The President's Wife - Kathy Myme Page 0,11

lot of articles in the press that claimed support for him was dying down. Learning that it isn’t really true is a huge relief.

“Good work, Miss Waters,” Mr Andrews says to me when he leans over my shoulder to read what I’ve come up with. “You’ve really got the hang of this. I’m impressed.”

Pride warms my stomach. “Thank you, sir.”

“You’re quite welcome,” he replies. “I think you’ll really fit in around here.”

The rest of the silent, standoffish Press Office might not agree… but I can’t help but feel happy at Mr Andrews’ praise.

There’s only one snag. I spot the only problem with my job fairly early on. My desk is in a pretty good location, looking out over a patch of outdoors. Ordinarily, I’d have killed for such a nice seat.

But it just so happens that my seat gives me a prime view of the President as he goes about his daily walks.

I try to concentrate. I really do. But when the President of the United States is only meters away from you, it’s shockingly hard to think about collecting data. There’s just something about him that commands attention, whether he’s asking for it or not. Even from afar, every molecule of my body wants to sit up a little bit straighter as he walks by. That’s just the kind of man the President is.

So I look. Now and then. Occasionally.

Far more often than I should.

It’s sometime in the afternoon when I look up once more, all subtlety and carefulness. But this time I don’t get away with it so easily. Because the President is looking back.

Immediately my whole body stops. I am a deer, frozen as I am stared down by prey.

Being stared at by the President of the United States would freak anyone out, I’m sure. But it’s not just that. I feel something else too.

Desire.

God. The gossip mags were right. Meeting eyes with the President makes me feel terrified, like I’m some sheltered girl who’s never seen a man before. And in a lot of ways… maybe I haven’t. Not a man like the President, anyway.

Just as soon as I acknowledge what I’m feeling - the heightened attention, the raised pulse, the curling in the bottom of my stomach - I hate myself for it. I’m being shockingly unprofessional. That man isn’t only my boss’ boss, which would be bad enough… He’s also my President.

It’s obscene for me to even think about this type of thing.

I break eye contact violently, forcing myself to look down at my screen and praying to every deity out there for him to leave. One of them was clearly the right god to pray to, because when I sneak a peek again there's no more President outside.

I try to throw myself further into my work for the rest of the afternoon. To not think about what I’ve just acknowledged. And for a time, it works.

Until the chaos starts.

It starts around 3:17PM, to be precise. I see it roughly two minutes after the initial tweet is published. The one that links to the article.

But I don’t move until at least five minutes after that. Because what I see on my screen can’t be real. It shouldn’t be real. My brain has to work overtime to even make out the words and string the sentence together properly.

@NewsNewsUSANow at 3:17:

You’ve heard the rumors about dreamboat President David Shepard. Now READ the TRUTH here…

There’s also a link in the tweet that leads to NewsNewsUSA’s homepage. And on that homepage, there’s an article. An article that has a picture front and centre underneath its headline.

Oh no, I sigh. I’ve only really been working this job, what, a handful of hours? And still I know what trouble looks like when I see it.

I scroll down, trying to get a better look at the picture.

There are two people in the frame. To my horror, it’s crystal clear who the man is. I’ve been stealing glimpses of his face for half the day.

President Shepard looks as handsome as ever. It’s a side profile of him, revealing so much of his hard cut jawline and tilted neck that it seriously should be illegal.

Ordinarily, photographs of the President wouldn’t be an issue. Mr Andrews had made it pretty clear this morning: although photographs taken by our own photographers are preferable, we really can’t do much about people snapping pics of the President.

“And the man is so photogenic,” Mr Andrews had laughed, “that it doesn’t really matter anyway. The President has no bad