Maybe it’s because of this that I hesitate as I get closer to him, my feet slowing as my pulse speeds up. When Embry suggested my church as a meeting place, I leapt at the idea. The church is where I feel safe, the church is where I feel watched over by God, and most importantly, the church is neutral territory. I can’t bear the thought of waiting in line to see him in the West Wing, a hastily penciled-in visitor, and I even less could bear the thought of being smuggled into the Residence. I understand discretion, but I also don’t want to feel like contraband. Like the living embodiment of a lie.
Stop freaking out. You still don’t know for sure why he wants to meet you. Embry had hinted—intimately—at the reason, but I’ve been burned by hope before. And besides, how could there be any room for hope at all? After Jenny, after that long sweaty night in Chicago, after ten years, for fuck’s sake. I should keep this box buried. I should save myself while I still can.
But I don’t stop walking. I send a quick prayer—a blank prayer, a silent plea, because I don’t even know what to pray for at this point—towards the tabernacle as I genuflect and slide into the pew behind the President. I carefully set down the kneeler and get to my knees, lacing my hands together and bowing my head, as if to pray, but I never get around to actually forming the words.
I study the President instead.
He’s praying as well, kneeling like me, his dark head hanging down over his hands. He’s shucked his jacket, leaving him in a white button-down shirt. His sleeves are rolled up, exposing tan, muscular forearms, and I can tell from the loose way the shirt collar lies against his neck that he’s unbuttoned his top button and loosened his tie. The shirt stretches and pulls over the wide shoulders and broad muscles of his back as he keeps his head bowed.
And because I can’t help it, I let my eyes trail down to the narrow lines of his hips. His pants are excruciatingly tailored, excruciatingly, the fabric hugging a firm ass and hard, thick thighs. Heat floods me everywhere, sending sparks and electric flashes dancing across my skin. How could I have forgotten how powerful he is in person? That there is still a soldier’s body under those dark suits and requisite flag pins?
And then when he speaks, the sparks dancing across my skin ignite into true fire as I remember the words he murmured against my lips that night a decade ago—tell me you’re eighteen and do you like my lips on your skin and God, where did you come from?
“I’ve prayed for the free world, the less-than-free world, my enemies, my allies, my staff and my mom’s favorite dog,” the President says without looking back at me, his voice rich and burred around the edges. “Am I missing anything?”
“The babies trapped in limbo, maybe.”
“How could I forget about them?” He leans his head farther down for a brief second. “And please watch over the babies trapped in limbo. In the name of the Father, Son and the Holy Spirit, amen.”
He crosses himself, and I get a glimpse of those large, square hands that once cradled mine. “Thank you for meeting me,” Ash says. “I know it was presumptive to send Embry—especially as you haven’t ever met him—to do something so personal, but I couldn’t wait another minute after seeing you here on Sunday. And I also couldn’t get away to do it myself. I mentioned it to him and he volunteered to help right away.” He smiles. “He’s an amazing friend.”
Especially as you haven’t ever met him…
Ash doesn’t know that Embry and I know each other? A quiet worry starts tugging at my heart, but I push it aside. “Vice President Moore is a very persuasive messenger.”
“I know. That’s why I sent him. Trust me—the things he’s persuaded me to do can’t be spoken aloud in a church.” The President stands and comes around to the side of my pew, extending a hand. I take it and look up, and all worries about Embry fade into nothing. There is only Ash.
Since the night we kissed, I’ve seen thousands of pictures of Maxen Ashley Colchester, I’ve watched all his televised rallies and debates and press conferences, but it in no way prepared me for seeing him right now. Even though he’s perfection personified in any medium, no picture or video can do him justice. Nothing can compare to seeing him in person, face to face.
Still the same chiseled planes and full mouth, the bottle green eyes—still the most handsome man I’ve ever seen, aside from Embry Moore. But what the President has is more than good looks. There’s a certain nobility to his face, an honesty and openness, and even more than that, a sense of purpose. Like he knows exactly who he is and within seconds, he can tell you exactly who you are. It’s electrifying.
I allow him to help me to my feet. I’m shaking, and he notices.
“Do I scare you?” he asks, his brow furrowing. Like Embry, there are lines around his eyes and mouth that weren’t there a decade ago, and I see a few silver strands peeking through his jet-black hair. If anything, it makes him even sexier now than when we first met.
“Will you be angry if I say yes?” I manage.
His hand slides from mine up to my elbow, and I realize how close we’re standing. “Angry is not even close to the kinds of feelings you stir up, Greer.”
Oh God.
I can’t handle how intense this is, how fiercely my body is reacting to his mere proximity when all we shared was an hour a decade ago and another hour five years after that. I fumble for a way to defuse the sudden weight of the conversation. “Mr. President—”