Page 224 of Bona Fide

“Hence why I climbed through the window.” I roll my eyes. She wouldn’t make it past the grass out in the front yard without getting tackled. “Come here, Governor.”

I like when she calls me that, more than Yank because it was mine and not a nickname I got when I was hiding behind Chase. It reminds me of when it was truly just her and I. When secrets still loomed overhead but she was the beat of my heart.

And I was and still am completely hers.

“For what?” I bring my tumbler to my lips and swallow a large gulp. The worst idea, before calling my Secret Service in here, would be to get any closer to her right now.

I’m not that big of an idiot—sometimes.

“To help you undress,” she claims. “We have a game tonight.” She displays her Boston gear by running a hand down her front.

“You can’t be here,” I repeat. “You know I wish it were different. I’m here, President, and you’re you, the love of my life.”

“And you owe me a date. You said last year that if we weren’t dating anyone by this time, we’d meet. So, here I am.”

I sigh. I did say that. The reasoning behind it was, at the time, to finally come clean. Then erased that thought with a hell no and knew I’d bail on that eventually or say that Chase was dating someone.

But fuck me for a woman remembering everything.

“I did say that,” I reply.

“You look unhappy.”

“I’m not.” I shake my head. “I’m... fortunate to be looking at you right now, Shelton. You’re fucking beautiful.”

She contributes a feeble grin and hops off the table to stride in my direction, facilitating my body to go on high alert. This woman wields so much power over me that it takes every ounce of my energy to bat it off. She can obliterate any rationality I have and secure whatever she wants or needs.

“Does that mean I’m your date?”

Fuck.

I bob my head. “As long as you sit on one side of the couch and I on the other then yes.”

“What are the rules?” She beams at me, excitement glimmering in her eyes.

“Rules?”

“Can I kiss you right now?”

Geezus.

I turn my cheek for her to plant one on me, which she does, taking her sweet time.

“Feel free to keep the suit on,” she whispers. “So all my ju-ju for Boston can sprinkle throughout the room.”

“Fat chance.”

* * *

The game startsand nothing happens for the first three innings except the hundred times that I’ve shifted to keep my dick tucked in. When I go to order food and give myself a breather, Reagan demands I sit because I'll miss something. Reluctantly, I do, just to suffer through more of her animatedly yelling at the TV, hands swinging all over the place, jumping around, and me admiring her from the couch.

She belongs at an actual game, not here with me cooped up in the White House to watch on TV. I hate to admit it, but my jealousy pricks at my brain. She should be with someone who can take her to shit like this and be able to enjoy the atmosphere and ballpark food.

Em will hear about this when we’re done, but enough is enough. I can’t keep her around me, I can’t keep her safe, I can’t do shit without putting her in some sort of unique and fucked-up scenario that always circles back to me. Begrudgingly, I will have her brother keep her in his care, and I have to fully wipe my hands clean. Maybe decades from now we’ll be ready, but honestly, who am I kidding? She’ll be married with children, and I will be a bachelor with a political career still doing the same bullshit I am now.

Reagan’s demeanor does a three-sixty when the Sox get their revenge in the fifth, tying the game. The sixth is nerve-racking with the bases loaded by red jerseys, alluding to another episode of Reagan’s pep-talk to the TV like the players can hear her and her ju-ju is going to help them win the game.

"Let it come across the plate beautifully," she tells their second baseman, Martinez. "He's getting tired." That to my pitcher.

---