Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

KENAN

I could see memories flashing across Garner's face. With him this close, I wondered if he, like me, remembered all the times we'd touched.

The times we'd gotten close over the previous four and a half years were imprinted on my brain. Imprinted on my skin.

I'd pulled his suit coat on and off countless times, trailing my fingertips over the warmth of his body through his shirt. I'd even tweezed two rogue eyebrow hairs right before he was scheduled for a sit-down interview with a well-known reporter. The show's hair and makeup process would take place in front of too many people, so the president had pulled me aside with a frantic plea for help in his private washroom.

I remembered stepping between his knees as he'd sat on the toilet lid looking up at me. The way the warm, dim lighting had caught in his hair and the way his Armani aftershave had mixed with his Harry's Redwood deodorant to make a scent purely his own.

It had filled the small space and seeped into my skin as I'd reached out with my left hand to cup the back of his head. "Hold still," I'd murmured as I leaned in closer to identify the hairs in question.

"Getting old," he'd muttered. "Like one of those old men whose eyebrows take on a life of their own."

I'd huffed out a laugh. "Yes. Geezer President. The absolute geezeriest."

Once I had the tweezer tips in just the right spot to pluck the first one, I hesitated for a microsecond. Causing this man pain, even the quickest, most insignificant pain like a plucked eyebrow, wasn't easy for me.

"Commander?"

"Mm," I'd said before clearing my throat and yanking the hair. I quickly placed my thumb over the spot and pressed in.

"What are you doing?"

"Conditioned pain modulation," I'd explained. "Overcoming one stimulus with another to confuse the receptors. Is it working?"

His green eyes had been particularly luminous that day as he'd peered up at me. "My receptors are definitely confused," he'd responded in a rough whisper.

Our eyes had locked together for a moment. The tension between us was as pervasive as the familiar and delicious scent of him.

I'd moved my thumb down from his eyebrow, tracing his temple, his cheek, his jawline. His eyes widened as my heart thundered in my chest, worrying about his reaction to my inappropriate intimacy.

Neither of us had spoken, but he'd shifted his knees until his legs bracketed mine. He'd lifted his hands from his lap and placed them on my hips. Our eyes had stayed together as I'd moved the tweezer to grasp the final misbehaving eyebrow hair.

"Have dinner with me tonight?" he'd asked, clearly surprising both of us. But then, something in his expression had shuttered. "Sorry. Sorry. Forget I said that. Please."

I'd clenched my jaw against the desire to argue with him, to demand he take back his take-back and let his original invitation stand.

In the end, it hadn't mattered. Because halfway through the interview, we'd gotten the message about an incoming weather emergency in California that had derailed the rest of the president's evening.

By the time everything had settled back into their normal routine, Garner had pretended that moment in the restroom had never happened.

And I'd gone back to biding my time.