Billionaire On Fire: The Complete Series (A Bad Boy Alpha Billionaire Romance) (89 page)

Rachel
thought for a moment, tipping her tongue up to her top lip. She tipped her head
to the right. “Have you seen the president since then?”

I
nodded, blushing. “We—we care about each other a lot. He told me that he would
leave his wife for me.”

Rachel’s
eyebrows rose high on her forehead. “Well. This is quite a quandary. And you’re
worried, of course, that if this is exposed, the president will be slaughtered.
And naturally, you’re worried about your own career.”

I
nodded. Finally. Someone understood. It was out in the open. It was free.

Rachel
considered this. “You love him, as well. I understand that. Don’t you think
it’s time to tell him about this, to allow him to help you through this?”

Initially,
I shook my head vehemently. I nearly laughed. “No. No. I mean. He’s so busy;
he’s the president. He has so much on his mind—“

But
Rachel squeezed my arm a bit harder, looking at me with such assurance. “You
have a good deal on your mind, as well. Please don’t downplay this in your
life. If you’re important to him, then he must care about this. He must help
you get out of this. Do you understand?”

I
understood. I bit my lip, blinking toward her with big, doe-like eyes. My wine
was disappearing before my eyes. I gestured toward it, hoping to cut through
the tension between us. “Gosh. I’ve really hit rock bottom here, haven’t I?”
The words rang with a strange truth. I shuddered.

But
Rachel just shook her head, bringing the wine bottle back toward us. “We’re
just two twenty-something girls—not yet thirty!—with so much going on. Someday,
we’ll be old, and this will all feel like a dream. At least you’re living. You
slept with the president!”

“I’m
in love with him,” I whispered, my words emanating with drama, with life. And
then we giggled together for a moment, lost in the comprehension that this was
it—that us two girls were safe in our little abode at the top of the steps,
away from all the rushing Washington D.C. world.

I was
so appreciative of Rachel’s words, of course. But I wasn’t sure if I was ready
to tell Xavier about my dilemma. I tried to imagine the conversation playing
out in my mind, and I couldn’t. When I told him—in this imagined reality—his
face grew blank—no nose, no mouth, no eyes. Just grey and pale. Like a shadow
of his former self.

Chapter 11

The
next morning, I woke in the guest bedroom. The light shone in brightly from the
exterior courtyard. To the side, in the bed, lay Rachel. She was sleeping so
peacefully. I remembered, then, that we’d both stayed up in the guest bedroom
watching television and giggling together until dawn, never wanting to say
goodnight. I laughed at the thought of having a best girl friend at the age of
twenty-nine. But things were upside down in this new reality, anyway.

I
righted myself and then peered over at the clock on the bedside table. My eyes
grew large. “Shit!” I pushed myself from bed and sprang toward the shower,
knowing that I was already thirty minutes late for work. I scrubbed at my
scalp, at my back quickly, my mind rushing. Shit! I knew that we had a big
campaign meeting again that morning—one to right the mistakes of the previous
day, of course. I pulsed from the shower and wrapped a towel around my body,
shaking at my hair. The water splashed everywhere. God, I didn’t want to go to
work this day—I wanted to lounge around, cure myself of this terrorizing
headache. Why! So much wine!

I
stood out in the hallway, shuffling into my clothes and preparing for the day.
I grabbed my suitcase and began shoving papers into it, feeling so frazzled. I
tried to remember everything that we were meant to do for the meeting, every
topic I was meant to cover. But the hangover hung over me like a cloud.

I
heard the door creak to my right, and Rachel shuffled from the room, rubbing at
her eyes. “What happened last night,” she teased in a croaking voice. “God,
we’re not in college anymore. Do you want me to call you in sick?”

I
laughed, feeling the strain of it hurt my back, my sides. “Everything hurts,” I
murmured. “I have to go to a campaign meeting. I’m already late.”

I shuffled
into the hallway and down the steps. A taxi was poised at the intersection
outside the apartment building, and I pummeled into it, spewing the words:
White House. I thought I was going to throw up.

But by
the time we arrived to the White House, I had applied my makeup, brushed
through my hair. I was feeling a bit better already. I sniffed and paid the
taxi driver a bit extra than normal, thanking him for the use of his mirror. He
said he did it all the time.

I
rushed into the White House and flung myself down the hallway, knowing that
everyone would be lined up at their tables, looking up at Jason—or perhaps
Xavier—expectantly. Waiting and searching and waiting for me.

I took
a deep breath and then shoved the door open, blinking out over the crowd. Standing
next to the computer was Jason, who was wearing a typically wrinkly shirt and a
pair of black, wrinkled pants. He turned his nose down to me and scoffed. “Look
who decided to show up,” he stated, his eyebrow raised.

I
smiled. A few of the people on the campaign team whopped and hollered from the
innards of the crowd. I waved. “Sorry, sorry. I have no excuse beyond my aching
headache.” I winked at a girl in the front row. In that moment, I realized that
the president hadn’t arrived to the meeting yet, either. I turned toward Jason
expectantly. “What have you covered?” I asked him.

Jason
smacked his hand on the board. “We can’t cover anything! The president hasn’t
showed his face in here yet, and you’ve only just arrived. We’ve been sitting
here, scratching our asses!”

Only a
few people snickered in the first few rows. I felt embarrassed for him, even
though he was the one holding my entire livelihood over my head. I swallowed
and tugged at my skirt. “Okay, Jason. Let’s get started. Shall we?”

The
campaign team cheered for me as I righted myself up toward the front and began
where I’d left off the previous day. I gestured wildly, made a few jokes, and
generally made Jason steam where he stood, so incredibly angry that I was
successful, the life of the party. And he was just the maniacal douche bag,
ready to ruin my life through ill means.

“Do
you have any questions?” I finally asked.

A few
of the campaign members raised their hands, asking about the president’s stance
on one thing or another. I realized that it was strange that Xavier hadn’t
arrived yet to watch over the meeting,. I bit my lip.

“Jason.
Do you want to take over from here? About our press release about the tax
reconstruction?”

“Giving
me the fun parts, huh?” Jason teased. But I wouldn’t laugh at him; I wouldn’t
give him anything.

I
scurried toward the door and opened it, ready to go find Xavier. But suddenly,
I met him—face-to-face outside. I gulped almost audibly and touched my hair,
feeling like a nervous middle schooler.

“Xavier,”
I gasped. I opened the door a bit wider, and his eyes met with mine with such
zeal, such life. In that moment, I wanted to kiss him, to have him take me
right there.

He
entered the conference room, interrupting Jason’s spiel about taxes. He held up
his hands and greeted the crowd. Each member nearly stood with their adoration
with him, clapping their hands for this man they were going into battle for.

“You’ve
all done such an excellent job this week. Which is why I want to make sure you
all have a decent time off. Please. Everyone. Enjoy the rest of the afternoon.
This is one of the last beautiful days of the year. And I’m certainly not going
to miss it.” Xavier allowed them to see his stunning smile.

The
campaign workers cheered and began scurrying from their chairs, toward the
door. Jason stood, deflated, by the computer, tapping at the power point over
and over. I smirked at him, if only for a moment.

As the
people began to exit the conference room, Xavier leaned toward me. “I was
actually hoping we could have a private meeting. Just you and me,” he
whispered. “I have a few things to go over with you.”

“About
the campaign?” I asked him, blinking wildly and smiling at him in that girlish
way.

He
nodded, placing his hand lightly at the small of my back. “Yeah. Of course. The
campaign. I totally care about that right now.”

I
allowed my head to drape back; I allowed myself to laugh for perhaps the first
time in weeks—to truly laugh. Behind Xavier, I saw Jason looking on with a
black expression on his face. “You can’t ruin me forever,” I thought all at
once.

The
president led me down the hallway, continually looking behind him to make sure
no one was watching. When we skirted around a side hallway, he reached down and
grabbed my hand, looking at me with these boyish eyes. “This is my very
favorite, secret room of the entire White House,” he whispered.

The
butterflies rose up in my stomach, nearly strangling me with my nervousness. I
could hear my heels trample beneath me with every step, and thus I reached down
and removed them, walking in stocking feet through the most beautiful building
on earth. I swallowed with fear.

Finally,
he pushed open a door at the end of a long, blue hallway. The door led us into
a small, four-seat movie theater with a long, skinny table before the seats.
The place was designed in the spirit of the 1940s—or perhaps during the 1940s.
I spun toward him and squeezed his hand, allowing the door to close behind us
with a commanding seal.

“This
is it? This is your favorite secret room?” I whispered.

He
nodded, laughing. “This is it. And I have a very special movie for us to watch
today.”

My
eyes brightened. I realized this was a date—a spontaneous date in the middle of
the day, for the two of us to laugh, to cuddle, to eat. I needed this time of
relaxation with him—to root myself in why I liked him once more. “What is it?”
I whispered.

“Well.
It goes with the theme of the food, of course,” he stated.

He led
me to the large, luxurious movie theater chair and allowed me to lean back into
it, holding my arms on the armrests. I sighed and closed my eyes, smelling
years and years of presidential popcorn emanating from the seat. “This is
beautiful,” I murmured.

He
clapped his hand, then, and all of a sudden—the large wall to our right opened
to reveal two waiters. One of them held a great big pot of steaming cheese,
while the other held a large pot filled with breads, vegetables meats. I
clapped my hand over my mouth and jumped up and down in my chair. “Fondue!?” I
asked him. And he nodded ravenously, rubbing his hands together.

He
leaned toward me and kissed my cheek as the server came toward us and poured us
two glasses of wine. “I want this day to be special for you. I’ve sensed you’ve
been a little bit—stressed out lately.” He shrugged. “Probably with the
campaign and everything?”

I
thought for a moment, remembering Jason’s lewd face, the way he’d looked at me
with that dark expression. I wanted to tell Xavier in that moment. But I didn’t
want to ruin it.

I
began dipping the bread and vegetables in the cheese. I lifted a piece of bread
toward Xavier’s mouth, and he chewed it gladly, closing his eyes. “God, that’s
good,” he murmured, licking his lips slightly.

And it
was. The cheese sort of molded over my mouth in this initial creamy, gooey
texture. The cheese was stinky—French. Which linked so well with our movie.

“
An American in Paris
,” Xavier declared
as the movie began—that old, 1940’s classic. My mouth opened, and I started
laughing, cackling a bit like a young girl. I couldn’t believe this was my
life.

“They
probably watched this movie in this very theatre, all those years ago!” I whispered
to him, turning toward him. My eyes were big. “Thank you, Xavier. This is the
most beautiful day.”

“You
make me very happy, Amanda,” he whispered then. “I want you to know that.”

The
movie took off from there, and I leaned onto Xavier’s shoulder, getting caught
in the magic of that faraway day. I imagined us, briefly, as husband and
wife—traveling through Paris, through Rome. I imagined us gazing off into our
future together, creating a life together that we made up as we went along. It
was beautiful, so freeing from this stance at the White House. Constriction was
everything, here.

Suddenly,
I felt Xavier’s arm around my shoulder. He leaned down to me and whispered in
my ear. “Come on. I want to show you something.”

Confused,
I furrowed my eyebrows and followed him toward the side room of the theater.
An American in Paris
continued his
twirl, one twirl after another beneath the Eiffel Tower. The magic of it made
my skin glow.

Xavier
stopped before a long, blank wall. It was conspicuous, since so many walls in
the White House were adorned with decorations. “What is it?” I whispered to
him.

And he
reached up, then, and grabbed a small latch. He tugged at it slightly, allowing
his muscles to tighten. And then, he pulled an entire bed from the wall.