“Ms. Weatherby has confirmed this as well,” I add before the reporter moves forward with her incessant questioning.
“If you win this upcoming election, you’ll be joining the ranks of James Buchanan, the only unmarried president in our nation’s history. Not to mention you would be the youngest president ever elected. How does that feel?” Look at that. The reporter princess knows a bit of history.
“Like I’m making history again.” I shrug like it’s no big deal, though I’m beyond panicked. How will I garnish enough respect and rapport for my age and marital status from the older generation?
“Culture has changed, so we at Pop Culture NOW are rooting for you. It will be refreshing to have not only a third-party president, but one who could devote the totality of his time to this country.” She pauses. “If you can convince us your policies are better than Republican candidate Richard Loveless.”
“Of course.” I smile, hiding the building stress. Culture may have changed, but to win over the conservative, rural vote, I need a wife. It is the one thing that shows that I can run a household and, therefore, a country in the eyes of many. My younger age could be excused if I had a wife. Don’t ask me the logic behind that train of thought, but it does exist. That sector of the population can’t be dismissed, something the media doesn’t seem tounderstand.
And thinking of all that has my soul panicking. Are the chandelier lights getting brighter in this little room?
But still, I smile. I sweat and I smile. And I stretch it further across my face. “I’m with someone new, however. We are seeing how things go before becoming public.” Something shatters in the background, but I keep my eyes trained on the reporter. Even a slight shift of the eyes and the world would know that Darcy Marshall is a big, fat liar.
Krissy leans in, and I mentally slap myself a million times over. I bite my tongue to not let the curses swirling through my mind slip out.
“Do tell us more, Mr. Marshall. Could this lady be the Elizabeth Bennet to your Mr. Darcy?” She wiggles her brows. I swallow the growl fighting to escape the back of my throat.
“Too soon to tell,” I remark with a light, unconvincing chuckle. I finally let my eyes wander around the room as I contemplate my next words. The mosaic walls provide no assistance as they blend together. I’ve got to change the course of this interview. “Either way, wife or no wife, I am the best candidate for the office of president.” I continue with my usual spiel on my stances surrounding important topics such as foster care reform, immigration reform, and election security, all the while not giving the reporter a chance to circle back to my love life.
Because it doesn’t exist.
Once the interview concludes and Krissy and her crew leave, I briskly make my way to my campaign team who should be gathered in the meeting room to discuss the situation I managed to implode with an idiotic, unprompted response. The press will pesterme like Donkey pesters Shrek to find out who my new woman is. I need to clean this up. Quickly.
“Who’s the lady, and when do we get to meet her?” Micah, my social media coordinator, asks as I slip into the long meeting room and close the double doors. I meet the curious, waiting eyes of my twelve senior staffers.Twelve?I flick my eyes to the lady standing next to me. I almost didn’t recognize her without her makeup and the blisters forming on her face.
“Hayden, what are you doing here?”
She tilts her head. “Am I not supposed to be here, sir?”
“As I’ve requested before, please do not call me sir. I told you to go to the hospital.”
“There’s no need. I’m fine.”
“You’re blistering,” I say. One hand leaves the tablet she’s holding and touches her face.
“I’ll buy burn cream on the way home.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose with a sigh. “Fine. Do what you want.” Tiresome woman. She never listens, which sometimes benefits me in the long run, but still. I’m not used to people going against my requests.
“So…” Micah prompts.
“There’s no woman.”
“But you just said,” Paul, the assistant campaign manager, begins before I silence him with a glare.
“Paul, can you run this morning’s meeting without me and Hayden? I need to speak with her.”
“Yes.” He motions for everyone to take their seats at the long, sleek, wooden table. I walk out of the room but stop when I don’t hear anyone following me.
“Hayden,” I bark, dragging out her name like a reprimand.
“Coming,” she squeaks, and then the only sound is her heels clicking across the hardwood floor, echoing off the walls. When we are far enough away from the meeting room, I stop and turn to face her, but her body slams into mine. My arms automatically extend to steady her from falling.
“How many times am I going to have to catch you today?”
She stares at me, then her eyes flick down to my hands, which are grasping her surprisingly firm biceps. In fact, one look over tells me that Hayden is in fantastic shape, her body perfectly proportioned—something I hadn’t paid much attention to before. I like proportions.
What am I thinking?
