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I merely paused, unsure where to start. What in the world was going on? I’d been ready to fend off some gross eighty-year old married dude, and instead, I was having drinks with the leader of the free world? What kind of dream was I living in?
Thomas could read my mind.
“Shoot,” he said with another lazy smile. “Go ahead, sweetheart. Ask away.”
I took a deep breath.
“Well, let’s start at the beginning then. What were you doing at the Pink Flamingo? Isn’t it kind of … um, downscale for a sitting American president? And shouldn’t you be in Washington?”
This time, Thomas didn’t laugh it off. The handsome man merely nodded thoughtfully.
“Well sure,” he said. “But like I said, I’m not in Washington most of the time. I travel like a motherfucker, what with the recent trade talks in Lausanne and meeting with constituents from Arizona to Maine. Serving the American people isn’t easy on any front. So I have to get out there and push our national agenda, all the while remaining accessible to citizens at home.”
That made sense actually, if I stopped to think about it.
“So you jet around all the time,” I said slowly, taking a sip of my drink, mind spinning furiously. “But even so, why were you at the Pink Flamingo? Aren’t there nicer places? I mean, I don’t mean to diss my employer but you know how the Flamingo is,” I said in a helpless voice. “It’s kind of … grungy.”
Thomas threw his head back and laughed again, exposing the strong column of his throat. Wow, the guy was really handsome, even better in real-life than when he was on TV. That bronzed skin glowed with health, and his blue eyes were magnetic, drawing me in. Plus, I’d heard that people on TV are small in real life. But for President Burke, that didn’t hold true. He had to be at least six foot three, with broad shoulders and strong, tree-trunk thick legs.
He winked at me.
“Well, let’s just say that I enjoy a lot of different activities,” came that smooth voice. “From white tie events with the Queen of England present to your local dive bar with different beers on tap. I’m a man of diverse tastes,” he said lightly. “What can I say?”
But still I was puzzled.
“But you could have gone to Scores or Elevated,” was my puzzled question. “Why the Flamingo? It’s so low brow.”
He merely shrugged again.
“Why do I like McDonald’s, even though I have personal chefs cooking for me at the White House? Sometimes, a man’s character is formed long before he sets foot in 1600 Pennsylvania, sweetheart. And I grew up on Big Macs and hush puppies, so it’s too late for me to change.”
Suddenly, I remembered how he was famed on the campaign trial for eating dozens of fries and burgers. In fact, the whole junk food thing had endeared him to voters as a “regular American” who was “just like them.”
“So you weren’t pretending when you said McDonald’s apple pies are your favorite food?” I asked slowly. “That was real?”
He grinned again before taking another sip of whiskey.
“It was real,” he confirmed. “Besides, those things are really good. Have you had one before?”
I blushed a little. In fact, I’d just grabbed a pie yesterday, devouring it while I walked home from work.”
“Yeah,” I
admitted shyly. “They’re real tasty.”
“See?” he asked with a pleased smile. “Now what could be more American than a warm apple pie?”
And I had to say that Thomas had a point. I know that McDonald’s isn’t good for you, and that their pies are loaded with sugar. But as a girl who likes to eat, sometimes the syrupy goodness paired with a flaky crust is exactly what you need. A sudden thought occurred to me. How in the world had we just bonded over Mickey D’s apple pies?
It’s his charm, the voice in my head whispered. This man got fifty million people to vote for him last year. He knows exactly how to build rapport to garner votes. You’d vote him now, wouldn’t you?
I flushed because it was true. This man was a master politician, and I was being played just like any of his constituents. But I had to keep my guard up because this wasn’t a political rally or a barn-raising event. This was business. So I took a deep breath and looked him straight in the eye.
“What can I do for you, Mr. President? Am I here for something in particular?”
He smiled again, although there was a gleam in those blue eyes now.
“Well, what do you think you’re here for, sweetheart?”
