The President's Wife - Kathy Myme Page 0,35

a package deal.

So I smile back, whole-heartedly, and flutter my eyelashes. “Oh, trust. David doesn’t have time to think about that type of thing when he’s with me.”

Rosalie laughs into her teacup. Amber settles for looking even more sour than usual.

In the middle of lunch, a memo gets sent to my table. It’s ridiculously pretty for being so short, typed up neatly on a small square of scented paper, embossed with the White House’s logo. Of course David has his own personal set of stationery.

Dinner this evening. Seven o’clock. Dress for a date.

DS

“He’s so business-like, isn’t he?” Rosalie is reading the note over my shoulder, making me jump as she speaks. “Even when asking you on dates.”

“He seems tense,” Amber chips in. “Like… I don’t know, like he needs someone to loosen him up.”

What is this woman’s problem?

Maybe she wants David. I wouldn’t be surprised. Most women all around the world want the man and she’s closer to him than most, being comfortable enough in high society to take daily lunches in the White House.

“You’re so lucky,” Rosalie sighs. “Stephen never takes me on dates anymore.”

That’s probably because Stephen is a man in his late sixties, I think. As sweet as Rosalie is, it’s possible that she’s a little bit of a gold digger.

At least now I have the whole afternoon to decompress before I have to see David. The past few days I’ve been using my spare hours to read or nap or daydream. The time alone - or alone with Jackson watching me, at least - are making it a lot easier to manage the intensity of my new life here.

But this evening I’m left with another important choice… what to wear? The President clearly had issues with my dress from the other night, even if he hadn’t made them clear.

Maybe he just hadn’t liked the idea of me borrowing the previous First Lady’s clothes. I guess some people could be weird about things like that?

Fortunately, yesterday a stack of fresh outfits had been delivered in expensive plastic bags to my suite. There are some dresses in there I could wear.

I find a black dress, far plainer than the bright red one I’d worn the other day. It fits my form perfectly… but then I suppose everything here has been tailored for my body exactly. These dresses are made to make me every curve and angle look flawless.

I add a little bit of extra make-up, too. Just some mascara to bring out my eyes and concealer to cover up how impossibly tired I am at the moment with everything going on. I imagine that this date will be heavily monitored by the press. If my face is going to be plastered on the front cover of every trashy magazine out there, I might as well look decent.

The alarm clock on my phone buzzes at me angrily. It’s 7:00PM. Right on cue, there’s a knock on the door. “Miss Waters?” A pause. “Veronica?”

I’d know that voice anywhere. The President’s voice alone probably won him a good percentage of the vote. It’s smooth and rich, with a husky dry undertone that seems to rumble as he speaks.

“Just a second,” I say, adjusting my hair. The frizzy mess I have is nowhere near the smooth and sleek hair girls in the public eye are usually snapped with, but it’ll have to do.

When I’m satisfied that I’ll never be satisfied, I nod my orders to Jackson so he can open the door.

The sight that greets me pushes all sensible thoughts from my mind.

God, David looks good.

The sight before me seems so unreal. The President of the United States is dressed up. To go on a date. With me.

Women around the world are already crazy enough about him dressed up in a suit, but this is something else. The stuffy blazer and tie combo has vanished, replaced by a dark purple button-up shirt with silver cufflinks. His hair, usually combed back, hangs more loosely and allows his dark curls to be free.

I’m reminded of the other morning back in the Situation Room. The way he looked with his tie undone and dark circles under his eyes. Although it’s clear he’s had an hour or two of sleep since then, there’s a reason both occasions have captured my attention.

Both then and now, David hasn’t had the business attire to protect him. The blazer, the matching ties, the meticulously crafted appearance… they’re all crafted to make the man in front of me into the President