When I get home, Kate's curled up on the sofa, nibbling at her sandwich and typing furiously at her laptop. I dump the recording on her lap.

"Here ya go, Kavanaugh."

Kate looks at me—holy cow, she can be so inquisitive sometimes. Her eyes are greener than usual—her probing look.

"Ana, you ok? You look—flustered. How was the interview?"

My heart stops in my throat; how do I explain it? What do I say?

Bully…

"Oh—alright."

But the Kavanaugh Inquisition is not to be put off so easily.

"Don't be coy, Ana! Tell me everything; how is he? Is he demanding? Charming? I've heard he's got an immense vitality—particularly at his age."

I flush, quickly looking away.

"He's—very polite. Very energetic. Busy."

"But what is he like? Is he attractive?"

My blush deepens as I remember his burning blue gaze.

"Um…I mean…he's alright. You know…he's…he's…he's alright. If you're into that."

She scoffs, closing her computer.

"Who wouldn't be 'into that?' He does everything—and that look in his eyes—I bet he's amazing in bed."

"Kate!"

"What? He totally is, Ana, even you had to pick up on that. But I admit I was worried about the thought of you two being alone together—I mean, you're such a libertarian, after all."

I shrug awkwardly, moving to the kitchen to make a sandwich of my own.

"I mean—yeah, I'm not into his politics, but we were both…"

Electric. Intent. Thrumming with desire.

"polite."

Kate shrugs, getting up and taking my freshly-made sandwich, wrinkling her nose at me playfully. Fuckin bitch.

"Ah, I see. Well, glad to hear it; thanks so, so much, Ana. I'm going to go transcribe this—you're the best!"

I smile knowingly; Kate, after all, is nothing if not a charmer. Even sick and sniffly, her whims and wiles are all out and ready.

"No problem, Kate."

That night, I dream of intent blue eyes, firm handshakes, restless pacing, and bristly mustaches tickling their way up my belly.

The next morning, I get up and dress and make my way to work—Portland Hardware, just down the street from Kate and I's apartment. I'm in the middle of stacking some more tape measures along the wall when there's a distant crash—a distant crash and a shout of Ah! Anastasia! Bully!

I freeze, that roiling desire again pooling in my lower regions. Oh, no.

Desperately, I hope that Paul, one of my too-friendly coworkers, will take him.

(But of course, when I need him most, Paul is nowhere in sight.)

I turn, breath caught in my throat, and there he is—standing at the doorway, astride what looks like a large moose.

"Oh," I breathe. Geez—shouldn't the Secret Service be here or something? Is this safe?

"M-mr. President," I whisper, halfway to a curtsy—it's just instinct. He's just so regal. "I—please, come in."

He hops off his moose, landing on his feet with a sort of vigorous grace, his hands on his hips.

"A pleasure, Anastasia! A pleasure! I was just in the neighborhood—figured a President should get right into the grit of life!"

He pumps his way down the aisles, those eyes taking in everything.

"Ah, splendid, splendid! Life—what a bully cock-fight it is, eh, Anastasia?"

I blink, momentarily distracted by the tautness of his butt in those riding pants…

"Oh—oh, yes, sir…um…are…are you…"

My subconscious looks at me over her half-moon spectacles, pursing her lipsticked lips.

Get it together, Steele!

"Are you…here for…for anything?"

He nods, grinning. Oh, my.

"Yes, yes—I'm here for a few things, Anastasia—masking tape! Where's the masking tape?"

I turn away from him, trying to calm the roar of my heart.

"Oh—just this way, Mr. President…"

He follows me, close at my heels—I get the feeling that he's the type that likes to lead—down this aisle and the next until we reach the masking tape. He rubs his hands together, delighted.

"Ah, splendid! Just splendid! Yes, this will do! What a selection!"

I shrug—then:

"Yes…that's what the prosperity of laissez-faire economics will do."

He turns sharply, eyes alert. Up to the challenge. Warmth surges, dark and deep, in my abdomen.

"Ah! Excellent shot, Miss Steele! But surely you can admit that too much freedom breeds danger."

I lean slightly forward.

"Yet was it not Benjamin Franklin who said those who would trade liberty for a temporary security—"

But in the middle of my retort, his phone rings, and he holds up a hand, grabbing it.

"My apologies, Miss Steele—I have to go—we shall spar another day, yes, yes? Bully!"

And he falls into a sweeping bow, kissing my hand—my inner goddess swoons, falling onto a nearby ottoman—and hurrying off, masterfully mounting his moose.

I wish he'd masterfully mount me like—no, get it together, Steele!

And he gallops off with a loud, lusty yell, leaving me watching him and forlornly holding the masking tape.

I'm in the middle of a sandwich at my brief lunch break when my phone rings. I pick it up, disinterested.

"Hello?"

His voice nearly ravishes me through the phone; I grab at my sandwich with white knuckles. Holy fuck, this is so hot.

"Anastasia! Bully! How are you, how are you? Look, here's the thing; this interview your friend wants, this interview—it has to have a photo shoot, of course. I'd forgotten earlier. But of course the President must smile with assurance at his people—even you, Anastasia, won't grudge a President an authoritative smile, I hope."

I try to snort, even as my toes nearly curl back. Oh, my. My inner goddess runs her tongue over her lips, eyes ravenous.

"I-I guess not this once."

"Bully! Excellent! Come, shall we say tomorrow at 9? I'll be waiting at the hotel, yes? Splendid! Well, I'll have to be going, Anastasia—country to run, horses to ride, damme, it never ends! Hoo-rah!"

And then he's gone, leaving me to gape.