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Fifty-Three
Victoria
I giggledwhen Shay’s head appeared through the crack in the door, his face smushed as he whispered, “All clear?”
Nodding, I made grabby hands with the food and raised a finger to my lips to keep him quiet.
Not that it worked.
“You’re lucky Mom let me out,” Shay complained.
“Quieter,” I hissed. “Anyway, I’ll make it up to you.”
“I didn’t think this was how you wanted to hang out.”
Grinning, I shoved his shoulder. “You mean you don’t like being my glorified errand boy? If you’re going to become president, then you should get used to it.”
His brow furrowed as he dumped a lot of bags onto the counter in front of me. “The president doesn’t go and pick up takeout that you fake-cooked to serve to your fam.”
“Nope, he’s the whipping boy of the Senate and the Congress.” I sniffed. “You need to watchThe West Wing. You’ll see what I’m talking about then. We all have a boss. Even you if you become the first filthy—”
“The president doesn’t have a boss,” he interrupted. “He’s the most important man in the world.”
“You keep on believing that if it makes you feel better,” I drawled, amused when he rolled his eyes at me. “How much do I owe you?”
He waved a hand. “It’s okay.”
I scoffed. “Shay, there’s over five hundred dollars' worth of food here.”
“You can owe me one.”
“Accruing favors already?” I mocked.
“Yeah, you can pay me back with some political machinations when you’re thirty.”
“Thirty and married with squalling babies?” I retorted. “Not sure I’ll be in a position of power then.”
Shay stilled. “You can be so much more than that, Victoria.”
“Mama said there was no greater job than being a mother.”
He shrugged. “I’m sure she’s right, but it’s not a job, is it?” Before I could slap him, he murmured, “I mean, Mom can switch her phone onto ‘Do Not Disturb’ when she doesn’t want to talk to her agent. But she’d never do that just in case something happened to me.
“Being a mom is worse than a job. It never ends.”
“You’d know,” I said stiffly, not trying to be bitchy, but my mom had died when I was young. Too young to even remember her that well.
Awkwardly, he patted my shoulder. “Sorry, Vicky. I didn’t mean to—”
I raised a hand. “It’s okay, Shay.”
“It isn’t. I shouldn’t have…” He sighed. “Foot in mouth disease.”
“Is that why the boys in your class keep trying to beat you up?”
“‘Try’ is the right word since I broke Jessop’s hand.”
“You sure it’s that and not the fact you held their trust funds hostage for a little while?”
