Page 5 of Enemy of My Enemy

And now, this.

It was too much. Ethan turned away, breathing hard as Daniels gripped his shoulder again.

“This is history, man.” Daniels smiled, warm and bright, and Ethan’s nerves screamed. “I’m so damn proud of you.”

Damn him. Damn Daniels. Ethan closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and opened them to glare at Daniels. “This is insane. I don’t deserve this. I’m not this guy. I shouldn’t be here.”

“That’s exactly why he fell in love with you, and why youarehere.” Daniels gave him a gentle shove, pushing him down the empty hallway to the office that bore his name. “Get going. Your staff is waiting inside.”

His staff. Jesus.

The heavy white door whispered over plush carpet as he entered his office. Inside, one man and four women rose together from two pale blue couches facing each other before a large desk. They smiled and waited, silent.

He froze until Daniels jabbed him in his kidney. Ethan strode behind the couches to the wooden chairwaiting, obviously, for him. He nodded to his staff and tried to smile. “Good morning. I’m Agent—”

Clearing his throat, Ethan quirked his eyebrows at his staff as Daniels grinned from the back of the room. “Sorry,” he said. “I’ve got to get used to dropping my old title. I’m Ethan. Ethan Reichenbach.”

The smiles from his staff were indulgent, grins and nods that told him that yes, dummy, they knew exactly who he was.

“Please, sit.” He fumbled a bit, waiting for his staff to sit, and then he remembered that they were waiting for him. Embarrassment burned his cheeks as he tried to clear his throat again and bear it.

Daniels covered his grin with the palm of his hand and looked away.

“Can you all tell me a little bit about yourselves?” Ethan nodded as he unbuttoned his suit jacket and tried to sit comfortably in the ornate—but heinous—chair.

“Mr. First Gentleman,” said an older woman with short red hair curled into fluffy rolls that perched around her face like a football helmet. “Let me be the first to greet you with your new title.” She smiled warmly at Ethan, her hands clasped in her lap and ankles crossed just so. Her immaculate red suit was pressed and starched, and a string of pearls hung at the hollow of her neck, just below a fold of aging skin starting to sag.

Mr. First Gentleman. He flushed from head to toe and squirmed.

“Please, Mr. Reichenbach will do just fine.”

“Mr. First Gentleman,” she gently corrected him with an incline of her head. She would have been a socialite contemporary of Nancy Reagan and carried herself with a class that proved it. “My name is Barbara Whitley, and I am the White House social secretary. I serve at the pleasure of the first gentleman.” Another warm smile, and Barbara’s head tilted. “And please let me say that I am absolutely delighted to be working for you, Mr. First Gentleman.”

The gentleness radiating from Barbara calmed Ethan, just a touch. “Forgive me, Ms. Whitley. I may have protected the president, but I’m not up to speed on the full breadth of your duties.”

“I am responsible for the planning of all social events at the White House, in coordination with you, of course. From something as simple as an afternoon tea all the way to a full state dinner.”

That was a big job. Ethan blinked. “I have to admit,” he said, shifting in his seat again, “I’m not really one for afternoon tea.”

“I do look forward to expanding this Office’s social calendar to include your unique tastes, Mr. First Gentleman.” With that, Barbara sat back and proverbially passed the baton by turning to a thin man in his early thirties who peered through wire-rimmed glasses and tried to surreptitiously scroll through his smartphone at the same time.

“Hi there. Jason Brandt, press secretary to the first lady, I mean, first gentleman.” Brandt corrected himself, smiling and shrugging apologetically at the same time. “I would like to get some time on the calendar one-on-one with you to plan our communications strategy and media messaging. I’ve received some guidance from Pete over in the West Wing, but I’d like to craft a uniquely first gentleman message as well—”

“We’ll discuss that,” Ethan interrupted. “As a matter of principle, we’ll take all of our press and media cues from the West Wing.” He fixed Brandt with a stare. “We will work in perfect sync with them.”

Brandt nodded once and waved his cell phone. “And I have about ten thousand interview requests. Want me to filter through and put together a shortlist of quality candidates? We’ve got our choice of any network or journalist—”

Another squirm. The chairback was digging into his spine no matter where he shifted. “No interviews.”

Brandt blinked. “Mr. First Gentleman—”

“No interviews. The president and I have agreed. We’re continuing to keep our personal lives private.”

Silence. Brandt’s eyes darted around to the rest of the staff, who all looked away. “Mr. First Gentleman. You and the president are trailblazers. This is unprecedented in American history. The public has a right to know—”

“We have a right to live our lives in peace.”

“With all due respect, Mr. First Gentleman.” Brandt frowned and swallowed. “If you don’t set the tone of your own media, it will be set for you. Comedians. Late night talk shows. Spin doctors at the news networks. Columnists. Politicians. Everyone who is anyone has an opinion on you and the president. You’re not doing yourself any favors by staying silent.”