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“Oh no,” Henry groans. “How much Pepto will I need?”
“Grab the bottle.”
Henry stares at the ceiling, listening as he tosses the football to himself. I can see the gears in his mind churning. He’s filling in this crossword puzzle, assembling the clues I’m leaving behind me.
“What security are you thinking?” he finally asks.
“Two-on-one close protection. Right and left flank. I was thinking of myself and—” I gesture to Sheridan. “A chase car as well, leapfrogging around the Mall perimeter.”
Sheridan looks like he’s won the lottery. His eyes are huge, and he’s smothering a smile.
“It’s doable,” Henry says slowly. “Especially if you keep the circle small and it stays unannounced.”
“That’s the idea.”
“When were you thinking?”
“Friday night.”
Henry spins the football at Sheridan. It smacks him in the chest. “Whadda ya think? You up for running around the Mall Friday night instead of barhopping and picking up chicks?”
“I don’t barhop. I’m free, and I’d love to be chosen for this opportunity.”
Sheridan means well, but, fuck, I hope I wasn’t ever that fluorescent green. “Thanks, Sheridan. I’ll let you know what the final call is. Keep this conversation to yourself?”
“Yes, sir.” He smiles, takes my dismissal, and moves off. Three seconds later, he jogs back and shoves the football into Henry’s hands, then beats another retreat.
“Give me six months,” Henry says. “That knucklehead will be one of our team leads. I promise.”
“I trust you.”
“Do you trust yourself?”
It’s the first time he’s called me out on this. On the closeness growing between Brennan and me, on the morning coffees we’ve shared, our smiles in the hallways, and my web of bullshit I keep spinning.
No one knows me better than Henry. I can’t keep anything from him. Did he know I was crushing on Brennan before I did? Did he see what I couldn’t?
I think he sees right through me. I think he knows Brennan and I were in near constant contact last week while we were at Rowley.
I shake my head and give Henry my best confused stare, like a dog hearing a whistle just out of range. “Not sure what you mean.”
He claps me on the shoulder and squeezes. “Let me know about Friday.”
* * *
It’s a hard week.
Brennan and I can’t find time to meet outside of the West Wing. We run again Tuesday morning, then keep our scheduled Wednesday morning briefing—and spend the whole time hiding our held hands between us on the sofa, even though we’re alone. We dare each other with silent looks to be the first to risk a kiss right there, in the Oval Office, where anyone could walk in.
But we don’t.
Thursday night, I try to make a date happen, and I sneak into the Residence with a pizza, hoping to surprise Brennan with a candlelight dinner in the kitchen. Rumblings from Russia in the Arctic Circle keep him locked in the Situation Room until almost four a.m. and I fall asleep with my head pillowed on my arms and wake up to his kiss on the back of my neck.
We eat cold pizza while holding hands, too tired to talk, and I kiss him good morning and then crash in a bunk bed in the command center until the shift change. Brennan is back in the Oval four hours later.
Henry never says a word about our morning runs. He trots out his crew of agents three times to stand guard and keeps an eagle eye trained on every footfall Brennan and I share.
He has to know.
