Page 142 of Ready For His Rule

“Turn the camera around,” he finally leveled, folding his arms. “If you were looking through the lens, what would you see? How would you feel?”

Her hands braced to her hips. “Grateful,” she spat. “I’d feel completely, overwhelmingly thankful, dammit.” The tops of her shoulders trembled with ire—a move that, in any other time or place, would’ve had him dying to soothe that tension with the flat of his tongue. Right now, his whole mouth was school paste as she kept going. “I’d feel like a well-qualified, highly skilled soldier, newly shafted by the brass who were always supposed to have his back, now offered a chance to serve at the pleasure of the President of the United States.”

“Ahhh, yes. Serving at your pleasure.” He added a laugh to the drawl, unable to help himself—probably having to do with the inescapable bitterness behind the sound. Shittiest thing? Most of it was self-directed. She was right. He should be grateful. He had exactly what he’d been asking the universe for. A direction. A purpose. But all he could fixate on was the metaphorical bridle around his head, along with the saddle on his back. “Gotten the pony to the water, haven’t you?” Annnd why not go totally for the asshole factor, as long as he was at it? “But will he drink?”

Yep. Asshole. Her face crumpled in, confirming it in spades, before she wrestled her composure back into place with a tigress mode glower. “I’m not swimming in your metaphorical mess this time. John.” Her eyes flared, battling tears, to no avail. “Because I’m already drowning here, okay? I’m—” Her hands dropped to her sides. Fisted to the point of tremoring. “I’m trying to figure out something here. Something…anything to…”

The tiny chokes between her words were massive stabs to his soul—and his control. He surged to her, fiercely sweeping her close once more. To his joy and sorrow, she melted into him. Wrapped her arms around him, twisting both hands into the back of his shirt. “I’m…sorry,” he grated into her hair. “I’m so fucking sorry. It’s not my intention to…drown you. Ever.”

She sniffed against his chest. “So what’s the issue, you big kanapapiki?”

He groaned then laughed—though this eruption contained true amusement. “Just a few hours after meeting Lani, and she already knows the dirty stuff.”

She returned a light giggle. “Damn right, okole puka.”

“All right, all right,” he groused. “So I deserve that.”

“And you’ll accept the job?”

He hated—hated—deflating her shining joy with his somber, steady gaze. Didn’t matter. Couldn’t matter. He had to say this. He had to make her see all the moss on the stones she walked—before either of them slipped and fell on the treacherous shit.

“My beautiful ku’uipo. I am grateful for your offer. But we need to stop and think. If we really started singing this song, what would it sound like? Are the notes going to make people rise up and cheer—or cover their ears and flee the show?”

She huffed. “The show? Who the hell says it’s—”

“It’s a show, Tracy.” He stamped a growl beneath it. “We both know it. Hiding in the dressing room isn’t going to stop this curtain from rising. That means we have to think about what the scene looks like, even from the nosebleed balcony seats. Translated into street side terms, that means the whole fucking world will be watching.”

Her chin jutted and her eyes flashed. “I’m well aware of what that means.”

“Good. So you know you no longer get to be Tracy, and I no longer get to be John. You become the president, and I get to be the guy with the dark glasses and don’t-fuck-with-her scowl. I’ll be invisible—which means I have to stay invisible.”

Her face jerked up even higher. Her gaze anxiously crisscrossed his face. “Which means…what?”

He pulled down a measured swallow. “That if you let me accept this job, you’ll no longer let me in your bed.”

Her breath audibly hitched. She blinked, dazed as if he’d belted her with a two-by-four. “That’s ridiculous.”

He cupped her shoulders. “No. That’s necessary.”

She squirmed against him. Stopped when she realized he wasn’t about to release her. Not by a goddamn long shot.

“John.”

“Tracy?”

He jumped a brow. She thrusted a pout. “We—we’ll be discreet.”

“Fuck discreet.”

Her scowl intensified. The two-by-four changed from splinter board to ironwood, and he was glad of it. No. He was elated. Maybe this time, she got it. Really got it.

Shit.

Damn.

No.

It was time for him to get it. Like a shiv of lightning through his heart. Like a blast of thunder inside his soul.”

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