Page 8 of Power Surge

I take him in as he strides across the room before coming to a stop beside the mahogany desk. Dark gray slacks drape over his lean hips and muscular thighs, highlighting the strength hidden beneath with each of his steps. The plain baby blue dress shirt is unbuttoned at the top, offering a glimpse of naturally smooth tan skin beneath.

Every cell, every muscle, demands I collapse into his strong, comforting arms. But I can’t. Not yet.

“Continue,” I say after swallowing down the building emotions. “What do we announce?” Shifting my focus back to the press secretary, I raise both brows expectantly.

“We announce the pregnancy.” Trey's shoulders tense, and a painful grimace mars his handsome face. The faint laugh lines I love so much are now hidden behind deep stress-filled wrinkles. “That way we can get ahead of the media before it’s escalated. We give them the story we want them to run with. If we don’t, who knows what they’ll create on their own.”

“Madam President?” Trey hisses like the two words cause him physical pain. The muscle along his narrow jaw twitches. “Who's pregnant?” Hurt and anger swirl behind his searching eyes.

Well, shit. Way to go, Randi. Didn't even think he'd assume I was the one pregnant. Well, us pregnant.

Oh hell.

I'm a moron. And president of the United States.

Fucking hell. This will not end well for anyone.

“Taeler,” I blurt. My right hand slides across the desk, inching its way toward him. “That’s who’s pregnant, with Grem’s baby. I found out today, about an hour ago.”

“What?” Shock registers across his face while his entire body relaxes, releasing the shoulders that were stationed by his ears.

A pang of hurt pulses through me, eradicating the other swirling emotions. Not sure why the idea of him being relieved that I’m not the one pregnant hurts so badly, but it does. I'll have to figure that out later. One issue at a time, or I’ll end up being a multi-episode on Jerry Springer.

“The media will have a field day with this information if we don’t guide them,” Blake says, drawing my attention back to the issue at hand. “They'll drag her through the mud, both of you. We already have a difficult time getting the media and voters to see you as presidential. And now your daughter, who's living in the White House is unwed and pregnant. Fuck, they’ll just assume she plans to park a double-wide on the front fucking lawn.” He twirls a pen between his fingers. “They'll call her a trailer trash whore just like her mom. It won't be good.”

An angry grunt rumbles from where Trey stands with a straight back, hands fisted at his side.

Leaning forward, I press all my weight onto the desk and drop my head. “Noted. What about the NDAs? Did you get those out like I requested?”

Blake huffs like it’s a ridiculous question. “Yes, an agent hand delivered them moments ago. I requested he wait until both were signed before heading back to the White House.”

My head bobs at the somewhat good news. Then a conversation from the limo comes to mind. “Taeler had an agent run out and purchase the pregnancy test. Will that be an issue?”

At his silence, I raise my head. Blake rubs a pale hand along his square jaw, the scratch of his palm against his stubble audible from several feet away.

“All agents sign NDAs when hired,” Trey adds.

“Right, but that doesn't mean he wasn't caught on camera, or the cashier didn’t notice his suit and guns and drew conclusions. That’s not even factoring in the other customers in the store at the time of the purchase,” Blake states. Leaning back against the couch, he groans. “I'll send someone to clean upthatmess too.”

Tears pool in the corners of my eyes, threatening to fall and expose the emotional mess I’m holding inside. Twisting fast, I perch on the rounded edge of the presidential desk to hide my face by putting my back to the room.

“Great.” I clear the lump of tears clogging my throat to make the words audible. “I'll let you know what plan of action I decide on later. As of now, we're done here. You two can go. Agent Benson, you stay. We have more to discuss.”

There’s a shuffling noise behind me as soft footsteps grow closer. A single hot tear escapes. I fight the urge to wipe it away until I know the room is clear.

Trey steps in front of me in his expensive custom suit, blocking out the back lawn I was so focused on. “They're gone,” he murmurs as he swipes the lone tear away with the pad of his thumb.

That’s the breaking point. The softness in his touch, the concern in his voice. Pitching forward, I press my forehead to his sternum and release the firm clamp I had been holding on my sorrow and grief.

Muscular arms immediately swallow me up, wrapping around my trembling shoulders and cocooning me in unrelenting support and comfort.

“Shh, baby,” he whispers into my hair. A hiccup escapes between sobs. “Come on, please. Please don't cry. You’re killing me.” The long calming strokes of his fingers up and down my curved spine have the opposite effect of his words as fresh tears stream down my cheeks and drip off my jaw and chin. Fisting the front of his shirt, I tug him closer.

This festering buildup of emotions and smothering stress began collecting the moment my hand rested on that Bible and I repeated the vows to serve this country. Since that moment, every flicker of anger, every blip of sadness or unease, and the mounting pressure have been shoved into a deep chasm somewhere in my chest.

Until today. Because he’s here. Holding me. Protecting me. Letting me grieve openly and supporting me through it all.

Knowing Grem—the man whose name I could never remember—died protecting my daughter was the tipping of the scales that pushed me over into the madness my pent-up emotions have brewed. Add in the fact that he died also protecting their unborn child makes the guilt unbearable.

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