I can still see the disbelief in Tracy's eyes.
"Is this for the public," she asks, "or for you?"
"Oh come on!" I say, trying not to feel irritated. "Think about it. If she moves in, we won't have to assign a Secret Service detail to her."
Tracy glares at me, trying to decide whether or not this is a good idea.
"She can sleep in a separate wing," I say, trying to win Tracy over. "And we'll be saving taxpayers' money."
That idea seems to win her over because now Tracy is nodding in agreement.
"That does make a lot of sense," she says.
"Of course it does!" I reply. "And I don't want to give the opposition any ammunition to use against me."
"Okay, okay," she replies, raising a hand as if she's heard enough. "I see your point."
"That's the spirit," I smile, grinning from ear to ear and patting her on the shoulder. "I told you it was a good idea. And besides, those are the only kinds of ideas I have."
I'd say that's going a little too far, Mr. Cocky," she laughs. "But I'll give this one to you."
Just as I'm about to leave the office, I turn to Tracy and say, "I'll handle Ashley."
Tracy just grins.
"Sure you will."
15
Ashley
Yoga usually helps, but not today.
I always try to work out in the evening and, taking into account all the stress from this ‘fake fiancée’ play, I decided to go for an evening yoga class. I was hoping it’d help me get my mind off Austin, but what do you know? It didn’t work.
But what was I expecting, anyway? After what happened inside the limo, he’s been on my mind every waking minute. And, just between you and I, he’s also been inside my dreams … and they always end up being the scorching kind of dreams, if you know what I mean.
The kind that makes you sleep naked because you know the panties will be drenched when you wake up.
Stepping outside the building where I had the yoga class, I swing my gym bag over my shoulder and look at the black SUV already waiting for me. There’s one buff secret service guy waiting by the passenger door, and I can’t help but sigh heavily; having a security detail of your own isn’t as glamorous as it might seem. It’s just annoying, really. Although I appreciate what they do for me, I hate being followed around every minute of the day.
“I’ll be walking home,” I tell my secret service guy as I tie my hair into a bun.
“I strongly advise against that as--”#p#分页标题#e#
“It’s just a few blocks away,” I cut him short, already starting to turn my back to him. “You guys can follow me in the car.”
“Very well,” he replies apprehensively, clearly not happy with my decision but obliging all the same. I strut down the sidewalk, just another commoner blending in with the crowd. Everything’s fresh on people’s minds and, even if anyone recognizes me, they probably won’t believe it’s that Ashley from TV, the one about to become the First Lady. Supposedly.
I let my mind drift back to Austin, and to how my opinion of him is slowly changing. Did I really believe him to be such a bad guy? Because, really, he doesn’t seem that bad. I know, I know… he’s probably just a master manipulator, but if helping him somehow helps the country… I’m all for it. And, besides, whoever he is underneath his presidential facade, at least I know he’s fun. And by fun I mean... well, you probably know what I mean, don’t you?
I think back to how he handled me back in the limo, and to how he wanted more… and, really, I wanted more as well. But I’m still a virgin, and I’m not about to offer that virginity on a silver platter to Austin just because he’s the President. Okay, the fact that he seems to know what he’s doing helps, but still…
To make matters worse, soon enough I’m going to be stuck with Austin on a plane. Yeah, I know, Air Force One is supposed to be huge, but I guess I’ll be seeing enough of him during the flight to Arizona, his home state. I spent the whole day preparing for the trip, and all I could think about was the fact that I’m going to be stuck on a plane with him. God, how do I make this madness stop?
Turning onto my block, I can already see my apartment building rising in the distance. I start walking at a brisk pace, and that’s when I feel a heavy hand landing on my shoulder. I told the Secret Service to hang back, but I guess they simply couldn’t resist following me this closely. I turn around and—oh shit, this isn’t the Secret Service.
Facing me is a tall guy in a hoodie, overgrown stubble covering his cheeks and reaching down onto his neck. His eyes are bloodshot and he reeks of alcohol.