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  about other people; he does, and he's done great things as President that have helped a lot of people. That's why his approval rating is so high. Well, that and my father is immensely charismatic.

  But he does have priorities, and priority number one is getting elected to a second term. At this point, that's really considered to be in the bag. But that won't stop my father from campaigning to win until he's certain the election is entirely locked down. It's what he does, part of who he is.

  Beside me, Vi snickers. "Grace Monroe Sullivan," she says softly, her voice low in an imitation of my father's.

  "Hello to you too, Dad," I call as my parents approach, flanked by their Secret Service personnel. "And Mom."

  "How many times have I told you not to refer to me as 'Mom'?" Katherine Sullivan stops short of me, her eyes scanning down the length of my body. I know what she's doing without her even having to say a word. She's evaluating me, deciding which part of my attire or presentation should be changed. It's what she's always done for as long as I can remember. It hasn't stopped, even though I'm an adult. Actually, I think it's gotten worse over the years. "You know that I can't stand that casual language. I've always been 'Mother' and that hasn't changed in the month since I last saw you."

  Standing beside her, my father rolls his eyes, but she doesn't catch it. Or more likely, she caught it and ignored it. "Katherine, leave the girl alone. At least she still calls us Mom and Dad, and not Kathy and Art."

  I giggle at the thought, even as my mother visibly recoils, her face contorted in an expression of horror. My mother has never been the casual type. Even when my parents campaigned in the mid-west and my mother tried to dress "like a regular person”, she still looked out of place. She's one of those women who belong in another decade. The magazines call her this century's Jackie O, and my mother couldn't be more pleased with the comparison. She's always been more “afternoon tea and country club” than “jeans and shopping at Target”. "Honestly, Arthur, you shouldn't even joke like that. It's unseemly." Her eyes linger on my shoulders and she narrows them slightly. "Is your dress torn?"

  "Not anymore," Vi says. "I stitched the straps back into place."

  "Well, you simply can't wear that dress, Grace. Where's your backup gown?"

  "I don't have a backup gown."

  "How many years have you been attending events like this, Grace? You didn’t bring a backup gown?"

  "It doesn’t look torn," my father interjects. "It looks fine to me."

  "Well, you would be wearing plaid ties if I didn't dress you," my mother says stiffly.

  "I like plaid ties. They're distinctive."

  "They're not Presidential."

  "They could be your trademark, part of your brand," Vi suggests. "The President in Plaid."

  "Am I a brand?" my father asks.

  "Of course you're a brand," my mother sniffs.

  "Aren't we all," Vi adds wistfully.

  "No, we're not all brands," I protest, more out of discomfort with the notion than in disagreement. If my parents had their way, I'd be wearing campaign attire twenty-four hours a day. As it is, I'm enough of a walking advertisement for my father just by being his daughter.

  "Don't be obtuse," my mother says, sighing. "Well, at least you're wearing red, Grace. Thank God for small mercies. Red doesn't wash you out nearly as much as some other colors."

  I clear my throat, anxious to get my mother to direct her attention away from her critique of me and my wardrobe choices. "Should we go?"

  "Sure thing, kiddo," my father says. He puts his hand on my shoulder. "Now, what am I talking about tonight?"

  I groan. "Dad, it's the foundation fundraiser. You already know "

  "I'm kidding, Gracie. Of course I know it’s the foundation fundraiser.”

  I exhale heavily. "I'm a little on edge."

  "It's because she needs a vacation," Vi chimes in. "Or a good hard –"

  "Let's go out there already, Vi," I say, heavily emphasizing her name as I give her a "cut it out" look.

  "A good hard what?" my father asks, oblivious to the innuendo behind Vi's words.

  "Nothing," I reply, clearing my throat again. "Shall we go?"

  My mother doesn't miss the implication. "You know, I spoke with Eleanor Redding last week. Her son Brandon is attending tonight with her and I told her that you'd be thrilled to connect with him. He graduated tenth in his class at Yale, law review at Harvard Law School, and he's working in international –"

  "Thanks, Mother, but this is a charity event." I cut her off before she can say anything else about a lawyer I should be dating. Or a banker I should be dating. Or the billionaire son of billionaire parents who are politically well-connected that she'd love to marry me off to. The last guy she forced me to go out on a date with spent the whole time showing me photos of his yacht. No thanks. "I'd rather focus on the charity, if it's all the same to you."

  "Perfect. You can sweet-talk Brandon into donating to the foundation," she says.

  Great job, Grace. I walked right into that one. But I'd rather sweet talk Noah. The thought pops into my head, causing my cheeks to heat as we walk to the ballroom. What the hell is wrong with me lately? It's bad enough I can't stop fantasizing about one totally inappropriate guy, but two?

  9

  Noah

  By some kind of miracle, I make it through all five courses of the dinner – or was it six? I endure the man beside me who badgers me for inside information about other players so he can place wagers on next season's games, wink-wink-nudge-nudging me as he downs scotch after scotch and talks about how he understands the game because he played football in college. I even survive the old woman next to me who insists on showing me photos and giving me the phone number of her married granddaughter, despite my protests against it, because "her no-good husband doesn't deserve her and you look like a fine young man".

  I don't stab anyone with a fork, which is really commendable, in my opinion. I don't make any scenes. Somehow, I even manage to smile during the meal. All of that is a big deal – after all, my public demeanor has gotten me into hot water before. Apparently, telling reporters to “fuck off” when they’re up your ass trying to interview you after a game is frowned upon.

  I blame my tolerance for this bullshit on her – the President’s daughter. I’m distracted by her during the entire dinner, catching glimpses of her from across the room. She's hard to miss in that red dress, although truthfully she could be wearing a paper bag and she'd still be the hottest woman I’ve ever seen. I catch her eyes at one point, and I think I see her blush, an immediate reminder of where my hands were earlier tonight.

  I’d give just about anything to put them there again.

  The thought of my hands on her breasts makes my cock twitch, and I have to shift in my seat, returning my thoughts to whatever the hell boring bullshit that the guy beside me is talking about, just so that I don't get a boner right here in the middle of this event. And for the President's daughter, no less.

  I've got no call getting a hard-on for a girl like that. First of all, she’s out of my league. Even if she weren’t the President’s daughter, every part of the way she carries herself would telegraph that fact loud and clear. She’s classy, practically regal, every inch of her political royalty.

  She’s also a rich snob. I remind myself of that fact. A girl like her, born and bred into a family like that is definitely not down-to-earth. That much is true, no matter how hot that girl is. No matter how much the thought of her soft skin and her firm breasts make me want to pick her up and press her hard up against the nearest wall, thrust my cock inside her, and make her moan.

  She’s one of the rich and powerful. Hell, she’s the daughter of the most powerful man on earth. People like Aiden and I – poor kids from Colorado who got rich because we play sports – don't get with girls like that, even if we have all the money in the world.

  And I wouldn't want to anyway. Rich girls are the exact opposite of my type.

  Stil