Page 124 of Catfish

“Don’t know CPA?”

“If I did, don’t expect me to use it.”

He slants towards the table. “Do boys still have cooties, Miss Shelton?”

My cheeks inflame into, I’m sure, an unattractive shade of red. “No.”

“You sure?” he continues between chews. “Because you just lit up like a Christmas tree.”

Thanks for pointing it out.

“It’s hot in here. And you’re being immature.”

“Am I? That’d be a first.”

“I’m sure they’ll be a lot more choice words coming your way, Governor.”

He chuckles deep in his chest. “Working with you, I wouldn’t expect anything less.”

I sigh and lean back. “It’s actually refreshing.”

His index finger taps the bun of the burger. “As long as you're happy, Miss Shelton.”

Right now, I am.

I have a feeling I may be one of very few people that have seen Wade Lockwood like this. The relaxed version that he never gets to let out.

So, mission accomplished, I guess.

However, the moment we walk out of this bowling alley, it’s back to business. Back to planning and organizing. Regressing back to routine and the constant nagging and worrying that plagues most of my thoughts.

I want my brother home.

I want Mama cancer-free for good this time.

I want someone to love me recklessly so I can get lost in something other than myself and my problems.

I want Wade Lockwood to win the presidency, so he can get as far away from me as possible.

Because he's becoming an addition to my obstacles that I have no solutions for.

? I'm Like a Lawyer With the Way I'm Always Trying to Get You Off — Fall Out Boy ?

The next two weeks are a blur, every meeting and discussion about the Democratic debate blends together in a perfect combination of stress, anxiety, and willpower. My phone has been attached to my ass with reporters trying to get a quick scoop on all my ideas and goals. Some have tried to get information about my family and why I haven't been seen with them lately.

Henry and Nora, good 'ole Mom and Pops, have been blowing up my email. Henry actually stopped by my office again, and I actually had to shove Reagan underneath my desk. I didn't want her to get caught after her little escapade of locking him out at my lunch with Heidi.

Imagine being bitched at by your father with a hot woman under your desk in attempts to not pitch a tent.

It was fun—never want to do it again.

Unless, Henry isn’t there.

In the meantime, Reagan has been the absolute nightmare I knew she would be when I broke down and hired her.

I'm consumed with all of the feelings above, then tack on the tight dresses she sometimes wears, like she promised and signed on her contract. Driving me insane thinking of different ways I'd tear off the baggy slacks she'd wear or slip up the fabric of her dress to pass up her thighs.

This whole shit storm is a new sort of torment. And it only gets better when Emmy walks through the door, whistling a tune and slapping a stack of papers on my desk today.

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