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He didn’t let go right away, either. And there was that hitch to his breath again, that slight hesitation before he answered. A little bit of his Louisiana accent slid out: some Southern drawl, a hint of old world French. “I’ll be running your detail on the ground in Ottawa, Mr. President, and I’ll brief you when we’re closer to landing.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
And that was that.
That’s where it should stay. There’s no future to the questions my subconscious throws at me after midnight. What would his lips taste like? What would my name sound like, spoken with his accent?
Restlessness rides my nerves raw, and I’ve already paced the length of this office a dozen times.
How soon is “closer to landing”? When will Reese make his way to my office?
I want to see him. For more than a second or two in the halls, more than fifteen minutes in a once-weekly briefing.
Presidents aren’t allowed to have crushes, especially not on men, not when that rainbow ceiling doesn’t even have a dent on it. My secret is a hand grenade with the pin already pulled.
The smart choice here would be to distance myself from Reese. Frustrate myself at night with impossible fantasies, and never take it further than a few furtive strokes of my hand and his name muffled into my pillow.
But is it possible we could be… friends?
Can I trust myself to try?
Or is Reese an addict’s temptation, a bottomless glass of whiskey offered to an alcoholic?
* * *
“Hey, Danny.”
“Mr. President.” Danny, my chief steward, freezes in the galley, eyes wide and still reaching for the coffee grounds next to my elbow. “Sir, if there’s something you need, all you have to do is ring.”
“I’m just stretching my legs.” I slouch against the doorframe, hoping Danny will follow my lead. He doesn’t. In fact, he’s embarrassed when I pass him the tin of coffee, and he sets it down and makes a point of giving me his full attention.
“There are a lot more interesting places than the forward galley, Mr. President.”
“Every place is interesting to me.”
Finally, I get a tiny smile.
“Have you flown with Agent Theriot before? Do you happen to know how he takes his coffee? I’ve got a meeting with him in a few minutes and I’d like to bring a gesture of goodwill.”
Danny arches an eyebrow as he fires up the coffee pot. “Usually it’s the Secret Service trying to butter you up, Mr. President, not the other way around. I’ve flown with Agent Theriot for six years and served him gallons of coffee. I’m happy to bring you both fresh cups once your meeting has begun.”
“I’m going to grab him a bit early. Hence the peace offering.”
“You don’t need a peace offering, Mr. President.”
But he grabs two paper travel cups. He makes mine first—adding cream until it’s a perfect off-white—and then Reese’s.
Reese takes his coffee straight, no cream, no sugar. Of course.
Danny snaps lids on the cups and passes them to me. “He’s not picky. He can drink coffee strained through an engine block if he has to.”
“Let’s hope he never has to.”
Danny lets me make a dignified escape. I head aft. Half a dozen flight attendants pass me, each one greeting me with “Mr. President” and a smile.
Air Force One is a lot of things, but it is predominantly beige. The president flies in style, yes, but that style is solidly 1980s, as if the whole plane had been outfitted by La-Z-Boy salesmen with one color sample. Beige leather recliners, beige carpeting, beige paneling. The only pops of color are the blue curtains and the presidential seal—which is stuck on everything within eyeshot.
The portside hallway continues, and beyond a privacy curtain, the press pool tags along in their section. On my left is the Secret Service compartment, a huge area mostly barricaded behind bulkheads and locked doors. I know there’s an armory, an office, and bunk beds, as well as a ready room that opens to the corridor. That’s where I slow—
