CHAPTER ONE
DAPHNE
I’m goingto kill the President of the United States.
Okay, I wouldn’treallykill my dad, but after tonight, it’s tempting. I’ve done so many favors for him, but coercing me into a freaking date is a new low.
There’s no way to track the countless hours I’ve wasted at galas, charity drives, and political networking events. I’ve sat in dunk tanks and painted kids’ faces. Hell, I’ve even been puked on by a senator after he ate a rotten oyster. But setting me up on a date with a Congressman’s son? It’s beyond the pale, even for Dad.
And the President’s done some crooked shit.
“So, Daphne, enough about me.” Connor McArthur flashes a whitened smile that screams, ‘I spend more money at the dentist than most people do on their mortgage.’ We’ve crossed paths at events, but this is the first time conversing one-on-one. Hopefully, it’ll be the last.
Connor clears his throat. “Dad says you went to school for communications?”
“That was my major,” I admit. “But I don’t think it helped.”
“You work for Senator Furt, right?”
Unfortunately.
“I’m one of his schedulers.” It’s a fancy title for someone who manages the senator’s press conferences and arranges travel for the uptight prick who should have retired when President Bush was in office. The first Bush.
As I sip the last of my appletini, Connor nods in approval. “Nice. Where’d you go to school?” He pauses, waiting for me to name some Ivy League university.
Instead of answering, I slam back the last drops of sickly green liquid. For such a swanky cocktail bar, could theynothave skimped on the booze? How else am I supposed to survive at least another hour with Connor?
The President of the United States thinks that matching his daughter with the son of his ally will push some bill through the House of Representatives quicker so it lands on his fancy desk. The same desk where President Clinton allegedly did not have sexual relations with that woman.
“Does it matter which school I went to?” I ask. Thank God I didn’t attend Harvard, or Connor might think we have something in common. He didn’t shut up about his alma mater for twenty freaking minutes.
“You’re joking, right? ‘Which school?’ Dad said you had a sense of humor.” He winks at me with a fake smile that hasn’t reached his eyes all evening.
Though his eyesdolight up when our size-six waitress walks past.
I flag her down for another drink, but she must have missed me because her eyes lock on Connor like a Navy missile. She shoots him a coy smile before sauntering off with an extra sway in her hips.
Honey, he’s all yours in an hour. Right now, I need to pivot this conversation to business.
“I went to Georgetown. Say, didn’t your dad go there for law school?” I ask.
“He did. So did my grandfather. And my great-grandfather.” Connor’s smile softens as he rests his elbows on the table, leaning forward. “Can I tell you a secret?”
Please, no. I know enough secrets to pose a serious threat to national security. Well, not really. Dad wouldn’t trust me with the passcode to the pool house, but from what I overhear daily in the senator’s office, well… I hear a lot.
I fake excitement the same way I fake orgasms—like a pro—and pretend to be super-duper excited for what he has to say. Bobbing my head and widening my eyes, I lean in.
“Dad was furious that I chose Harvard over Georgetown,” he says. “You know, family legacy and all of that.” Connor hasn’t shut up about who he knows from his good old Harvard days—like he didn’t graduate five years ago. He’s like a sixty-year-old stretched into a twenty-seven-year-old’s body. “At least it wasn’t Yale.” He laughs like it’s some sort of inside joke.
If I break his Rolex, would the watch hands fit far enough into my ear canals to puncture my eardrums? Maybe then I won’t have to listen to him anymore.
“Excuse me, I need to use the little boy’s room.” Connor shuffles out of the booth, not a single wrinkle in his bespoke Tom Ford suit as he saunters off toward the hallway that leads to the restrooms.
My lungs expand like I’ve held my breath underwater, waiting for him to go away.
God, I wish I had a Secret Service agent with me tonight. One hand gesture and they’d get me out of here. But no, Dad only provides me with a security detailwhenever I travel outside of D.C. Otherwise, security is someone driving by my house every hour and sometimes staying parked out front when there’s a terrorist threat or international relations are strained.
Shame I don’t have any real friends to get me out of a situation like this. Isn’t that what most women do—have a built-in backup who can swoop in with a fake emergency? Someone who calls in a fake panic and says, “Hey, Daph. Grandma just died. Ditch Harvard Boy and come over so we can spill the tea.”
