The World: According to Rachael Page 5

  When the current match is over, Graham stands up and walks to the bar to fix a plate of food. He grabs a slice of pizza. As he walks past us, Shelby jumps to her feet. “Oh! You take my seat, Coach Jackson. I have a bit of headache,” she says as she races out of the room.

  Inwardly, I roll my eyes. Next time, Shelby, take out a billboard. It would be more discreet.

  “Coach Jackson, you want a beer?” Langford yells over his shoulder without removing his gaze from the screen.

  “Sure. I’ll have one. Thanks,” Graham replies as he reaches toward the beer tub.

  “There’s plenty of food. You can have more than a slice of pizza,” I offer.

  “Ate before I came.” He touches his stomach.

  Graham sits down and allows his legs to fall open. The tip of his knee brushes against the side of my thigh. It’s a slight touch, but I feel the tingle all the way through my body. I glance down at his knee, shocked at what just transpired. What was that? I mean, sure he’s hot, but I don’t know this guy from Adam. A brush of his jean-clad knee shouldn’t make me shiver.

  “Why aren’t you eating?” he asks as he takes a bite of the White House chef’s veggie pizza.

  I must look at him with a blank stare because he motions toward my empty lap. “You don’t have a plate of food. Aren’t you eating?”

  “Beer.” I hold up the bottle, shaking myself from thoughts about his touch. “It’s what’s for dinner.”

  We discuss our favorite beers while we wait for the next fight to begin. I notice that when he laughs his dimple under his right eye deepens, and I wonder what it would feel like against my tongue.

  Shaking my head to clear it, I focus on the next match. Focus is a misnomer. My head is pointed at the screen, but I don’t actually watch the fight. My mind is swimming with thoughts of Graham Jackson. His clean, woodsy smell has caused some sort of reaction inside of me that actually makes me want to find out more about this guy. Knowing Shelby, she probably doused him in some sort of love potion.

  I spend the length of the fight trying to pinpoint what it is about him. Yes, he’s hot, but I’m around handsome men all day long. Maybe it’s because he’s not in politics, and that makes him seem safe. I can’t put my finger on it, but I like how I feel sitting here next to him on this too-small couch.

  The room erupts in applause as one of the fighters submits. There are high-fives and money that exchanges hands as everyone begins to stand and refill beer, sodas, and food.

  Drake and his two friends opt to grab the remaining metal pan of pizza instead of placing individual slices on their plates.

  “Hey Coach Jackson,” Drake says getting his attention. “Rachael is a boxer.”

  I sometimes wish that kid liked me a tiny bit less. It’s not that I actually care that he knows that I box. It’s just such an “I’m trying to fix you up” statement that it makes me squirm.

  “Really?” Graham’s eyebrow cocks up, which also deepens his dimple. I contemplate new torture tactics for Drake and Shelby. Electrocution? Water boarding?

  President Jones chimes in while he still has a mouth full of food. “She’s something else. She boxes three mornings a week.”

  Heat rises to my cheeks. I hate being so fair skinned. I can’t blush without my cheeks turning into rosy red apples. “Seriously, it’s not that impressive.” I tell the entire room that is now staring at me. “I think a woman should be able to defend herself. Plus, it’s great exercise, and helps me work off the stress from my ‘cush’ job.”

  There is some collective praise that comes from the room filled with men, but fortunately, the beginning of the next fight soon distracts them again.

  “I’m more of an MMA guy, myself,” Graham says while leaning into my personal space.

  My mind blanks, and I can’t think of a response. This sucks. I haven’t had to “get to know” someone of the opposite sex in a very long time. Maybe I’ve lost the art of small talk. In my everyday life, the words that come out of my mouth hold weight. I never make idle chitchat with anyone. I find it to be a waste of breath.

  I inhale, trying desperately to remember how to just talk instead of speaking to someone. Here goes nothing … “I follow MMA, but boxing is my first love. My dad and I used to watch the Spanish channel when I was growing up.” Did I just mention my dad? How odd. I haven’t thought about him in a while. It must be Graham’s damn blue eyes. I’m sure if I looked closely there would be black swirls in his retinas that he uses to hypnotize people. “They had feather and light-weight matches every Saturday. In fact, the first Spanish I spoke was boxing terminology.”

  Graham smiles and brushes the back of his hand over my knee. It’s a friendly gesture, but I feel the current of electricity flowing throughout my body. All of that from a light touch. My heart races as panic rears its ugly head. I can’t do this. No one’s touch has made me feel this way since Aiden.

  Graham adds, “I took MMA when I was in middle school and high school.”

  What? I don’t think that I even remember what we’re talking about. I have one year left. I need to focus on President Jones’ legacy, not on Coach Jackson. This is why I’ve kept all my relationships since my breakup with Aiden to nothing more than sexual meetings for an hour or two of doing what nature intended reproductive-aged adults to do—fuck.

  Either he doesn’t notice my freak out, or he chooses to ignore it. It kind of endears him to me more. He attempts to make small talk and keep the conversation about the fight, but it’s forced on my part. I have to make an effort to remember to not talk politics and to keep my banter to silly frivolous things while ignoring my raging hormones that would like to invite Graham to see my office.

  “Look, Graham,” I finally say, as my fingertips accidentally touch his thigh. Geez, I could bounce a quarter off of that quad. I focus on his thick eyebrows instead of getting trapped by those eyes again. “You and I both know that this is a fix-up. I’m sure that you’re a lovely person. I’ve heard nothing but great things about you, but I really don’t have the time to get to know someone right now.” I end my statement with a smile. It’s the camera-ready one.

  He throws his head back and laughs. It’s a real laugh. Not the fake laughs that I’m used to hearing all day long. My ice-cold heart thaws a little at hearing a genuine chuckle and seeing that dimple deepen. Geez … that dimple. “Of course. I know that Drake is hooking us up. However, I do know who you are, and I like what I know, Rachael.”

  Immediately, the tiny hairs on the back of my neck stand up. I hate when people presume that they know me because they’ve heard me discussed on the Sunday political talk shows or seen me in interviews. I feel myself recoiling from him.

  My withdrawal must have been more than just in my head because he quickly adds, “Wait. I do know you. We’ve met before.”

  I instantly begin to search my brain. I never forget a face or a name. It’s a necessary skill to have for success in politics. I’m coming up blank, which makes me question if this is a line.

  He continues, “I worked on President Jones’ campaign in between college and law school. I’m sure you don’t remember me. I was a paid staffer who quit when school started. But you came and spoke to our office. I was so impressed with you that I must admit, I’ve followed your career.”

  His face develops some character as he speaks. He becomes animated and looks less pretty-boy-sitting-at-a-bar, fishing for girls’ numbers, and more real. “You made us laugh and were so human compared to the stories that we’d heard about you.” He blushes and begins to backtrack. “I mean, not bad stories. I mean, we were all expecting to get fired.”

  I decide to put the poor guy out of his misery. Without thinking, I reach over and place my hand on his bicep. Wow! His arms are as firm as his legs. “It’s okay. I know my reputation. I don’t think it’s possible to be female in a powerful position and not be called names.”

  He looks at my hand on his arm, and then he looks at me with a smile that makes my stomach do
a flip. “What I’m trying to say is this might have been an awkward way to go about it, but I’d like to get to know you better.” As he’s talking, he reaches up and tucks behind my ear a stray piece of hair that has managed to escape the tight knot. “I know how busy you must be. We can start simple. I don’t know. Maybe sneak in a dinner here or there. I’m a patient guy,” he says with a smirk, as if he knows a secret.

  My hand protests as I remove it from his muscle. Do I want to get to know him better? He’s pretty. He’d make nice arm candy for the White House Christmas Party, as Shelby had pointed out. Last year, I took my Yankee baseball player as my date. The year before that, I went alone.

  He’s a coach and a high school teacher. He couldn’t be any more press-friendly if he tried. He’ll look good in the pictures.

  But I like him. Fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m attracted to him.

  The main fight of the night begins, which thankfully distracts Graham and me from continuing our conversation. He excuses himself with a nod towards Drake. But before he stands up, he leans over and whispers in my ear. His warm breath against my neck sends a shiver down my spine and makes the butterflies in my lower stomach begin flapping their wings in time with my pulse. “I better go watch the fight with the boys. It is why I came.” He leaves the word “came” dangling at the end of the sentence, and my mind begins racing with thoughts of us coming together.

  I decide that Graham can be my next fling, boy toy, play thing, or whatever else I decide to call him, but I’m not getting attached.

  With my decision made, I can finally relax enough to enjoy the fight. Silva loses, so it looks like Drake will be visiting Texas A&M, I’ll be helping him with his history paper, and Graham will be doing lots of pushups at practice on Monday—his wager with Drake. My eyes graze over his biceps. Maybe I didn’t lose after all … I remember Graham’s strong arms.

  Immediately, the guests stand stretching like cats. The President says his goodbyes. The boys are spending the night with Drake and the adults begin to make our way out of the family’s private residence.

  I notice that Graham seems to be slowing down, as if he’s waiting for me. Evan is talking his ear off about immigration reform. I almost feel sorry for Graham. It is a Saturday night, after all. Not everyone can talk politics twenty-four seven like we can.

  Deciding to let him off the hook, I call out, “Graham, can I ask you something about lacrosse?”

  He looks relieved or maybe happy that I spoke to him as he joins me down the long narrow hallway back to the public White House. “Thanks,” he says when he reaches me. With a glint in his eyes he adds, “I was afraid that I’d scared you off.”

  His smile is nice. Not dreamy or mesmerizing, or any other silly adjective. It’s friendly and warm. There’s nothing fake or calculating behind it. It’s the kind of smile that I miss seeing in Washington politics. It reminds me a bit of my best friend Caroline’s husband. It makes me feel a touch homesick—a feeling that I haven’t felt since Senator Jones became President Jones.

  My phone buzzes in my pocket, reminding me to grab my cocktail dress. I cancel the reminder not wanting to risk Graham and me alone in my office, and I’m not ready to leave his side. “Need to get that?” he asks.

  “No,” I reply. “It’s nothing important.”

  “Look, I know you’re really busy,” he begins as we pause by the White House coatroom to retrieve his jacket. “If you don’t have plans tomorrow, would you like to have brunch or catch a movie?”

  I almost burst into laughter. If I don’t have plans? Sundays are an eight-hour workday for me. Just as I open my mouth to explain this to him, something unexpected happens.

  I agree.

  Chapter Two

  “What in the hell am I doing?” I grumble to myself as I stand in the spare bedroom of my townhome, which now functions as my walk-in closet. I’m staring at my clothes, trying to decide what one wears on a first date that begins with a late lunch and then goes on to a movie.

  My relationships over the past seven years have been strictly sexual in nature. The guy and I had an agreement. We’d meet at a mutually agreed upon location—never his place or mine—and spent a couple of hours pleasuring each other, and then we’d go our separate ways. I know how to dress for that, and have a drawer full of lingerie to prove it.

  Finally, I decide to go casual-cute. I pull a pair of brown corduroy chinos from a hanger, a maroon silk blouse, and grab my four-inch heeled designer leather boots that I wore last night. Once I’m dressed, I stare in the mirror, realizing that I’m biting my top lip. This is a nervous tell of mine that I’ve worked extremely hard to lose.

  Nervous? What do I have to be nervous about? He’s a high school teacher. You’ve dined with world leaders and not had butterflies.

  I shake it off, and walk into my bathroom. I pull the tie out of my hair, releasing my locks. My goodness my hair has gotten long so I add a reminder to my phone to make a hair appointment.

  Ultimately, I decide to leave it down. I rarely wear it this way. My tight chignons are part of my signature look. This date is uncharacteristic and my hair hanging down my back is the exclamation point on me stepping outside of my comfort zone.

  I keep my makeup light. It’s Sunday lunch, after all, so I opt for blush, mascara, and clear lip gloss.

  Overall, I’m pleased with my appearance. I don’t resemble the professional, well-put-together woman who usually stands in this bathroom getting ready. I look like a J Crew commercial, which makes me laugh. Should I be tossing fall leaves in the air?

  At promptly two o’clock, I lock my front door and greet Lou. Graham had offered to pick me up, but I explained that I had an agent assigned to me, and a car that the taxpayers provide. The President really encourages me to use it, and in fact gets downright testy if I don’t. Graham seemed to have understood.

  On the way to the restaurant, I debate canceling. This is ridiculous. I need to be preparing for this week—the beginning of our last year in office. Not going on some date with a guy who has no political ties and who can’t advance the work of the administration.

  As I’m pulling my phone from my purse, I scroll through my contacts. His number doesn’t come up because he didn’t give it to me last night. I’m conflicted as to how this makes me feel. On one hand, I’m relieved. On the other hand, I know that what I’m about to do is not necessarily the best use of my time. That leads me to ponder when was the last time that I used my time frivolously? With horror, I come to the conclusion that I haven’t done anything for myself other than my morning boxing workouts since Senator Jones became President Jones. My eyes crinkle at the corners as my lips form a smile. I even wiggle a bit against the leather seat. Guess the writing is on the wall. I’m going on a date.

  The restaurant he chose is an out-of-the-way diner that specializes in chicken salad, burgers, and the best damn onion rings in Washington D.C. according to Graham. Lou and I walk in together while he does a careful sweep to make sure that no one is lying in wait to harm me. I know the drill. I stick by Lou’s side until he’s comfortable with my surroundings.

  I gaze around the restaurant looking for the guy who has managed to get under my skin. All I see is a family with a toddler who has smeared ketchup in his hair, a counter full of people studying their phones, and an elderly couple sitting next to each other, sharing a menu. She points to different items and makes suggestions. He smiles adoringly at her and hangs on every word that she says. I can’t keep the goofy grin from cracking my cheeks as I stare a heartbeat too long at them.

  It looks like we’ve beaten Graham here. I’m thankful. The idea that I have a chaperone on a date makes me squeamish. Lou has accompanied me to plenty of hotels. It never embarrassed me like this “date” does.

  I take a booth in the back right-hand corner of the restaurant. While Lou sits nearby at the counter, but is far enough away so as to not intrude.

  Glancing at my wristwatch, I note that it’s 2:23 p.m. This is new for me. I�
��m not used to waiting. Everyone waits on me. A moment of panic washes over me. What do I do with myself while I wait for him? I decide to pull out my personal phone and play on it. This is also a foreign concept. I never have time to kill. Do I download a game? I look toward the counter of people staring at their phones and attempt to see what they’re doing. They all seem to be furiously typing. Are they answering emails?

  I’ve heard about a game called Angry Birds. I purchase it, and start hurling birds at pigs. It’s actually kind of fun. Hmmm …

  Fortunately, Graham doesn’t keep me waiting long. As if my cute boy radar goes off, I look up from my phone, where I was trying to decide if I wanted to pay for help on a level, to watch him enter the restaurant. I get an unguarded moment to observe him before he spots me. His looks are disarming. I’m not sure of his height, but he fills the doorway, blocking out the sun behind him. His hair is so dark the overhead lights of the diner cast it in a lavender hue. I remember seeing an Elvis Presley movie that had been color corrected. Graham’s hair reminds me of the King’s. His clear blue eyes scan the restaurant, and when they spot me, they twinkle. A small smile parts his full lips, and I find myself smiling back probably like one of his lovesick students.

  He’s wearing casual clothes also—a pair of jeans and a button-up red shirt with a navy sweater pulled over. The guy could easily be modeling Ralph Lauren menswear instead of strolling towards me in this local diner.

  “Good afternoon,” he says as he slides onto the bench across from me. “I hope I didn’t keep you waiting long?”

  What I want to reply with is, “Being kept waiting was refreshing,” but that makes me sound very odd. Instead, I say, “Been here for about ten minutes. No big deal.” NO BIG DEAL! If one of my staffers kept me waiting ten minutes, I’d probably hand them their head on a silver platter.

  “Good. I decided to take my black Lab, George, for a run this morning, and we lost track of time. I figure it’s Sunday. It happens,” he says nonchalantly while he picks up a menu from the table where it had been left by a waitress. “This place has great onion rings.”