Page 2 of Valor on the Move
Yawning, Rafa stretched out on the mattress. Before he’d moved in at fourteen, there’d been a four-poster bed in his room, complete with canopy. Fortunately they’d redecorated in tasteful earth tones of rich, reddish brown and green, and his bed was canopy-free. They’d even redone the ensuite bathroom for him in gleaming white and silver. Aside from the surfing poster, it might have been a hotel room. He’d already unpacked, and everything was neatly tucked away in his closet and shiny mahogany dresser. His sister Adriana’s room had typically looked akin to a hurricane disaster zone, but Rafa always kept his neat and tidy. Their parents had insisted they be responsible for keeping their own rooms and bathrooms clean, and the fewer things he gave them to criticize, the better.
After getting up and yanking on his jeans and sneakers, Rafa took a quick glance in the mirror, frowning at his stupid freckles, already more prominent even though summer had just begun. His thick, dark brown hair tended to curl, and after his evening shower he hadn’t parted it and slicked it back with his usual extra-strength pomade. He brushed the gentle curls off his forehead, making a mental note to ask Henry, the chief usher, to get the barber in since there were waves forming just above his ears. And the last thing Rafa needed was to be called a Chia Pet again.
His cheeks still got hot when he thought about the internet meme with his face Photoshopped on a fuzzy ceramic animal with bushy chia growing from it. He’d just started his new high school in Washington mid-year after his father’s inauguration, and at fourteen he’d been gangly and pimply with a mouth full of metal. Suddenly his new classmates would say “Ch-ch-ch-Chia!” when he came into a room, and he hadn’t even gotten the joke until he’d Googled it. The kids at school had usually been nice to him, but they’d gotten a kick out of the meme. Even though Rafa had cut his hair an inch from his scalp the next day, the nickname had stuck.
He edged open the door and peeked out of his room—officially known as Bedroom 303. There was really no need for stealth since the second and third floors of the residence in the White House were the only place in the world he had freedom from his Secret Service detail, but it was a habit. His eldest brother Christian’s room was across the center hall, but Chris was twenty-seven and hadn’t ever really lived at the White House full time. Now he was in New York, and Rafa was alone up on the third floor as usual. To his left were the Music Room and Workout Room. As he headed to the stairs he passed the Cedar Room, a little space paneled entirely of cedar that had been used for winter storage back in the day, and the Linen Room, which was exactly what it sounded like. The Game Room sat on the other side of the hall, and a few bedrooms dotted the rest of the level.
Behind the Linen Room was his favorite place in the whole world—the Diet Kitchen. The dictionary said a diet kitchen was used to prepare special meals for invalids in a hospital. FDR had the Diet Kitchen built because he’d hated the housekeeper’s food and wanted his own meals made there.
Rafa went down the little passageway. The small rectangular kitchen was right over the north portico, and the moon shone through the skylights in the sloped roof. Along with a stove, fridge, and sink, a counter and cupboards wrapped around the space. Rafa didn’t need to turn on the light to navigate it, and he ran his hand over the smooth counters. It was a basic kitchen, and he had no special or fancy equipment. But it was his. At least for the time being. Most of the year he was stuck in his dorm, and he itched for the sizzle of butter in the pan and freshly ground spices in the air. He’d make the pasta tomorrow and roll it out in sheets to create ravioli, but he could start on the filling tonight.
Rafa went back to the center hall and tiptoed down to the ground floor, using the back stairs next to the family elevator. These stairs went almost right to the kitchen, but one of his agents still appeared, straightening his suit jacket.
“Heading out?” Brent asked. He was tall and a little paunchy, and his dark hair was graying.
“Just getting a snack. I won’t be long.”
Brent nodded. “Thanks for letting me know, Rafa.”
Rafa continued into the darkened kitchen. It was blissfully empty, and he exhaled. If he’d been Adriana or their brother Matthew, Brent would have probably followed in a minute to double check that they weren’t trying to sneak out. Not that they’d be able to get past the gate, but just being outside on the grounds without their detail was a big no-no. But Rafa had never tried to give his agents the slip. They were only doing their jobs, and there was no sense in being a pain.
