Full Throttle (Black Knights Inc. #7)(95)

“It’s President Thompson,” the agent called down. “And…a Mr.…”

She could hear the rumble of male voices as the agent asked for the man’s identity.

“Abby?” her father’s voice boomed down the stairs. “Are you decent? I’m coming down.”

Was she decent? “What the frickin’ sticks, Daddy!” she grumbled loudly, pushing up from the cushy comfort of her cream-colored sofa. “I’ve got a house full of Secret Service agents. Of course I’m decent!”

Well, if you considered yoga pants paired with a sports bra and a tank top decent. Which she totally did. A woman should be able to lounge around her own home in comfy clothes. Am I right? Or am I right?

She rounded the sofa as her father appeared at the bottom of the stairs, a pair of long, jean-clad legs visible on the treads behind him. As her mystery guest continued to descend, her heart leapt. Above the legs appeared a trim waist…and then a broad chest encased in a tight black T-shirt sporting the Black Knights Inc. Custom Motorcycles logo…and then…

She had to grab the back of the sofa, her nails sinking deep into the plush fabric. “C-Carlos?” she squeaked, her hand jumping to her throat. She could feel her pulse racing beneath her thumb, which might explain why she was suddenly so dizzy. Or maybe the room really was spinning? Was that possible?

She knew her father walked over to her. She knew he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tight. She knew he planted a kiss on her temple. But she only had eyes for Carlos, standing there on the last step, his face so…unreadable.

What is he doing here? Why is he with my father?

Upon landing in DC two days ago—Holy Moses, really? Just two days?—the first thing she’d said to her father was I told Carlos the truth. He deserved to hear it. And I couldn’t live with the lie anymore.

She didn’t know what she’d expected him to say. Probably something along the lines of we had a deal or but you promised. Instead, he’d simply nodded and pulled her into his arms, kissing her temple like he was doing now. Only then, he’d begun to cry. Deep, wrenching sobs. It was the first time in her life her tough, take-no-prisoners politician father had broken down around her. Which meant, of course, that she’d turned into a big ol’ bawl-bag, too. And as they stood there, sobbing in each other’s arms, they hadn’t spoken another word about Carlos and her broken promise.

“Biscuit,” he whispered now, using the nickname the family had given her as a baby, “can you ever forgive me?”

Whoa. Wha—?

That was enough to rip her eyes away from Carlos. She pushed back, searching her father’s face. Sometimes when she looked at him, all she saw was the president of the United States. But there were other times, like now, when he was just Dad. “F-forgive you for what?”

“For making you keep that secret when it ate you up inside,” he said, his hands squeezing her shoulders. “For not seeing that, for all these years you’ve been blaming yourself for what happened to Rosa. You told Soto it was your fault? Oh, Biscuit”—he shook his head, his expression the picture of sorrow—“how could you ever think that?” Her eyes filled with tears, her nostrils flaring. “Don’t you know that if one of us shoulders any blame, it’s me?”

One hot drop spilled over her lid, leaving a burning trail down her right cheek. No. No. “B-but I was the one who sent that text message,” she insisted, her chin trembling, feeling the crushing regret of her mistake as strongly in this moment as she had eight years ago. “I was the one who—”

“No.” He shook her, just a little, just enough to stop her mid-sentence. “No, Abigail,” he swore firmly, his tone having turned harsh, authoritative. And there was the president of the United States. “You’re blameless here.” He pulled her in close again, hugging her tight. “Oh, baby girl, you’re so blameless.”

No, she wasn’t!

Now it wasn’t one hot tear, but a dozen that slipped from her eyes, soaking her father’s red polo shirt. She shook her head, her throat so full she couldn’t argue. But in her head she was screaming.

“But if you don’t believe me, maybe you’ll believe him.” He let go of her to gesture over to Carlos, who was standing at the foot of the steps, his hands tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, his chin dipped down as if he’d lowered his eyes in an attempt to give them a bit of privacy. But now he was staring at them from beneath his eyebrows.

She gulped, shaking her head again. Oh, how she wished what her father was saying was true. How she wished it!

Then he turned back to her, bending to kiss her cheek and whisper, “And just so you know, I approve.”

“Wha—?” she managed to croak, running a hand under her leaking nose. She was no longer shaking her head in denial; she was shaking it in bewilderment. Approve of what? But before she could ask him, he straightened and headed for the stairs, stopping to quickly pump Carlos’s hand. Then he jogged up the carpeted treads with the quick, confident steps that only the leader of the free world could pull off. A second later, a muted snick told her he’d closed the door behind him.

Oh, sweet Peter, Paul, and Mary. And now she was alone with the man she loved more than life itself, the man whose sister she’d—

“It doesn’t represent your love of gardening and all things botanical, does it?” Carlos asked, lifting his chin but remaining rooted over there by the stairs. He looked good. A little tired, but clean-shaven and freshly showered and…so handsome she could barely catch her breath. Or maybe that was because her nose was all stuffed up from the Niagara Falls’ worth of tears stacked behind it.