For the Record (Record #3)(32)

She still had to graduate. They had only been together a couple weeks. He was kind of getting ahead of himself.

Brady started laughing. “You should see your face.”

Liz reached out and smacked him on the arm. “You’re such a jerk!”

“I’ve been called worse,” he said with a shrug. “By you, actually. What did you call me when we first met? Power hungry with my only interests in money?”

“And didn’t you prove me wrong?” she murmured, squeezing his hand.

“Only with the best intentions. I believe I told you that you just needed to get to know me.”

“I think I got to know every inch of you that night,” Liz said, remembering the hotel after the Jefferson-Jackson gala they had attended.

“You abandoned your cheesecake for me. It’s how I knew you were really into me.”

“Maybe,” she teased.

“Am I not convincing?” He brought her hand to his lips and gently kissed her hand, her palm, and then the inside of her wrist. She shivered.

“Yes, you’re pretty damn convincing.”

And it was completely true. As a politician, if he wasn’t convincing, then Liz wasn’t sure how he had gotten his job. And he had convinced her in more than just having sex with him—in falling for him, in loving him, in believing in him, in trusting him, in giving him her heart again.

Brady smirked and laced their fingers back together. He took a couple more turns and then pulled into a parking spot. “Here we are.”

“Where is here?” she asked as she stepped out of the Range Rover and glanced around. Then her mouth dropped. “The White House?”

“I did say our new home.”

Liz couldn’t help it; she burst out laughing. “The White House is our new home? Still getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you, Congressman Maxwell?”

“I like to plan ahead,” he said as they started walking toward the White House. “It’s all worked out so far.”

“So it has,” she said with a bright smile.

The only way to get access to a tour of the White House was through a member of Congress . . . and she sure had access to her Congressman’s member.

She giggled to herself at the thought.

After showing identification at the gate, they were ushered through and Brady immediately started talking, giving her a full rundown of everything he knew about the building. It was like having her own personal tour guide. Apparently he had been in the White House dozens of times before he had ever been elected to Congress, since his father was a Senator and had been serving for nearly thirty years.

They entered the East Wing as the last of the regular tourists were being escorted out. Tours ended at one thirty in the afternoon, but since she was with Brady they were able to continue walking around. They passed through room after room. Blue Room, Green Room, Red Room, East Room, State Dining Room. Brady seemed to have more than his fair share of knowledge regarding the various rooms, and he was kind enough to indulge her in taking a picture with the portrait of George Washington.

Just when she thought it was over, he grabbed her hand and walked her toward the West Wing. Her heart fluttered. She knew it was silly to get this worked up, but she knew what was behind those doors. The President of the United States, the central point of the government, and, most important to her—the White House press offices.

Brady laughed when her eyes bugged out and he directed her down the hall. He opened the door to the press office. “Have a field day,” he joked.

Liz walked in, mesmerized by the bustle. It was a weekend, so it was quieter than it would be on a weekday, but it was still abuzz with people working on articles, making phone calls, and speaking animatedly on the phone. She didn’t dare interfere with anything that was happening, but just stared around her. This was her dream, the epicenter of all political journalism, and she was standing on holy ground.

“Thank you,” she whispered to Brady when they exited a few minutes later. “That was . . . a dream.”

“Good. I won’t wake you up either.” She smiled up at him, starry-eyed. “I have one more thing if you’re interested.”

Liz nodded. Brady walked farther down the West Colonnade, pointing out the famous Rose Garden that the Oval Office opened out to. Brady took her arm and directed her into the next room, and she stopped dead in her tracks.

“Are you serious?” she whispered.

She was standing in the Press Briefing Room, which was filled with only about fifty blue cushioned chairs facing a small podium in which the president gave speeches and addressed the press. If the press offices were holy ground, this was heaven for a reporter.

She ran her hands gingerly along the back of the first chair and imagined herself sitting there addressing the president. She wondered what they would be discussing, what topic he would bring forth to the public. She wondered if she would be addressed, what she would say, if her question would be answered, as it had been by Brady at her first press conference as a reporter.

And then she remembered: no paper and no job. She wasn’t a reporter, not right now.

She whipped her hand back like she had been burned. She didn’t belong here.

Her eyes shot over to where Brady was standing by, watching her with an adoring look on his face. He had done this for her. He had known what this would mean to her, and had wanted to make her happy.