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“Where did you say we were going exactly?”

From the passenger seat, I watch Fitz’s eyes lift to the mirror, staring undoubtedly at the SUV that follows us. “I told you, I need to decompress.”

“Most people decompress over a pint of ice cream and a bottle of wine at home.”

Fitz lets out a heavy breath. “I think a lot there.”

“Just there?” I joke.

Fitz sticks out his tongue. “I’m serious. Hard to turn this off these days.”

He takes one hand off the wheel and taps his temple.

“Not a great feeling to have in the off-season,” Fitz continues. “Heard yesterday we’re losing our top defender. I can’t get him to stay. I can’t convince Foller to try to convince him?—”

“Foller?” I interrupt. “Why wouldn’t he want the guy?”

Fitz sighs. “Todd and Foller clash a lot. It happens, but you know, usually everyone takes a breath. But after the Super Bowl…I guess I can’t blame Todd.”

“What happened at the Super Bowl?”

By the time Fitz tells me the story, I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve dropped my jaw. “Well, I’m with Todd. I’d walk away too.”

“Would you?” Fitz slows at a light.

“You wouldn’t?”

Fitz shrugs, turning to me. “It’s football. Things get heated.”

“Yeah, between players .” I watch as he folds his bottom lip in. “What kind of coach gets in his guy’s face like that?”

“One that won a Super Bowl.”

I lean toward Fitz. “ You won a Super Bowl.”

Fitz looks away, and I can tell he doesn’t want to keep talking about it. Under normal circumstances, I’d press him a bit. But he did want to decompress and I’m sure this isn’t helping.

I straighten in my seat. “It’s hard having so much downtime.”

It’s not that I anticipated my help on the campaign being a full time job in any way. But my mother made it clear that where she went on the trail, I would follow. And that would kick off next week during a visit to New Hampshire. So apart from going to the barn, I don’t have a lot—or enough—on my plate.

I sigh. “I wouldn’t mind working.”

Fitz drums his hands against the steering wheel. “I know you already know this, but if you’re thinking about waitressing”—he pauses when I whip my head to face him—“I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with that, alright? I don’t have the patience or endurance to work in hospitality. What I’m saying is it definitely won’t fly with your family.”

“My family?” I ask. “Or you ?”

When the light changes, Fitz pulls into the intersection. “Well, it doesn’t exactly go well with our brand.”

Both of my eyebrows escape north. “We have a brand?”

“Kind of. If you consider how people on the internet are referring to us as Captain and Mrs. America, we sort of have something to go off of.”

“It’s kind of cringy,” I say.

“Maybe a little,” he agrees, but I watch a smile take hold of his face. “But we could be called worse.”

I snort. “Yeah. Like frauds.”

Fitz laughs. “I was thinking more of Barbie and Ken.”

“I’m no Barbie.” I warn him. “That would be Madeline. The perfect one.”

No one sends Barbie off to prison, I think to myself. But the truth is, I never needed anyone to see me as perfect . I just needed to be seen, to be heard, to be held . After Honey died, life turned upside down. It was like suddenly, I woke up, and someone was there telling me, This is your life now , Parker. These are your parents . Really, they felt like total strangers. And I was right. Family wouldn’t do what they did. No way in hell.

Fitz cuts through my thoughts. “Perfect is relative.”

I lean against the seat and turn my head to him. “Are you saying I’m perfect for you?”

He doesn’t answer.

“Figured as much. Sorry you’re soon-to-be wife is pretty imperfect?—”

“I’m perfect.”

I tsk. “Don’t rub it in.”

“No, I don’t mean me .” Fitz chuckles. “Imperfect spells out I’m perfect . So if you think about it that way, you’re perfect exactly how you are right in this moment.”

Fitz’s words sink into me, each one warming every bit of my body, thawing out what I’ve been told most of my life—the exact opposite.

“And,” Fitz continues, “Yeah. I don’t like the thought of you waitressing. But that’s because it implies I can’t take care of you.”

“Fitz, we already discussed this?—”

“I get it. You’re independent. You don’t need a man to take care of you, blah, blah, blah. Who would you rather do it? Me?” he asks. “Or your parents?”

He has me there.

I sink lower into my seat. “I just need to find more things up here. I get that you’re on vacation.”

Fitz shoots me a scowl as he slows.

“Okay, sorry. What did you call it? Active recovery .”

“You could come work out with me.”

It’s my turn to scowl. “I don’t really think the gym is my thing.”

“That’s true.” Fitz agrees. “You always cut PE.”

I snort. “Yeah, I think I probably would’ve ended up being the first student ever to fail gym class if I…”

I have to take a deep breath that leaves my lungs no room to spare and tilt my head toward the window so Fitz doesn’t see my face when I exhale.

“Where are we going, anyway?” I change the subject.

He drums his hands against the steering wheel. “I do like to let loose sometimes.”

“Color me shocked,” I snark. “And what’s your idea of letting loose exactly?”

Fitz slows down, pulling into a large, relatively empty parking lot.

“Was I wrong yesterday? Are drugs your idea of letting loose now? Because one time I took you with me to pick up a dime bag, and you had a panic attack in the car and almost threw up.”

“No.” He scoffs, turning off the car. “But you’re really in for a wild ride.”

I reach for the door.

“Don’t insult me.” Fitz hops out of the car and walks over to my side. Opening the door, he offers me a hand.

I take it even though I do so under duress of the gesture’s wholesomeness. “You don’t have to do that. No one is around.”

Fitz drops my hand but drapes his arm around my shoulder. The weight and warmth of his arm is startling, but I don’t twist away.

“What do you mean? You’re here.”

For a second, I want to ask him what he means by that. Because, in one way, I get what he’s saying. But when it comes to me—to us—it doesn’t quite make sense. After all, we know the truth.

“What do you?—”

“Besides.” Fitz dips closer to me. “We’re always being watched. I’m sure they report everything to your mother.”

I don’t have to turn and look over my shoulder to know Agent Samuels is there.

“Touché,” I say, wrapping my arm around his waist.

* * *

Fitz’s idea of letting loose is kind of exactly what I expected and a happy surprise all in one.

The time between Honey’s death and when I was taken to Horizons is a bit blurry. There are a few reasons for that—I didn’t exactly prioritize quality sleep over things like stealing booze and weed. But there are a few memories I hang onto that stand out in that montage of my rebellious stage. One of them is the first—and only—time I convinced Fitz to cut a full day of school with me.

We drove—in my mother’s car I was forbidden from using—out of Manhasset, ending up at a rundown bowling alley halfway to Boston. We ate greasy French fries and drank cherry Cokes. Fitz was such a terrible bowler they brought out kiddie bumpers for the gutters. The innocence of the memory is terribly bittersweet. That was one of the last days Fitz and I spent together before he drifted toward football and away from our friendship.

“You improved,” I tell him after he loses the second game. “You went from god awful to moderately bad.”

Fitz holds up a hand, showing its impressive span, and wiggles his fingers. “I’m bordering on excellent. Could use a custom ball though.”

I try not to give Fitz the pleasure of eyeing his thick fingers for more than a second or two. He’s got enough going for him as it is. No need to add to his ego.

“I think you’re mistaking excellent for competitive ,” I tease before tipping my head toward the bathrooms.

Fitz points over his shoulder. “Meet you at the bar.”

Minutes later, I enter the partition of the bar area and immediately stop between the high top tables.

Behind me, Agent Samuels also halts. “Ma’am?”

I’ve been about one ma’am away from a total meltdown since the security detail started, but that agitation is long forgotten, or at least, temporarily displaced. Instead, I’m homing in on the table in the corner, where I make out the top of Fitz’s head covered in his backward baseball cap. The rest of him is obscured by a topknot of blonde hair.

“Ma’am?”

“I’m fine,” I announce.

I might be fine by definition. What I’m not sure of is exactly what to do as I make my way in the direction of Fitz’s table. The only option is to politely slide into my seat. That is, until I come to the table and stop behind the woman, and she makes no effort to turn even as Fitz’s eyes meet mine over her shoulder.

“Oh, I can imagine you’ve been busy,” she says with a hearty laugh. “I hear winning Super Bowls keeps you on your toes.”

I go with the more aggressive approach because I imagine—in a real relationship—I wouldn’t politely sit in my seat and wait for this girl to finish her conversation with my fiancé as I looked over the menu deciding between chicken wing spice levels. And because this entire thing doesn’t exactly sit right with me.

I step around table, and slide onto his lap, expecting Fitz to at least lean back in his chair to make it easier for me, but he’s no help. I’m sandwiched between his front and the shiny wood that now pokes into the bottom of my ribs.

“Oh, you already ordered.” I notice the two beers. I grab the one he’s clearly taken a sip of. The glass is chilly in my hand, but the rim is warm, and I wonder if my mouth found the exact place his lips left.

I sort of expect Fitz to freeze, to stumble, but his hard, warm body below mine remains relaxed and unfazed. “Yeah. Super Bowl was a busy time.“ Fitz takes my left hand. “But this pretty thing is who really keeps me on my toes.

I look up at the blonde, who, going by her name tag, is Nellie.

Her eyes only meet mine for a second before they return to my ring, seemingly magnetized. I can’t blame the poor girl for that.

“Right, the girls mentioned they saw something on the news. Um, congratulations.”

It would’ve been better for Nellie-with-the-name-tag to at least act shocked over engagement considering she was putting the move on my fiancé. “I know it’s easy to fawn over the man who’s about to be my husband , but I’d love a menu if you’re done.” I put down the glass and extend my hand. “Oh, how rude of me. I’m Parker Montgomery.”

Fitz’s chin lands on my shoulder. “Soon to be Rhodes .”

He’s better at this than me , I think to myself, I’ll give him that.

“Poor thing,” I say when Nellie-with-the-name-tag moves away. “It’s tough having your heartbroken mid-shift.”

“I’d hardly call it heartbreak.”

I shrug. “She seemed pretty happy to see you back here.”

“I told you, I like to come here to unwind.”

“Well, maybe one of those times you got wrapped right back up again. For all I know, she’s your type.”

Fitz takes his glass, the same one I just drank out of, from the table. “For all you know, you’re my type.”

“So you’re into brunettes?”

I twist to face him, expecting to find a hint of playfulness to his expression, but it’s anything but. In fact, the seriousness written in the creases of his eyes and the firmness of his jaw makes me reach out for the beer Fitz is holding. Again, I find the rim warm beneath my lips. I jut with it against my mouth when Fitz moves, pulling off his backward baseball cap.

“Your hair color is the least interesting thing about you,” he says, placing the hat on my head, running his fingers down to the ends of my hair. But his hand doesn’t drop.

“What?” I ask when his fingers close in on my face.

Fitz’s mouth twists. “You have…” His eyes flick over my shoulder, and I nearly turn to follow, but Fitz’s fingers hold my chin, so similarly to the night of the gala. My breath hitches as he angles his face, bringing it closer to mine, and I feel the beer slosh in the glass as I grip it tightly when his mouth plants the smallest kiss to the corner of my mouth.

“It was a drop.” But if it was a drop, I’m not sure why he’s still lingering, or why he brushes the strands of my hair back until he whispers in my ear, “there’s someone recording us in the corner.”

My free hand comes up to his chest, lightly clutching his t-shirt because I’m afraid if I hold the glass with both hands, I might crush it. “Is there?”

Fitz hums his answer and he’s so close I feel the echo flow down my body. “How soon until those photos are online?”

“Ninety seconds,” I guess, shivering when his breath dusts the soft skin of my ear.

“How many more after that until the White House sees them?”

“Eleven.” My voice nearly squeaks, my fingers flexing against his chest.

“Mmm. We should make the most of them, yeah?” Fitz brings his face back around to mine. He’s staring at my mouth so intensely I can practically feel it.

“May I?”

I dare anyone to say no.

I nod. My entire body melting at the perfect time, just as Fitz’s hand finds the small of my back, keeping me upright and against him as his mouth presses to mine. His breath is warm, his taste familiar, sweet from the beer. I don’t know if he realizes I shudder, because Fitz doesn’t change the tone of the kiss—it’s purposeful, just deep enough, and absolutely perfect, exactly as it was in the car at the gala.

But unlike the other night, Fitz breaks, but doesn’t pull away, and what changes is the way he swoops my lips back and capture mine. Now it’s different.

And now, this time, I’m really kissing him back.

I release his shirt and bring my hand to his cheek, the tips of my fingers tickled by the short scruff along my jaw. Everything ticks up a notch—the movement of our lips, the closeness of our bodies, and my pulse. If it wasn’t rushing so loudly through my veins, I might’ve sworn I just heard a soft sigh roll out of Fitz. I scratch at his cheek again, to give the sound another chance, but he pulls back just as the tips of our tongues touch, but not before I’ve captured his bottom lip between my teeth.

Yeah , I think to myself. This time it’s different.

Fitz doesn’t show me his face long enough for me to get a read. He returns to my ear. “I’m sorry.”

I realize I still have one hand resting on his collarbone, and more, he’s got his fingers spread across the top of my ass. “Why?” The seconds of silence that follow are punctuated by my pulse as I wait for his answer.

“Boundaries.” The tip of his nose brushes against my neck, the deep inhale he takes marked by the expansion of his chest beneath my hand. “Got carried away.”

Right . Me too. The thing is, I’m still being carried away—by his smell, his lingering taste, his closeness. So I do the right thing—I slide off his lap and slink to the opposite side of the table, adjusting my shirt that’s ridden up in the back.

This time, I take the full, untouched beer. “Blondes?” I ask. “Brunettes?” I realize I’m still wearing his hat, so I tug it off and extend my arm to place it back on his head.

Fitz sips his beer and shrugs, his eyes focusing more on the table.

“Oh, come on,” I say. “You have to?—"

“I’ve just always been into that girl next door.”

“ Type . You meant girl-next-door type.” I take a large pull from the glass because there’s something hypnotizing about the green swirls in the center of Fitz’s eyes. “I didn’t really get a feel for her though,” I say, lifting my head and looking for Nellie-with-the-name-tag. “Maybe she’s the girl-next-door type.”

I take another drink, and it’s at that moment, as I bring it to my mouth, that a larger party walks in, their voices booming and surrounding us. I hardly make out Fitz’s voice, but my stomach flutters when I hear enough.

“Maybe she’s also the wrong girl.”