Page 47 of The Last Love Story

There’s a lofted ceiling, crown molding, even a chandelier, but all I can see is thebed.

“We’ve got it from here,” comes a voice.

Becka nods at the two new women—civilians, by their clothes. Even though I can’t see her face, I’m certain that she doesn’t want to leave my side. To protect me, or to recruit me?

“This is Sarah”—Becka gestures at the brunette with olive skin and surprisingly sharp eyeliner—“and Mac.” Mac gets a wave, encompassing her lanky figure, pencil skirt, and legs that go on for days.

“At ease, soldier,” Sarah says in a teasing tone, but we all know it’s a dismissal. Two Hammers post themselves by the doorway as Sarah and Mac herd me inside. For a long moment, Becka lingers there like she can’t cross the threshold, then squares her shoulders and marches away. I’m not sure if I should be worried or relieved.

I collapse onto the bed with something that definitely isn’t a moan.

“Glam squad arrives in fifteen,” Sarah says, giving me a disheartened once-over that I’ve grown used to in the last twelve hours.

“No,” I murmur into the ten million throw pillows, closing my eyes. “It’s bedtime.”

Mac chuckles, her deep voice rasping in her chest. “Oh, honey. It’s only seven o’clock.”

I want to cry. I’m so tired I can barely stand up straight.

Sarah sets a large white box gently on the comforter.

“You didn’t think you’d have your first night in the White House berelaxing, did you?” Her words are soft.

I smile humorlessly. “Of course not.”

The White House is shimmering. I want to think this place is ugly, because such ugliness comes from it. But the dining room is covered in candles and mirrors. I’ve never seen a candle before—they’re considered a waste of resources and, in Post Angeles, a fire hazard. But here they seem to glitter from every surface. Plush rugs and deep velvet couches fill every room. All around me, staff members mill about, setting the table like a choreographed dance.

Even though they’ve dressed me for dinner, for press and introductions to powerful people, I can’t help but let myself get pulled to the floor-to-ceiling windows, helping myself to a tall glass of something golden that glitters like the sparkling water. Below, a fountain bubbles between two massive oak trees.

A tree.Twotrees.

A low voice pulls me from my reverie.

“You look beautiful, Ripley.” Callum appears beside me and I splutter on my drink, the carbonation burning up my nose as I struggle to breathe. I’d chalk it up to exhaustion, which has worn away my social graces, but in reality, it’s because I didn’t think Callum could look more beautiful than he did when I first saw him today. I was wrong.

“You okay?” he asks with a wry smile. As if made self-conscious by my gawping, he rakes a hand through his blond coif. He doesn’t look real, not in a tuxedo, not when his eyes crinkle in the corners with a smile. That same golden button on his chest is the only color breaking up his black-and-white uniform, and it makes his eyes look even brighter.

“Can we pretend that didn’t happen?” I whisper, tucking a strand of perfectly curled hair behind my ear. My fingers snag on the giant diamond earrings dangling from my lobes.

Callum leans in, his warm hand touching the exposed small of my back. Because of course Kaleb and his team put me in a cream-colored, satin,backlessdress.

“No, we cannot,” he murmurs. “Because then I can’t tell you that I basically did the same thing when I walked in here and saw you, and I wasn’t even drinking anything.”

My heart stops, and I pray he can’t see the flush rising up my chest. Because of course this dress is low cut, as well.

Dammit, Kaleb, I think.

Unsure of what to say, I take another sip, and the bubbles scratch along my raw throat, and suddenly I can’t stop coughing.

“Oh, shit. I’m sorry. I was trying to be smooth and now you’re going to die,” he says, and I shake my head, swallowing hard. That hand on my back guides me half a step towardan end table—thankfully laid out with water. He hands me a cup and watches as I regain the ability to breathe.

“We can tell the press that you stole my breath,” I croak out, once I can talk again.

He raises an eyebrow. “I don’t want to steal anything from you, Ripley.”

I gulp a little at his earnestness and turn back to the window. Around us, the dinner grows into a party, voices rising and falling. A few times, Callum glances over his shoulder like he’s checking for someone, and I’m reminded of being nine, stealing sweets from his parents’ parties to sneak into our treehouse.

I sigh, looking at those oaks. Perhaps not that much has changed.