“You’re right. I could’ve dated anyone. But I chose to marry Parker. And we do what she’s comfortable with, not what everyone wants.”

He continues, “If you’re… God, I knew it. I knew this would happen.”

“You knew what would happen?” I ask.

Nick groans. “This isn’t going to end well, Fitz. I knew it.”

“It won’t end because it’s real, Nick. All of it. The marriage”—I correct myself—“the relationship… nothing fake about it. You need to respect that. I won’t have her do anything she’s not comfortable with.”

I have no idea what will happen after the convention, but no matter what does, I’m going to protect Parker, her privacy, and her needs. And I’m going to start laying the foundation for that now even if that means fibbing to Nick.

“So you told her?” Nick asks. “You told her everything?”

“Everything.”

“What did she think about the tattoo?”

My eyes drift down my body, where I barely make out the tip of the ink peeking over the edge of the towel. “It’s not really your business,” I say. “It’s not really anyone’s.”

“Fitz.” Nick sighs. “You’re America’s husband now. Like it or not, it’s everyone’s business.”

Chapter 29

For the rest of the week, I focus on two things—dating my husband and spending time with my lover while my husband is at work. The former, unfortunately, is harder than I thought it would be for a few reasons. One, it was never part of the plan. And two, as camp nears, Fitz seems busier than ever, cramming in a last minute ad campaign he flew to and from Chicago for, and, of course, spending hours on end at the Rebels facility.

The truth is, I don’t mind to an extent. Because between Fitz being busy at work, and me on hiatus from campaign life, I get uninterrupted time with Bernard. But where I do mind? In the bedroom.

I know I don’t exactly have a typical marriage. Depending on who you ask, it’s fraudulent for one thing. And two, feelings came after the decision to get married was made.

But they are real feelings. And that’s what Fitz wants—realness. So I’m at a loss as to why, having been both his girlfriend and wife for more than a week, it feels like since we came back to Vegas, I’ve been sort of friendzoned.

Maybe that’s a little dramatic. You don’t kiss your friends, or grab their asses, or touch and play the way we do. But Fitz won’t give me more than that, even though I can feel, as we fall asleep in my room downstairs, that he wants to.

I’ve taken matters into my own hands this morning.