I smile awkwardly around the room at those who stare while Fitz leads me outside onto the path rounding the south lawn. He stops and turns but doesn’t let go of my hand. He takes the other so he holds both.

“Is someone watching?” It’s a stupid question. This is the White House. It’s not a matter of someone watching. In a hidden room, a bunker, an off-site, there’s probably a team of people looking at us in this exact moment.

Fitz shakes his head.

I look down at his hands holding mine. “What was that about?”

“Are you cold?” Fitz ignores my question, letting go of my hands and rubbing my shoulders. “You have goosebumps.”

I would think Fitz is lying if I didn’t look down and see the small prickles on the top of my chest, something you definitely don’t see on a late June evening in Washington, DC. It’s like there’s a disconnect between my mind and body, between reality and fiction. I can’t quite feel anything. Except Fitz.

“You didn’t have to send your lineman to protect me. Cam is harmless.”

Fitz’s jaw tics.

I sigh. “Fitz…I’m serious. Cam doesn’t matter.”

I watch his lips disappear into a fine line and I scoff, feeling his protectiveness is too much, all things considering. But then I remember earlier.

“Did you have a crush on me in high school?”

His hands freeze for a moment before he drops them and laughs. It’s nervous, a little awkward, the kind you produce when you want to redirect the question to another matter entirely.

Part of me finds it oddly adorable. But that’s surpassed by something greater—confusion.

“I’m only asking⁠—”

“Parker,” Fitz interjects. “You were pretty and smart and a badass. On any given day, I’m sure there were a dozen Thacher boys crushing on you. Including Cam.”

“I’d like to think I’m still smart.”

“You are,” Fitz says without missing a beat. “And for the record, now you’re beautiful, not just pretty.”

I shake my head. “You keep doing that.”

Fitz’s thick brows creep together. “Doing what?”

I lift my hands slightly in frustration. “Talking like you mean every word.”

And making me believe you.

I suddenly realize that’s what’s been eating away at me. Me. I’m falling for the bullshit I convinced Fitz to sell in the first place. But it’s one thing to buy it from the outside, to ooh and ahh and call us America’s Sweethearts. On the inside, it’s different. It’s kind of terrifying.

“I want to make sure we’re still telling the same story Fitz.”

Because upstairs, after that kiss, I worry we’ve lost the plot.

“We’re planning to go to Vegas tomorrow night,” I add.