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I crawled into bed and fed him pieces of the beignet by hand.
“This is not the way to get me to run,” he’d said, right before he licked each of my fingers clean. “Why don’t we stay in bed instead?”
I was tempted.
But, no, we have to keep up appearances. I’m dancing on a trip wire already, and Henry’s far too observant for me to get away with even more bullshit. If I waved off our first morning run, after doing a fast jazz number to get this all set up, Henry would pin me to the wall until I confessed everything.
Brennan is in the Oval already, waiting for an email he’s expecting and the confirmation of a call he’s trying to set up with the French president. Even if we had blown off this run, the rest of the world would still be out there. I’m going to have to learn to share Brennan.
Henry looks me up and down as I adjust my running shorts and my Dri-Fit top. It’s new. I picked it up yesterday when I finally left the Residence. It’s tight, something I’d never have bought a year ago, or even a month ago. Or a week ago.
“Guess they didn’t have your size in stock, huh?”
“It wicks away the sweat.” I slide my pistol into the holster at the small of my back. After ten years on the job, running with a weapon is second nature.
“So does a cotton T-shirt, and they don’t show off your nipples and every hair follicle on your chest.”
I glare.
He smirks, seeming far too smug for this early in the morning. “The rest of the crew should be showing up any minute now.”
A gaggle of agents emerge from the basement exit and wind their way around to the West Wing lawn. I recognize three of them, all single-year veterans of the detail. The fourth is Sheridan, fresh-faced and sandy-haired and dressed up in a suit. He’s worlds apart from the mud monster or the disheveled sparring partner I left behind at Rowley.
“Sheridan.” I shake his hand with a smile and then greet the other agents with good-mornings and thanks for coming out.
“Sir.” Sheridan is beaming. It’s not even seven a.m., but he looks overenergized and ready to seize the day.
Henry briefs the gang on their posts and duties—stand on your spot for an hour and watch the president make laps around the South Lawn—and then tells the guys I’ll be the close protection for Brennan.
“Everyone thank Theriot, ’cause I know I don’t wanna be running right now, and I’m pretty sure none of you want to go pounding out a few miles after standing post all night.”
Like children, they all say, “Thank you, sir.”
“I’m happy to run,” Sheridan pipes up. “If you ever want to take the morning off. I don’t mind.”
Henry shoots me a look: what did I tell you?
Brennan slips out of the West Wing through the French doors by Shannon’s office. His gaze finds me immediately, and he smiles.
A moment later, he stumbles, almost skips a step. It’s uncharacteristically clumsy for him. He flushes, and when he joins us, he seems breathless already. His eyes skip away, looking at the roses, the pergola, the fountain. Anything but me.
“Guess he likes your shirt, too,” Henry says in my ear.
“Tu me fais chier,” I snap back.
Henry grins.
Fake it till you make it. We’ve got to sell that we’re nothing to each other but president and detail lead. “Good morning, Mr. President.”
“Good morning, Agent Theriot.”
We dressed separately. I escaped to the locker room in the command post as he finished his coffee and read the first of his mountain of briefs. And while I know Brennan wears running leggings, and I’ve seen them, even, I wasn’t prepared to come face-to-face with his perfectly toned legs on display so soon after sliding out of his bed. I want to drag him right back into it, or at least make a pit stop in the Oval and get to work peeling that spandex off. Explore all that skin and those muscles he’s spent years honing into fine art—
I tear my gaze away before I embarrass myself.
Henry orders the agents to their positions. The guys scatter. Sheridan volunteers for the apex slot, the farthest out, and he takes off at a jog down the track in his suit and loafers.
Brennan and I are quiet on our first lap, listening to the birds and the hum of Washington traffic. Every hundred yards, we pass one of my agents, and as we leave them behind, I hear “Ranger passing point Alpha” and “Ranger passing point Charlie.” It’s like running inside a hamster ball.
