Page 75 of Catfish

Hence my executive decision of not fucking Reagan.

I have a feeling I’ll come in seconds, number one. Two, I don’t need to be on another headline.

Potential presidential candidate, Wade Lockwood—can he run a country when he can’t last more than a minute in bed?

I rub my temples, feeling a headache, and a surge of irritation start to swell throughout my body.

No need to add anymore scandal or rumors that are already spreading the closer we get to the democratic debates.

Like the one that states I have a social disorder. How I don’t like the sunlight because I rarely go to public events that have nothing to benefit me.

They call me the stone man; handsome, stoic, and silent.

I don’t see a problem with it other than I need people to fucking like me so they'll vote for me again. The people of Connecticut care for me enough, obviously, since I won the election of governor. I was "Daddy's protege," following in his footsteps, the eldest son, good-looking with a head full of brains and ideas.

A mind full of lies and betrayals swarming through my head after that.

Glancing at the door, I clench my hands into fists. I’m losing my shit—seriously. All my pent-up aggression and exhaustion is starting to make me screwy.

This is beyond ridiculous.

No, fuck that, this is just continuing to dig myself into the deep shithole I call my life. I should’ve never let Emmy have her way. I sign her paychecks. I’m the one who makes the executive decisions around here.

Fuck this, it’s my damn office, I’m the fucking boss.

Swinging my door open, I stride for the conference room. A blonde employee of mine steps in line next to me, advising she needs to speak with me about invitations, but my hand cuts her off halfway through her second sentence as I make my way towards the office space where Emmy holds all of her meetings.

The moment my hand finds the doorknob, I swing it open, maybe a little too dramatically, but it’s open nonetheless, and I’m not ready. Never really prepared myself for the possibilities of what she could be wearing and how close I’d be. Didn’t think about what I would say when I busted into a conference room like the SWAT team without a reason to.

Because Reagan Shelton is a supernova to my damn existence.

Dressed in a ruby red dress that hugs her tits, torso, and shoulders, Reagan looks up at me as I walk in, looking completely at ease. Her wavy dark hair cascades over her collarbone, but it's her eyes that prevent me from moving for a second.

They’re fucking beautiful.

The black mascara outlines the hues of purple. The gray rim that—

“Governor,” Emmy states, irritation and warning laced in my name. “Is there something I can do for you?”

Yes, you can get the fuck out.

“Had some free time before my next meeting and wanted to meet with—” I look at Reagan. “—Miss Shelton, correct?”

She nods, extending her hand across the table for me to take. “It’s nice to meet you, Governor Lockwood.”

And it’s finally nice to meet you, Sox.

Her voice isn’t dainty and soft, it’s confident, sexy, professional. Something I’m not feeling at all like right now.

Which is fucking ridiculous because I’m power wrapped in an expensive suit with a whole team of people behind me.

I’m one of the most authoritative people in Connecticut, who obviously has a screw loose because I shouldn’t see anything of this woman but beauty and a job.

Instead, I see sex in a red dress that could have me by my cock and begging for release within thirty seconds.

I take her hand, giving it a casual shake before abruptly releasing it. “The pleasure is mine. I’m sorry to interrupt, Em.”

My assistant doesn’t accept my half-ass apology because she's still glaring at me with resentment. “Not a problem at all.”

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