Chapters (63)
- THE AMERICANA PLAYBOOK
- Dear Reader
- The Troubled Teen Industry
- Dedication
- Epigraph
- New England Rebels
- Day 44
- Chapter 1
- Chapter 2
- Chapter 3
- Chapter 4
- Day 55
- Chapter 5
- TWO MONTHS LATER
- Chapter 6
- Chapter 7
- Chapter 8
- Day 68
- Chapter 9
- Chapter 10
- Chapter 11
- Chapter 12
- Day 78
- Chapter 13
- Chapter 14
- Chapter 15
- Chapter 16
- Chapter 17
- Day 84
- Chapter 18
- Chapter 19
- Chapter 20
- Day 91
- Chapter 21
- Chapter 22
- Day 100
- Chapter 23
- Chapter 24
- Chapter 25
- Chapter 26
- Day 113
- Chapter 27
- Chapter 28
- Chapter 29
- Chapter 30
- Day 128
- Chapter 31
- Chapter 32
- Chapter 33
- Day 147
- Chapter 34
- Chapter 35
- Chapter 36
- Chapter 37
- Chapter 38
- Chapter 39
- Chapter 40
- Epilogue
- ONE MONTH LATER
- FIVE YEARS LATER
- Acknowledgments
- Also by Cathryn Carter
- About the Author
After realizing I didn’t bring my duffle into the bedroom when I took Madeline’s call, I slip into a robe I pull off the hook. All I heard was do this, do that, go here, wear this when she told me the details of the email she was planning to send regarding campaign events. I wanted to hang up every three seconds.
But I reminded myself I was calling the shots in this game and that arguing over kitten heels wasn’t the battle to choose. Instead, I calmed myself by dragging my finger along the light oak furniture before plopping down on the bed with the plush white duvet and navy piping, taking in deep breaths of hints of leather and bourbon cut with fresh laundry. The cloud around me is both masculine but still light and familiar and new all at the same time, and I know I’ll be at as much peace in this room as I possibly can be. It’s a stark difference from where I slept—or hardly slept—in the Executive Residence this past week.
“Come in,” I sit back on the bed when there’s a knock.
The door opens, and Fitz stands there with confusion written into the gentle creases between his eyebrows.
“Sorry. I hope you don’t mind. I needed to wash the day away.” It’s more like days even though I showered this morning. The White House is toxic.
Still wearing his charcoal suit pants and light blue button-down, Fitz leans against the doorway.
“If you really want me to sleep upstairs—”
Fitz shakes his head. “You can sleep here. Just give me until tomorrow to switch out closets. There’s a bunch of stuff upstairs.”
“I thought this was your room.”
Fitz rubs his chin. “I know I’ve got great legs for a guy, but something tells me you’ll pull off the skirts better.” He’s joking, of course, but there’s a serious gleam to his stare as it lingers on my bare knee poking through the opening of the robe. “I had some stuff sent over for you.”
I lean forward. “You bought me clothes? Fitz, you already gave me money—”
“You came with a weekend bag, and we haven’t even discussed getting your stuff out of your apartment even if you have the lease through June.”