“Oh my God.”
“Everett, this is Nathan Wilder. Nathan, I’m guessing you don’t need the introduction, huh?”
But Nathan didn’t respond to me, nor did he acknowledge I’d even spoken. I couldn’t really blame him. After all, it wasn’t every day the former president of the United States walked into your kitchen.
Chapter 13
Nathan
“Oh my God,”I repeated stupidly, even as I automatically held out my hand to the man across from me. “Mr. President, it’s…it’s an honor.”
“Honor’s all mine, Mr. Wilder.”
I doubted that, but I was still too awestruck to say anything besides, “Call me Nathan, please.”
“Nathan, it’s a pleasure. Please, call me Everett.”
There was no fucking way I could call him that. I watched in stunned disbelief as Vincent handed the man a bottle of beer.
The former leader of the free world drank beer. And he twisted the cap off like every other guy in America.
And he somehow knew Vincent.
“Mmmm, stir-fry?” Everett said as he eyed the stove.
“Yep,” Vincent said, and then he was turning back to the stove and getting it going again.
“You’re not putting any of that tofu shit in it, are you?” Everett asked as he took a long pull from the bottle.
Holy hell, the president swore.
“Why yes, Everett, you may join us for dinner. And no, it’s beef.”
“Beef?” Everett said before letting out a low whistle. His eyes shifted to me and he said, “You must be special.”
His comment sent a rush of heat through me. Did he somehow know what had happened between me and Vincent? Fuck, had Vincent told him? My eyes shifted to the man next to me.
“He’s talking about the fact that I rarely eat red meat,” Vincent said calmly and then shot Everett a dark look. “Make yourself useful and set the table.”
“The table?” the older man said. “Wow, really special,” he quipped as he shot me a smile and then actually winked at me.
The former president of the fucking United States was taking orders from Vincent and he’d winked at me. What the hell alternate universe was I stuck in?
“You know the president?” I whispered to Vincent once Everett was out of immediate earshot.
“Clearly,” he said, and I fought the urge to punch him in the arm.
“You know what I mean.”
“It’s a long story.”
“Then tell me the abbreviated version.”
“Later,” he said. “Go talk politics – he loves that shit.”
“I can’t talk politics with the president,” I said fiercely.
Vincent laughed, actually laughed, and shook his head. “Fine, then talk about reality dance competitions. You’ll never get him to shut up.”
