely sure you’re not discriminating against this agent based on his gender. Are you?”
One of the many glorious things about being the leader of the free world (kindly don’t tell the Prime Minister of the UK I said that) is that you can surround yourself with smart, insightful people.
Trevor Pia opened his mouth, closed it, cut his eyes briefly across to Jules (who gloated indecently), then said, “I will gladly accept Agent Ruiz’s application for your detail, Madam President.”
“Thank you.”
“Please know that my hesitation before was…political. Not discriminatory.” He squared his shoulders again, a glaring tick in an otherwise unruffled man.
Jules snorted.
I patted his arm. “I know you have my best interests at heart, but I only need you to worry about my safety. Will this agent protect me to the best of his ability, to the same standards as his fellow agents?”
“If he couldn’t, I wouldn’t offer him the position.”
“Good. I look forward to meeting him.”
“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, Madam President.”
“Thank you, Trevor.”
He didn’t look at Jules and she didn’t say a word.
I closed the door behind him and took a seat on her sofa. “So? Who’d we just strong-arm the Secret Service into hiring?”
“Top of his class, Bronze Star, honorable discharge, outstanding career in the Secret Service so far, and his sister is a butler in the residence.” She handed me a folder. “Plus, he’s cute.”
“Elmsworth, keep it in your pants. Elena’s his sister?” The residence had a lot of butlers, but only one was a woman. “You’re not worried about accusations of preferential treatment?”
“She’s second generation residence staff. He’s third generation United States military, both the grandchildren of Mexican immigrants.”
“Aren’t you well informed.”
She slid down into her seat and tossed me a fresh bottle of water. “He’s good. And the only reason they were going to say no was because he’s trans, and that’s a whole lot of bullshit. So yeah. I did some research.”
I flipped through the file, though her summary had been sound. “Let’s see what happens.”
“I knew you were gonna say that. I have notes for you about the budget meeting, and we should wrangle a speechwriter about the thing—”
“Don’t remind me. Are you absolutely certain—”
“Yes. Madam President.” Just in case I’d forgotten. “As I was saying…”
I settled in and focused on running the country, still curious about Agent Ruiz.
2
I should not have been in the position I found myself in that October. No one should, but especially not me. Soft on crime had been the rallying cry of my opposition in every election I’d ever run in. My approval ratings fluctuated within normal ranges, all except the military question. I always scored low when it came to military might.
Yet here I was, sending young people into a war zone. President West Pledges Troops. The headline ran on loop in my head.
And it wasn’t a war zone halfway across the world, where the customs were inscrutable and the people distant, their deaths somehow, guiltily, less meaningful. I was sending the National Guard into cities in my own country for the first time since LBJ. And some of them were coming back in boxes.
They were dark days, and the legacy I’d imagined for myself—strengthener of the economy, leader in healthcare and education, preserver of the American dream—was ground into the ash of flares and burnt vehicles. White sheets and black arm bands.
“What do I always say?” Jules muttered caustically one night as we stood in the office outside the Oval, watching the news. “White people are the worst.”
Betty Sanderson, residence head florist—who had taken to replacing my flower arrangements at strange hours and was undoubtedly checking up on me—snorted. “Oh, honey, if y’all were better at being bad, we wouldn’t be in this mess. But that?” She gestured to the screen. “That’s just sloppy.”
I realized my legs were numb from standing and leaned back against a desk. “How about we not give the white supremacists pointers.” In the early days, the late-night talk show hosts had been clever and biting about the cartoonishness of this turn in American history. Not anymore.
The news network replayed a six second shot I’d already seen so often it haunted my dreams:
a man in a mask swinging a pipe at an impossibly young looking National Guardsman, knocking him down. That’s where they cut it off on television, but the entire clip was available online, the one that showed three other men, only two of whom had masks, detaching from the larger group and descending on the boy (hard to think of him as anything other than a boy), who didn’t appear to regain consciousness as he was beaten to death.
On film.
His poor parents. I’d spoken to them, of course. Said all those hollow words people say. But he shouldn’t have been there in the first place. This was America, dammit. The America I was nominally in charge of. And somehow I’d let this happen, this travesty of power and powerless. These people were trying to take over my country, and while they’d never succeed, they fully intended to do as much damage as they could in the attempt.
I was crying. Never let them see you cry was one of my rules, one of the first ones. But I couldn’t help tears slipping silently down my face as I watched more footage—violent skirmishes between protesters and counter protesters, a rally in which the Hitler salute was cheered, a disturbing shot of a little white girl pulling a child sized Klan hood over her head to the proud applause of her family.
And through it all I thought about the Guard, the people who’d trained and waited and had no idea that they’d be called to civil unrest—racial civil unrest, for god’s sake—in our own time. “That poor boy,” I whispered, as they showed the same six seconds again.
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