Page 13

Not everyone can be perfect. It turns out Fitz uses a two-in-one shampoo.

I overlook this one fault, though, because the scent of it—the scent of him on my skin—is comforting, even if it leaves my long hair tangled.

After realizing I didn’t bring my duffle into the bedroom when I took Madeline’s call, I slip into a robe I pull off the hook. All I heard was do this, do that, go here, wear this when she told me the details of the email she was planning to send regarding campaign events. I wanted to hang up every three seconds.

But I reminded myself I was calling the shots in this game and that arguing over kitten heels wasn’t the battle to choose. Instead, I calmed myself by dragging my finger along the light oak furniture before plopping down on the bed with the plush white duvet and navy piping, taking in deep breaths of hints of leather and bourbon cut with fresh laundry. The cloud around me is both masculine but still light and familiar and new all at the same time, and I know I’ll be at as much peace in this room as I possibly can be. It’s a stark difference from where I slept—or hardly slept—in the Executive Residence this past week.

“Come in,” I sit back on the bed when there’s a knock.

The door opens, and Fitz stands there with confusion written into the gentle creases between his eyebrows.

“Sorry. I hope you don’t mind. I needed to wash the day away.” It’s more like days even though I showered this morning. The White House is toxic.

Still wearing his charcoal suit pants and light blue button-down, Fitz leans against the doorway.

“If you really want me to sleep upstairs?—”

Fitz shakes his head. “You can sleep here. Just give me until tomorrow to switch out closets. There’s a bunch of stuff upstairs.”

“I thought this was your room.”

Fitz rubs his chin. “I know I’ve got great legs for a guy, but something tells me you’ll pull off the skirts better.” He’s joking, of course, but there’s a serious gleam to his stare as it lingers on my bare knee poking through the opening of the robe. “I had some stuff sent over for you.”

I lean forward. “You bought me clothes? Fitz, you already gave me money?—”

“You came with a weekend bag, and we haven’t even discussed getting your stuff out of your apartment even if you have the lease through June.”

I don’t care to embarrass myself by admitting I don’t own that many things—clothes or otherwise. But I have enough . It just might not be enough of the right stuff. It wasn’t while I was down in DC. That’s why my mother sent a wardrobe to the room I was staying in after she sent for my bag at the hotel. I left every piece of it behind apart from the dress I wore to the reception because I was too eager to leave to bother changing. I just threw what little I brought with me—and my secondary lock—into the bag and fled with Fitz.

“It’s not so much anyway. You’ll probably need other stuff”—he reaches behind him, pulling out his wallet—“use this. Tomorrow, you need to buy a dress.”

“No.”

“It’s for your benefit,” Fitz says. “I don’t think you’d feel super comfortable showing up to a black-tie event on Saturday in whatever is upstairs. There’s a gala benefiting the Rebels’ charity foundation. It would be good for me if we went together.”

I tip my head to the side, confused. “Good for you? What does that mean?”

Pushing off the wall, Fitz puts the credit card down on the nightstand. “It means…you might need a husband, but I could sure use a girlfriend.”

My eyebrows rise into peaks and Fitz sighs.

“It’s Coach Foller.”

“Did you break up?” I quip.

Fitz snorts. “No. There’s just been some issues in his past that have come up, and Nick’s a little worried I’d be guilty by association.”

A tingle spreads up my neck. “What issues?”

“Some allegations about abusing players back when he was a college coach.”

I freeze.

“Allegations,” Fitz repeats. “As in former players coming out years later .”

Something tells me from Fitz’s nonchalant tone that he doesn’t believe there’s no smoke without fire. Or, he’s clouded by said smoke and maybe can’t see through it.

I swallow. “What kind of alleged abuse are we talking about?”

Fitz folds his arms across his chest. “Mental? I don’t know what you call it. It’s not like he water boarded a bunch of kids.”

“Why does it have to be all or nothing?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” I begin, my eyes glancing at the door handle, searching for the lock. “You don’t have to be covered in bruises and a sport a bloody lip to have been beat down.”

Invisible abuse doesn’t leave a mark, but you sure as hell will be scarred.

“Allegedly,” I add, returning my gaze to him. “And what do you have to do with it? Why is Nick concerned and what does that have to do with me?”

Fitz sighs. “You fell into my lap at the right time. Every interview I’ve done, every article written, it ties me to him. Nick wants me to change the narrative. Starting Saturday at the gala.” He points to the credit card.

“Well.” I sigh. “I guess the second act begins then.”

“Of our story?”

“Of America’s greatest love story,” I remind him.

A slow, lazy smile blooms across his face before he asks, “What’s the deal with Secret Service? They escorted us but?—"

I lift my head to the ceiling and groan. “They come everywhere with me. But I don’t have to ride with them. Not yet at least.”

“You can take my car in bay eight. Keys are by the door. I’d rather you not ride with those goons unless I’m with you.” The smile disappears, but I try not to give it much thought.

“You’d let me drive your car?”

“Sure. You break it, you buy it.” Fitz crowds closer. “I’m serious about the money thing though. I don’t want you to have to worry about anything with me. After we get married, I’ll have one issued for you with our name.”

Our name . Why do those two words make my stomach flutter?

I eye the American Express. “Maybe we should lay down a few rules here.”

“Rules?”

“I mean, I’ll do whatever you need me to do in the football world. The gala or?—”

“There’s not much else right now. You can drop in on a practice later on. But I’ll need you at games during the season, a handful of events. You said a year. That timeline works for me.”

I nod. “Deal.”

Fitz hums but then turns silent.

“What else?”

“I don’t really want you around your family without me. Not when I can help it.”

There’s a lick of protectiveness to his words I’m not sure I’ve ever heard in my entire life.

“Maybe I should go with you,” Fitz suggests. “At least until camp.”

I shake my head. “I’ll be fine on my own. It’s all boring campaign stuff anyway.”

“You’ll be there though, right?”

“Yes,” I sing, confused.

“Then it’ll hardly be boring.”

God, there’s that lone dimple again.

I move on. “Next rule. I’ll be reorganizing the kitchen.”

“That’s a rule?”

“It’s not for negotiation. I like things a certain way.”

“By all means, Parker. Shake up my life for the better.” He flattens his lips and shifts them side to side. “What do you want to do about other people?” Fitz spits out quickly.

Other people? I think to myself. It takes me a second.

“Use discretion, I guess.”

Fitz’s eyebrows pop. “Discretion?”

“Yes. When you cheat on your wife, do it discreetly. Don’t be a Montgomery.” I think back to walking in on my father and his aide. “At least lock the door.”

I’ve never quite seen Fitz look wounded.

“What’s with the face?”

“I hate that the first time you referred to yourself as my wife, you paired it with cheating .”

“Oh, come on.” I roll my eyes. “I don’t expect you to be celibate for almost a year, Fitz. You have needs.”

“And you don’t?” he challenges.

My cheeks grow warm because talking about sex with Fitz—or talking with Fitz about having sex with other people—isn’t a conversation I’m comfortable having. We’re friends, sure. And even if we never spent a day apart, I’m not sure I could handle telling him about how the pleasure I’ve received in my life beyond a few one-night stands was battery-operated.

Fitz folds his arms. “I say we play it safe. No side chicks.”

“I like men,” I deadpan. “So that’s fine with me.”

“Yeah, well.” He scoffs. “Like them a little less for the time being. I’m a traditional guy, Parker. A one-woman kind of man.”

Shifting on the mattress, I pull the opening of the robe a little more closed over my legs. “If I were a guy who looked like you, I’d be whoring myself out.”

“Now you’re making me blush.”

“I’m sure you already know you’re objectively handsome,” I tell him. “I’m sure others validate that for you constantly.”

I went with handsome because I don’t want it to go to Fitz’s head, but handsome doesn’t quite cut it. Fitz blooms attractiveness in the most classic type of way. Tall, dark, with a wide, bright smile and that lone dimple that might make me fall victim if he weren’t already my friend.

“For what it’s worth,” Fitz begins, “you’re more than objectively beautiful. And if there’s a minority of others who disagree with me, then they must be blind.”

A flush creeps up the back of my neck.

“And, no. We’re not screwing other people on the side. It doesn’t exactly bode well for the wholesome image we’re trying to pull off and besides…”

I trace the shape of his body through his shirt still tucked into his slacks, finding myself focusing on the skin available to me—a pair of strong, taut forearms.

“Besides what?” I push out. Several strong beats of my pulse pound in my ears, but Fitz doesn’t answer.

Not until I look up and find him staring.

“I’d kill anyone who ever thought it was okay to touch my wife.”

A thrilling rush of goosebumps travels up my body beneath the robe.

“We’ve got enough to deal with. Don’t complicate things by writing prison time for me into this narrative, Parker.”

Fitz shifts, and the small movement brings my attention back to his arms. There’s something about the fine dark hair that dusts the tight skin covering strong muscles that screams for my attention. I focus on them so hard I swear I must be hallucinating because I can see myself flinging my mouth to the side and sinking my teeth into them while Fitz cages the side of my head.

I immediately shake the image away. I think the mention of celibacy pushed my brain in the direction of bad ideas, like thinking about how it might feel for Fitz to lie on top of me.

After all, this is Fitz. My Fitz. And while he’s no longer as scrawny, beneath the height he grew and the seemingly delicious weight and strength he put on, the man standing in front of me is just a stretch of the little boy I grew up with.

A wonderfully attractive stretch.

“You don’t have to keep trying to flatter me.” I hold up my left hand, flashing the ring. “I said yes already.”

“What kind of husband would I be if I didn’t flatter you every moment I could?”

He’s playing with me. He’s playing along.

“Fake husband.” I lift a finger for emphasis.

“This might be all for show, Parker.” Fitz pockets his hands. “But there’s nothing fake about the kind of man I am. Plus, I’ve already been told how good we look good together. That we make quite the couple.”

“Do we?” I ask.

“That’s what the internet says.”

I giggle. “Well, if the internet says it, then it must be true.”

“I guess the real test will be the gala. A lot of my buddies will be there.”

I raise an eyebrow. “I met all of them today.”

“Yeah, but my guys are a bunch of overgrown kids.” He chuckles before growing serious again. “They don’t really give a shit about this kind of stuff. But do you know who does?”

I suddenly feel exposed under the change of his gaze. I stand and switch off the light I left on in the bathroom. “Who?”

When I circle back, he’s moved so close I nearly crash into him.

“Their wives . If we can sell it to them, we can do anything. It doesn’t exactly leave us much time for practice.”

“Practice?” I ask. “Practice for what?”

“For you to get used to this.”

Looking down, I find Fitz’s hand caging my own.

“You flinched when I touched you before in front of Nick.”

“Did not.”

“Did too. We have to make sure it doesn’t happen again, Parker.”

I’ll have to take Fitz’s word for it. I can’t quite remember what I said or did two minutes ago, let alone two hours ago. I’m stuck in this moment—this small, quiet moment where holding hands with my friend feels more intimate than it should.

“He just caught me by surprise.” It’s a miracle I’m able to push out any words because Fitz traces gentle circles on my palms with the pad of his thumb. The feeling sort of steals my breath. And most of my vocabulary, apparently, because the only thing able to leave my mouth is a sigh.

“We need to touch each other without it looking so forced,” he says. “We should touch each other like we want to. I mean, we’re about to be newlyweds. We’ve got to walk the walk.”

I drag my attention from his hand up to his wrist. I bite my lip, having the strongest urge to drag my finger up to Fitz’s forearm.

“Within reason,” I argue.

“Of course, within reason.” Fitz agrees. “Does this bother you?”

I shake my head.

“I’d never do anything you’re not comfortable with, Parker.”

I try to swallow, but a lump’s growing in my throat.

“You can touch me, you know,” Fitz whispers. “Within reason.”

It’s then I realize that even though he’s holding my hand, I’m not technically holding his. I twist my arm so our fingers lock.

“Like this?” I ask.

“It’s a start.”

“A safe one,” I add, to which Fitz nods, agreeing. Then I ask, “What else is safe for you? What are your boundaries?”

“Anything that involves you keeping your clothes on and my hands off your thighs. I like to think I’m not shallow,” he says before adding, “except when it comes to legs.”

I roll my eyes. “Who would’ve thought boy scout Fitz would turn into such a flirt?”

“Maybe you turned into someone worth flirting with.”

When Fitz retires from football, he could break into acting. I almost believe him.

Biting my lip, I redirect the attention back to him. I don’t know why I feel as though Fitz’s arms are safe territory when his forearms are so damn dangerously attractive. But I muster up the courage to take my free hand and run a finger from his wrist to his elbow before I drag it back down on the inside.

Maybe this isn’t within Fitz’s boundaries. I swear he just trembled.

Dropping that hand, I bring it up to his head, pushing a soft lock of dark hair back from his forehead. “Is this safe?” I whisper.

The tip of his tongue pushes through his lips before retreating back into his mouth. “Totally safe.”

“Are you sure?” I let my nails graze his scalp and watch the way his jaw flexes. “You’re practically purring.” I stick out my tongue playfully and drop my hand.

He gives my other hand a squeeze before letting go, stepping backward toward the door and winking. “If you’re looking to get a rise out of me, there’s a better place to sink your nails into, Montgomery.”

* * *

Life is funny. I used to feel bad that I lived a life of solitude. There was no roommate to do laundry or cook dinner with, no boyfriend to snuggle up on the couch with while watching a movie.

I’ve been around more people in close proximity these days than I have in over a decade, and I absolutely hate it.

While I stayed in the White House, the only privacy I had was in my room, but thanks to my mother and Madeline and their efforts to orient me, I never spent much time there. And even though I breathed a major sigh of relief when we left Washington, we didn’t leave it all behind.

I rip out my phone to text my sister.

I want the security detail canceled. Now.

I’m about to ditch the guy myself.

Madeline

We already gave you an inch. You have the option to drive your own car. Don’t push it or you’ll ride with them.

I pocket my phone, feeling a stare. Looking up, I make eye contact with the sales associate who quickly busies herself straightening hangers.

“Can you do me a favor?” I turn on my heel to Agent Samuels. “Can you maybe not stand so close to me?”

Agent Samuels doesn’t take a step back.

I shut my eyes and take a deep breath. Fitz told me to take it easy. But I can’t think with a shadow breathing down my neck.

“I don’t know what’s the point of you wearing regular clothing.”

Agent Samuels adjusts the collar of his gray t-shirt, a far contrast from the suit I’ve seen him in. “We dress to blend in as civilians if necessary.”

“Civilians can look like creepy stalkers too,” I quip. “Could you just wait over there, please? This place isn’t even crowded. Better yet, Fitz and I are going to a black-tie event. If you’re coming, you should have a tuxedo. There’s a men’s department upstairs.”

The tall agent tips his head. “Already have one, ma’am. We’re prepped for any occasion.”

I rub my temples. “Of course you are. Can you just give me a little space? Or are you coming inside the fitting room with me?”

Agent Samuels nods. “I’ll be here, ma’am. The fitting room has already been checked.”

I wait while he moves to the side before turning back to the sales associate. “I’m really so sorry.”

“Oh, no, please don’t apologize. I’m the one who’s sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.” Her cheeks turn red. “What can I help you with?”

I look around, overwhelmed. “I need a gown. And I really don’t have a clue where to start.”

The kind sales associate leads me over to a wall. “I like to go with color and cut first,” she tells me.

I finger a black gown with thin straps. “Nothing with an open back.”

I might’ve bared my scar for Fitz, but that doesn’t mean I want to expose it to everyone, especially since the gala is for his team’s foundation. I hate that I even showed it to him, but I knew to make him understand, I’d have to give him something.

And in some ways, showing Fitz my scar gave him everything and nothing at the same time.

He’s the only one, besides Sarah, who’s ever seen it.

I flinch when Sarah dabs at my raw flesh “Does it look any better?”

“Why do you care about how it looks if it feels this bad?”

“So I can forget it ever happened.”

Sarah sighs. “Could you though?”

She was right.

I move to another row of dresses. “Maybe strapless.” If it comes up high enough, that would be a safe way to go.

“We have these,” the sales associate says, leading me farther down the wall. Her voice drifts in and out as she goes on about fabrics. I nod along to be polite, but at this point, silk chiffon or something with sequins makes no difference to me.

I stop. “Can I try that one?”

The sales associate reaches up. “The red one?”

A smile blooms across my face. “Yes,” I say. “The red one.”

I hadn’t given any thought to the color. But now, knowing I’m going to be photographed for everyone, the red silky dress with the high slit makes sense.

After all, I’m out for blood.