Page 107 of Catfish

Reagan’s head comes up. “What is your stance on the poverty rate?” Her eyes slam right into me, making my body strum in response because any look from her gets it to act that way.

This shit is honestly and truly fucking ridiculous.

I’m truly and fucking ridiculous.

“Good morning, Miss Shelton,” I rasp. “I don’t remember you tacking on personal assistant to my assistant to your amended contract.”

“Well, you can tack it on to me possibly voting for you,” Reagan shoots back with a look of indifference.

I lean back in my chair, feeling Em's eyes on me to stop acting like a complete douchebag, but it's the only defense I know of to keep my lust for Reagan away from me.

"The poverty rate in this country is still a big problem," I reply. "I'd like to continue sponsoring it here at home before I become president, and if I get the backing, I'll be able to spread what I've done here around the country."

“And how will you do that?”

“Taxing the rich more,” I convey.

She narrows her eyes and wrinkles her nose. “Isn’t that what every president says?”

“I’m not every president,” I deadpan.

"He wants to use the additional funds to uphold the security of the nation while preserving the well-being of our children," Em offers. "There are charities all over the world trying to help feed the poor, but most of them pay their workers and the marketing team while a small amount goes to that cause. Wade wants to open up a—"

“I can give you a list,” I convey to Reagan. “If you’d like to read it. Or you can listen to my views at the next Democratic debate.

"I'd like both, please, that would be great." She smiles—cocky, aggravating, and fucking stunningly a pain in my ass already.

“Reagan and I wanted to know if you want us to offer the attorney general where she’d like to have dinner or if you wanted to book at DeLuca’s.”

“Let her pick,” I reply. “I’ll have security come wherever to make sure there aren’t any interruptions.”

“Which brings us to the next thing we wanted to talk to you about,” Reagan pipes in like she’s done this a million times before. “The fundraiser that you have coming up, it’s boring.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Boring,” she repeats slower. “It’s the same concept as the one you just had.”

"It's how they're done." I lock my jaw because this woman is going to either be thrown out on her ass, or I'm going to fuck her overconfident ass into being a little less brash and a little more pleasing to talk to.

"And they're boring." I look over at Em, who's already averting her gaze from me. The buildings outside my window aren't anything to stare at.

“Miss Shelton, if you think—”

“If you don’t mind,” she continues. “I’d like to draw up a few things that I think might set your campaign up a few notches. Of course, Governor, if you don’t like them, we’ll do it your way. I just want to show you what you paid for and how I can help make things more interesting and appealing.”

You have no fucking idea how much I know what I paid for.

“She’s rattled up a few good ideas,” Em lightly chimes in. “I think you’d like some of them.”

I veer my attention to Emmy, her face anxious and slightly hopeful. I don't know why she wants me to like Reagan so damn much. This was part of her realm of the job, getting with the planner and making things happen.

Now I have Reagan in my office talking about shit I honestly pay someone else to make sure runs smoothly for me.

"Of course, she does," I drone, then clear my throat. "When you do get that list of things together, I'd love to see it."

Em lets a weak grin slip, but Reagan could give two shits either way. She doesn't know I don't really go past Emmy. That my correspondence with my staff is minimal because, well, what is there to talk about?

“If you ladies will excuse me, I have a conference call in about fifteen minutes.” They stand in unison when Em rounds her chair to leave, Reagan stays put.

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