is the president. But that would be crazy because—”
“He is the president.”
“Of America?”
“Yes.”
“The United States of America?”
“Uh-huh.”
“As in the president of the United States of America? Lives in the White House? Leader of the free world? That president?”
“That would be the one.”
“And he’s your dad, as in …”
“He provided the sperm that helped make me.”
“Gotcha.”
Silence stretches out between us. Which is definitely not normal.
“I know you’re freaking out. But really, it’s not a big deal. It’s just something you need to know now that you’re coming to the States with me.”
“I’m not freaking out,” she squawks.
“Your voice has gone high, like really high-pitched.”
“It hasn’t,” she squeaks. She looks away and clears her throat. “It hasn’t,” she repeats in a deeper voice, sounding nothing like herself.
It’s actually quite funny. I’d laugh if I didn’t think it might push her over the edge.
“So, um … why didn’t you tell me who your dad was before?”
“Because it wasn’t relevant.”
Accusatory eyes come back to me. “But what if I’d gone home and then found out via the news or something? You might not think it’s a big deal. But a heads-up would have been nice. Especially after all the time we’ve spent together.”
She’s got a point. I blow out a breath. She went from smiling to annoyed in the space of a few minutes. That doesn’t make me feel good at all.
“You’re right. I should have said something.”
“Yeah, you should have.” She’s really pissed off. Her eyes look all fiery. It’s actually kind of a turn-on when she gets mad. “Imagine if I kept from you that my mum were … I don’t know … Elvis.” She throws her hands in the air.
“Well, that would be weird as fuck because he’s been dead for over forty years. And also, he was a dude.”
“You know what I meant! I meant, someone famous. Important or whatever. Stop being a dick.” She climbs up to her feet, standing on the jetty.
I stand, too, putting myself in her path. “I’m not trying to be a dick.”
I so did not see this coming. I thought she might be a bit weird about it. But not mad.
She folds her arms over her chest. “Well, you are being one.”
“Can I ask … why are you mad?”
Her eyes fix on mine. “Because I told you all of my important shit. About my mum and Tim and everything. And you clearly told me nothing of importance.”
“You know that’s not true.” Now, I’m mad.
“I know you told me about your mom.” She bites her lip and looks away. “But you kept from me who your dad was. I wondered why you would clam up whenever I asked about your dad. I just figured you two weren’t close.”
I step up to her and take her chin in my hand, forcing her eyes to mine. “We’re not close. Yes, he’s the president. And, yes, he’s my dad. The former, he’s excellent at. The latter, not so much.”
He was an absent father and a cheating dirtbag of a husband to my mom up until the day she died, but that’s not something Dillon needs to know.
Those gorgeous eyes blink up at me. I brush my thumb over her cheek.
“Him being the president has nothing to do with who I am.”
“But it does have an impact on your life, I’m guessing.”
“Sometimes.” Most of the fucking time.
“And you don’t live in the White House, right? Because you said you live in Baltimore—unless that was a lie.” Her eyes narrow. “Because if it was a lie and you do live there, I’m telling you right now, I’m not staying in the White House.”
I bark out a laugh. “Most people would kill to go stay in the White House.”
“Well, I wouldn’t. I’m sure it’s amazing and everything. It’d be a really nice place to visit. Like Buckingham Palace. But stay there? Nah, thanks. I wouldn’t be able to cope with the pressure. I mean, you’d have to look good and dress nice twenty-four/seven. And then there’d be all those agents there, walking around with guns. I’d never be able to relax. No, when I’m home, I just like to chill and wear my PJs.”
“Sorry to tell you this, but my apartment has a no-clothes policy.”
Her brow lifts. “That right?”
“Mmhmm.”
“Do you have security? What are they called?”
“I talk about nakedness. And you ask about security. Should I be worried, Double D?”
She gives me an unamused look.
“They’re called Secret Service agents, and yeah, I do.”
Her eyes scan the area, like she’s expecting someone