a glance at his watch. “Mr. President, I'm afraid we need to get back on schedule. You’re needed in the Rose Garden.”
“Let me know if you can clear your schedule, Ms. Stone. I usually eat around eight o'clock.”
2
“The American people didn't vote me into this office to dry tears and wipe asses. Frankly, it's time we get the shit done. You know I'm not one for formalities, so let me be as clear as day. If a bill in favor of the farmers comes across my desk, I will sign the damn thing, and that's all I have to say on that. Next question.” Ransom wasn’t one for formalities or political rhetoric — quite the opposite — and he liked to remind people just how much he was his own man with his own rules…even in a house of traditions and diplomatic decorum like Washington.
He scanned the sea of hands belonging to the cutthroat media who each wanted their turn to rile him so they’d have something more reprehensible to report than a handful of swear words. They wanted something more, something juicy. These barracudas wanted a scandal — and he knew it — so he was going to give it to them.
Ransom leaned over the podium and grinned when his eyes landed on the one person who didn't seem to be interested in a thing he had to say. He turned on that charming machismo that boasted confidence. “Why, Ms. Stone, I’m surprised to see you here. I didn’t know we were letting lobbyists in on press conferences.”
Dillon held up a press pass with an irksome grin and winked.
Ransom left the podium and made his way to Dillon, unbothered by the sound of camera shutters and the attention he was drawing. “You’re a member of the press now, Ms. Stone?”
Dillon brazenly took to her feet and met his stare, pretending their audience didn’t bother her. “We have a blog…Mr. President.”
“Please, call me Ran.”
“I’d rather not, sir. It’s inappropriate and disrespectful, if I’m being honest, Mr. President.” Dillon matched his confidence and maintained her composure, even if she’d rather refer to him as a jackass. She wasn’t cut out for this and couldn’t decide who pissed her off more: Mercy for giving her the case or Ransom Wyatt for intentionally grating on her last nerve trying to get a rise out of her.
“Have you decided on dinner yet, Ms. Stone?” He cut to the chase. “And for the record, I like honesty. Nothing says more about one’s character. It’s what I’ve built my entire life on.”
“If you want honesty, I must inform you that I find your invite a bit…inappropriate, as I stated earlier,” she fired back, earning a large grin.
“Still inappropriate? I’m sorry to hear that. It isn’t my intention. I honestly would like time to discuss the farm bill you’re fighting for. I’d like to play for your team if you’ll let me.”
“Play for my…” Clenching her teeth, Dillon looked around, reminded of the peering eyes, and bit her tongue.
“You’re beautiful…Ms. Stone.”
Her brows shot up. “I’m offended, Mr. President.”
“Because you’re beautiful?”
“Yes. I mean, no.”
“Which is it?”
“I’m offended because it’s not appropriate to say something like that.” Her voice lowered to a near whisper, but the harsh tone didn’t wither. “If I can be frank, misogyny comes to mind…sir. That re-election in a few years doesn’t look so good given the aforementioned.”
Ransom put his hands in the pockets of his pants and tilted his head to the side with a puckered grin. “Would you rather I call you ugly?”
Dillon chided, “Of course not.”
“And why’s that, Ms. Stone?”
She shook her head and let out a deep sigh, trying to maintain her composure. The cameras kept her aware this was all being documented—hence evidence should she react poorly. “Because it would be offensive.”
“Then?” Ransom pulled his hands from his pockets and lay them across his chest with a smug squint.
“Then…” The words eluded her. All she could think about at that moment was she wasn’t paid enough to play games with the president. Flirting, albeit one-sided, was not in her wheelhouse. She was there to play a part and get a job done. This was utter bullshit.
“Where I come from, you tell a woman she’s beautiful if you want to have dinner with her, or you look down the barrel of her daddy’s shotgun.”
“How archaic. Do you all stand around and beat your chests before you drag your womenfolk off by the hair? And P.S. my daddy doesn’t have a shotgun,