"The President will see you now."
I stand behind the lush velvet drapes, staring out into the garden—the gardens, by the way, which are magnificently kept, pruned to an art.
The President, I'm told, is a man who misses little.
"Miss Steele? The President will see you now."
Oh—oops. I blush, biting my lip and staring at my feet in their brown, sensible clunkers. I'm suddenly, senselessly accosted by a regret that I haven't worn my heels.
"Coming," I stammer, half-running. The door is open, ready for me—I nearly stumble over the threshold, breathing fast.
"Ah! Bully! You've arrived!"
I peer up through the tangle of my hair—damn my hair, it's all in a jumble—at the figure engulfed in sunlight, magnificent at the window.
My heart jumps into my throat; my breathing grinds to a halt. Involuntarily, his name breaks forth from my lips.
"Teddy."
The first thing, I think, that strikes me about him is his vigor. For the office, he's astonishingly young—only about 42, I think—but even this doesn't fully explain the charge he has—the energy. The crackling glory of him as he stands there in the sun, one hand on his hip. He is exponentially more alive than other people—that's the only way I can think of it.
"Miss Steele!" he says, pumping my hand hard and fast. His grip is dizzyingly firm. "Bully, bully! You're here! Come, come! So much to do! Sit—no! Stand! No, damme, sit, sit!"
He stops mid-flow, fixing me with that scorching gaze. His eyes are blue like lightning might be; heat roils in my belly. oh, my.
"I'm not used to such charming company, Miss Steele."
I nod, my stomach swooping. His hands (burly, masterful hands) are at work, fingers drumming impatiently on a nearby table. I sit, silently gathering my jumbled thoughts. He's even more astonishing in person. Nothing like I'd expected—no one could prepare you for that merciless energy, those eyes that branded your soul. That carefully clipped mustache, bristling at every electric word he spoke.
"Well!" he barks, pacing around the room. His hands are flat on his neat, narrow hips, and he occasionally stops to look almost pensively out the window. "Come, let's begin! Ask me anything, Miss Steele! Anything!"
Oh—okay. I blush, biting at my lip. My notes are suddenly unintelligible to me.
"Um….Mr. President…"
"Don't say 'Mr. President,' Miss Steele. I'm a man of the people—say 'Roosevelt,' for God's sake."
Roosevelt—oh. I blush at the thought of it. It just sounds so…intimate.
"Oh—but I couldn't presume—"
"Presume! Don't talk of presuming, Miss Steele—but what is your first name? Come, let's be better acquainted!"
And he sits abruptly in a nearby winged armchair, one heel neatly balanced on the other knee; my inner goddess just gapes at him, unused to this energy. Holy cow, he's so intense.
"Oh—well—it's—it's Ana. Anastasia."
"Anastasia."
He says it with a lower intensity that's somehow more potent; the warmth in my stomach quickens and intensifies.
"Y-yes," I breathe.
His teeth suddenly graze his lip just for a second; I nearly liquefy.
"That's a bully name," he says, tone still low. I blink at him, a deer caught in his headlights. My inner goddess fans herself vigorously.
"Th-thank you, sir."
The interview begins directly.
"So, um…Mr. Roosevelt—tell me, what is your philosophy with regard to the role of the federal government?"
He's standing again—does he ever stay in one position?—and his hands are behind his back as he paces briskly back and forth.
"Vigilance," he nearly barks. He suddenly turns to look right at me, his deep blue gaze intent. "I like to exercise—control in all things, Miss Steele."
"That's a little tyrannical, don't you think?"
It's out of me before I can stop myself; the President's eyebrows knit.
"Hardly," he says. "This is not the old days, Miss Steele. If a man wants to ensure justice, he has to keep a fairly close eye on things. The people need a big government, Miss Steele—they need a protector. Social justice, after all! The President must not spend his days asleep at his desk—no, damme, he mustn't!"
And he bares his teeth almost ferociously, as if daring someone to contradict him; his pacing has increased in tempo and intensity. There's a look in his eyes that I don't know how to read. Deep, deep down in my belly, unfamiliar muscles clench.
Oh, my.
"But surely this country was founded on principles of liberty?" I counter, horrified at my own daring. Stop. Now. Kate NEEDS this interview. But I can't help myself…there's just something about him.
He turns abruptly away, throwing up a grandiose hand.
"Liberty, Miss Steele, is a fine thing—a great thing—but it must be subordinate to other considerations. Justice, equality. Without social justice, there can be no liberty."
"But surely the role of the federal government…"
My inner goddess stamps her foot, frustrated with all this philosophizing that's getting in the way of…you know…
Teddy—Mr. President—waves a wild hand. I shiver at the picture conjured by my wandering naughtiness—the picture of those wild hands on me, of that mustache tickling its wicked way up my stomach. My inner goddess fans herself vigorously at the thought.
"Don't talk of that to me, Miss Steele! Not now." He turns to me, and his gaze suddenly darkens.
"I want to talk of…other things."
"Oh," I breathe, my mouth slightly open. "A-alright."
But suddenly he's got his back to me, staring out that big, sunny window and gripping the windowsill with white knuckles.
"No, damn it! No! It's not sportsmanlike! Miss Steele, I must—I must cut this short. I have a hunting trip in an hour—and then business! Damn the business! Anastasia," (he bends and his mustache grazes my hand oh my) "it's been a pleasure."
And then he is gone, leaving me almost trembling in his wake. Oh.
Moments later, I'm out in the mildly rainy weather, face upturned to the wet gray sky and letting the dampness of my face cover that of my underwear.