I laugh, tension breaking apart in my bones as I sink deeper into the safety of his arms. “Promise?”
Tristan plants another kiss that ruffles my hair. “I promise.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
TRISTAN
I bought the damn Porsche.Rolling up to the White House as an invited guest means doing things legally—no stolen cars.
I know I’ve been background checked within an inch of my life by the Secret Service if I’m on the guest list with celebrities, politicians, and the Prime Minister of Australia.
Somehow, I—a lowlife from the Baltimore streets—scored an invite to a State Dinner.Lucky me.
Daphne’s nearly vibrating in the passenger seat. Her wispy silver gown glints in the lawn’s floodlights as we slowly creep up the driveway. Her hair cascades over her shoulder in a curtain of soft waves, like a 1950s pin-up girl.
“So, after the photo on the steps, the guests arrive,” she informs me. “They’ll call out our names. Follow my lead. We walk into the ballroom and smile at some of the cameras. If they ask questions, I’ll answer them.”
“Good.” I wouldn’t know what to say. I get camera-shy.
“Once we’re inside, we’ll have assigned seats. Mom wouldn’t tell me who we’re sitting with. Dad and the PrimeMinister will make speeches. We’ll eat, mingle enough for appearances, then get the hell out of there.”
“Sounds boring.”
“It’s even more boring than it sounds.”
I groan as we stop in line, waiting for the valets to direct the other cars in front of us. “Please tell me it’s an open bar.”
“Always,” Daphne says. “Dad doesn’t skimp on top-shelf liquor.”
That’s a silver lining, I guess. “Well, drinking with my own tax dollars doesn’t sound too bad.”
“I promise, dessert will be worth it.”
I settle my hand on Daphne’s thigh, the sparkly fabric scratchy under my palm. “What dessert do I get to have after dinner?”
“Me.” Her teasing smile sends blood rushing to my cock.
She spreads her legs beneath her gown, her knees widening as my fingertips skate along her inner thighs.
“There are cameras everywhere. Giving me an erection in a penguin suit isn’t the best idea, Princess.” I readjust my pre-tied bowtie and check myself in the rearview mirror. I don’t know how to tie one of the damn things, so I had to buy a clip-on. It’s like I’m a child imitating an adult.
The other fancy cars ahead of us finally move.
“Shit.” I inch forward as a valet hustles over to my door, another to Daphne’s.
She snaps her legs together before the doors open.
“Thank you,” I offer a smile to the valet, who nods with a starchy smile of his own as he slips into the Porsche. Once Daphne’s escorted out, the valet pulls the car away. I offer her my arm and guide us up the stairs and inside the White House.
It’s almost impossible to be a kid in Baltimore without going to D.C. for a field trip at some point. I remember going on a guided tour in third grade. The inside of the place looked like what I’d imagine in a castle—like the First Family were secretly royalty, with so many things trimmed in gold. And everything looked antique. I remember being told repeatedly by Mrs. Williams not to touch anything, which drove that point home.
If only little starry-eyed Tristan knew what he would grow up to be someday. But then again, starry-eyed Tristan still had his Dad. He had hope. He didn’t know that the secret royalty he admired that day was corrupt to the marrow of their bones.
Daphne and I linger around the edges of the crowd as photographs are snapped with her parents and the Australian Prime Minister. This section of the White House certainly wasn’t part of the school tour. After about twenty minutes of keeping my face neutral and my eyes off Daphne’s curves in the designer ballgown I insisted on buying her, slowly, we all made our way inside. One by one, couples are announced like it’s an episode of thatBridgertonshow Tessa tried to get me to watch. I’m half expecting the MC to slip and call someone a Duke or a Viscount—whatever that is.
“First Daughter, Miss Daphne Fox, and Mister Tristan Sinclair.” Our names echo through a speaker as a row of people with cameras congregate behind a red velvet rope. Is this what it’s like for celebrities? Nothing but a cheap rope to keep the peasants away.
It’s fucking embarrassing.
