Madame President - Tara Sue Me Page 0,51

nothing. “Yeah,” I say. “And she’s not a bad dancer. You know, if that’s your thing.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Her 1081

Hotel de Pontalba

Official Residence of the US Ambassador to France

Paris, France

It’s been three weeks since I did the interview with Navin in New York, and one week since it aired on prime-time television. It was, my advisors tell me, a successful interview. Successful means different things to different people. To my advisors, it means my ratings went up after. To me it means I’d kept my cool in that dark room with the hot spotlight on me, while being much too close to Navin. Of course, I don’t know what the final piece looks like, because I haven’t seen it.

Nor do I plan to do so.

I’m driving David mad, but don’t care. I lived through the interview, why would I want to repeat it? It’s not as if I don’t know what happened. Or at least, that’s what I tell David. The truth is, I’m afraid to watch. Afraid, because if I watch, all I’ll see are my physical reactions to Navin. It’s bad enough I know I have them, I don’t want to see the actual proof, even if no one else has picked up on it.

Fortunately, all I’ve heard anyone say is how engaged we looked, and that we have a certain kind of chemistry. Magic is another word people like to throw around, but I think they’re seeing things. The only magical thing about the interview is we were nice to each other the entire time. But of course with George in the room, Navin had to be on his best behavior.

Actually, now that I have a second to think about it, he’s been nice ever since the interview. Highly suspicious behavior if you ask me. Unfortunately, all David’s been asking is whether or not GBNC will want to do another one anytime soon.

God, I hope not.

Right, I say to myself. Because it’d be a real hardship to have to sit beside that fine specimen of a man for an hour or so and talk.

But that’s the thing. It’s not so much a talk. It’s him asking deep and insightful questions about me while I attempt to come up with smart and witty answers, trying not to picture him naked in the process.

I roll over and punch my pillow. I hate jet lag because it makes my insomnia worse, and when that happens, I lie awake and think about Navin. Then I start to talk to myself. Or worse, argue.

It doesn’t help that I feel as if I’m trying to sleep in a museum. The Hotel de Pontalba is lovely, but a warm and cozy place to stay, it is not. I get that I can’t book a room at the local hotel chain, but do I have to stay in a place where I feel like I’m going to break a twelfth century antique something or other if I sneeze too hard?

Apparently, yes.

Also, did I mention that the US Ambassador to France is a beautiful young woman who is single? Because she is. Her name is JeAnne and you pronounce it almost like “John,” but with a pretentious, special snowflake voice drawing it out so it sounds more like “Joooohn.”

And she’s known Navin for years, because GBNC always sends him right over when something happens in France.

I know this because she made it a point to tell him, in front of everyone, that his regular room was clean and waiting. I simply rolled my eyes and told her I didn’t care to know the bedroom logistics, but that I did have dinner with the President and First Lady of France scheduled soon and had some calls to make beforehand.

Actually, I just wanted to have a few minutes alone so I could look up reasons I could have her removed from her position.

Okay, not really. But I did think about it.

Now that it’s dark, I can’t help but wonder where his regular room is, and how close it is to hers. I try to tell myself I don’t really care, but I know better. What really upsets me is that I care even knowing I shouldn’t. I’m the President. I can’t date. Even if I want to, what man would want me enough to put up with the restrictions I have? Even though it’s hard to admit, Hayden was right. No man in his right mind would ever want to be called the First Gentleman.

With that delightful realization, I stop