The World: According to Rachael Read Online Free PDF Page B

because he has a glimmer of hope that he might be able to score a social invite to hang out with the President.
    I’m kicking myself for even saying anything. “Plans that don’t include you,” I reply tartly.
    “You’re the White House Chief of Staff. Score me an invite, Rach …” he says in a goading voice as he leers toward me.
    Fortunately, we arrive at the Smithsonian, which ends this conversation. I slip my game face on and wait for the car door to swing open. Roan steps out first, buttoning his black suit jacket, and I get an unguarded moment to admire the beauty of the man.
    He’s in his mid-forties with milk-chocolate salt-and-peppered hair, and eyes that can only be described as aquamarine. Roan is always clean-shaven and impeccably dressed. It’s such a shame that his beautiful outside is matched only by his ugly insides, but he does have a nice bulge in his pants. Probably a pair of socks.
    He reaches for my hand, and I offer it to him. With the grace and charm of a suave lover, he helps me out of the vehicle, giving a wave to the reporters.
    His palm rests just where I asked it to stay as we make our way along the red carpet.
    The Vice-President was supposed to be in attendance to dedicate the new Smithsonian Exhibit this evening, but a campaign opportunity arose, so he asked me to cover for him. Just another day doing my job.
    Roan and I stop in front of the backdrop and pose while the cameras snap away. Like the pros that we are, we turn in different directions, making sure that the photographers get every angle. Right before Roan steps out of the shot so I can be photographed solo, he leans in and whispers in my ear, “Your hot little ass will look gorgeous laid out underneath me on my white sheets.” Then, he discreetly runs his tongue over the shell of my ear.
    Goose bumps plague my arms at his dirty words. I loathe Roan as a human being, but there isn’t a girl in the world that can tell her body not to respond to his charisma.
    I’m sure that the photographers got a great candid shot of my shocked face.
    There are so many things that I should say to him as we make our way into the museum. I war between taking him up on his offer—because let’s face facts, my sex life is nonexistent—and telling him that his little stunt has earned him banishment as my date ever again.
    What do I do? Nothing. I just silently allow him to escort me into the museum where we are both thankfully bombarded with guests attending the function. I am not forced to discuss his transgression, and fortunately, we’re able to separate.
    I turn my attention to my reason for being here—networking on behalf of the President. Time passes quickly, and I don’t see Roan again until he’s sneaking off with one of the waitresses who appears to have been hired for her large assets rather than her drink-passing skills. She has already spilled a tray of crab cakes, and dumped a soda in some poor guy’s lap.
    I make my speech about the President’s commitment to preserving our nation’s history, pose for pictures with an oversized red ribbon, and ceremonially hold a gigantic pair of silver scissors that are larger than I am. The curtain falls as the guests begin to move in closer for a better look.
    That’s my cue to slip out. Lou, the Secret Service agent assigned to me, knows the drill. I lock eyes with him. He moves through the crowd and escorts me to the waiting town car. Roan will find his own way home, probably with the waitress in tow. He’s one of the many unfortunate bullet points of my job description.
    The Smithsonian is not too far from the White House. If I didn’t have on ridiculously high heels, I would suggest that Lou and I walk. It’s unseasonably warm in D.C. for the beginning of November, and it happens to be a lovely, clear night.
    Lou drops me off at the employee entrance, and I head straight for my office to change out of this constrictive cocktail dress and into my casual clothes, which are much