Page 101 of Recovering Ivy

“You should feel anyway you want,” he reassured me.

“Thank you.”

“For.”

“Everything. You. Us. Fixing me.”

“Baby, you’re doing all the hard work. I just get the pleasure of watching you shine.”

* * *

Colin

Zane paced his office while President Anderson sifted through the SITREPS I had prepared. Zane already knew what they said and we were both ready for the President to go ballistic at any moment.

“What the fuck?” the President cursed. “Did you know about this?”

“Yes,” Zane answered. “It was my call not to bring you in until we had all the facts.”

The First Daughter, Erin Anderson, had picked herself up a stalker.

“He was in the residence?” he asked for clarification.

“Yes,” I answered, wondering if my employment contract offered dental coverage. Over the last few months it was a miracle I hadn’t given myself lockjaw. Every time I thought about Erin, I ground my teeth together in an effort not to tell her she was driving me crazy.

“I take it I wasn’t told immediately because you wanted to rule out Gerard?”

He was referencing his personal security detail.

“That’s correct, sir.”

“And?”

“Squeaky clean.”

“I’ve heard some things—rumors,” Tom sighed and sat on the sofa, his forearms resting on his thighs as he hung his head. “I don’t know where I went wrong. I’ve loved that little girl with everything I have since the day she was born.”

Erin wasn’t so little, but I suppose like any father, the President couldn’t or didn’t want to see his daughter as a grown woman. A sexy, beautiful, drive-a-man-crazy woman.

“This isn’t your fault. May I be frank?” I asked.

“Please.”

I glanced at Zane, a single look telling me to tread lightly. But that was the problem. Everyone pussy-footed around her.

“Erin is the most frustrating female I’ve ever met. Over the last seven years you’ve been President she’s gotten used to everyone kissing her ass. She wants what she wants, and she’ll throw a hissy fit of epic proportions if you tell her no. And most of the time she doesn’t know what she wants; she just doesn’t want to hear no.”

“You’re telling me my daughter is a spoiled brat?”

“With all due respect, sir, yes.”

The President’s head went back, and he roared with laughter. “You’ve got to have brass balls telling the President his daughter is spoiled. But I have to say, it’s refreshing, and I appreciate your honesty. So what does she want now that’s got her in such a tizzy?”

“Me.”

“You?”

Zane’s face had turned to granite. I don’t know what he was expecting me to do, but coming straight out and telling the POTUS his daughter had unleashed a full-court-press to get in my pants probably wasn’t it. Not that I’d tell either man the lengths Erin had gone to.