Sarah pressed her lips together, her eyes laughing. "I'm sure you are, honey, but isn't it more fun to spend a lovely evening with us?"
Yeah, no way in hell would Rhett be able to say no to that. Calix wouldn't even have been able to, and he'd known Sarah for many years. Once that woman wanted something, there was no stopping her.
"T-thank you for the invitation, ma'am. I'm honored," Rhett said, stumbling over his words.
The poor man. This dinner would be hell for him if they didn't manage to solve the strange tension between them.
"Why don't I help you bring your equipment to your office?" he suggested, and when Rhett blinked, he strode right over to him and took his tripod. "Let's go."
He had no illusion he was fooling Sarah, and even Del had seemed to clue in on the fact that something was going on, but he needed to get Rhett away for a few minutes so they could get their stories straight. Neither of them said anything as they exited the White House and walked through the colonnade to the West Wing.
"I swear I didn't know she was going to invite me." Rhett finally broke the silence after looking around to make sure no one else was there.
"I know." Calix let out a sigh. "This is not on you. Sarah is…” Oh, for fuck's sake. Why couldn't he get through his head he had to stop calling them by their first names? "Mrs. Shafer is very perceptive, and unfortunately, neither of us is a good actor. She picked up on our weird behavior, and that's not your fault."
"I didn't mean to make things awkward for you."
"It's okay. Like I said, not your fault."
They had reached Rhett's office, and Rhett took the tripod from Calix and secured it along with his camera bags in a cabinet.
"We need to get our stories straight," Calix said. "I hate lying to them, so we need to agree on what we want to tell them."
Rhett nodded. "That would make me feel better. That way I don't have to worry about accidentally saying the wrong thing or revealing too much. So what do you propose?"
Yeah, that was the big question, wasn't it? What did Calix propose? He'd just told Rhett he hated lying to his friends, but was he really willing to tell them the whole truth? Maybe they could settle for a middle ground, where they were honest about the basics but kept the details to themselves?
"I'm okay with telling them you came over to my house to celebrate Thanksgiving," he said.
"You are?"
"You're not?"
"No, that's not what I meant. It's fine. I wanted to make sure it was what you wanted."
The absurdity of the situation hit Calix, and he laughed. "Look at us, being all polite and accommodating to each other. Why don't we try the slightly more direct route and say what we want?"
"Sounds good. You start."
Smartass. Calix couldn't fault him. When it came down to it, Rhett had a hell of a lot more to lose than he did. "What I want is to tell them you were at my place, that we celebrated Thanksgiving together, and that we're becoming friends. Everything else, like what we talked about, is ours. I'm not willing to share that. We said it was Vegas, so I want to honor that."
Rhett slowly nodded. "Okay. And what about…" His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed.
"What about what?"
Rhett lifted his fingers to his lips. Ah, that was what he was referring to. "Do I need to apologize for kissing you?"
"Do you want to? Do you regret it?"
Wow, he went straight for the jugular, didn't he? Still, Calix didn't need to think about his answer, mainly because he'd mulled it over in his head all day. "No. I don't. Should I?"
Relief flashed in Rhett's eyes. "No."
But Calix wasn't done asking. When he had impulsively kissed him the night before, he'd forgotten about one thing. One thing that couldn't be turned back. "Even though that was your first kiss in seventeen years?"
Rhett's cheeks grew fiery red. "No, I don't regret it. And you shouldn't either. It was perfect and…somehow fitting. So, thank you?"
God, the man was going to kill him. Thanking him for kissing him? "You're a cinnamon roll," he blurted out, then laughed. "That's what Matthew would've called you. A cinnamon roll. You're too sweet for this world. Too pure."
"Erm, thank you again, I think? At least, I'm hoping that was a compliment."
He put a hand on Rhett's shoulder. "It was. Relax."
"Relax," Rhett mumbled. "That's easier said than done when you're about to have dinner in the White House. With the president and the first lady. And their son and the first lady's brother. And you. Though I'm not nervous about you. Well, maybe about fucking up so you'd think I'm a total idiot, but other than that… I'm just peachy."
Calix burst out in laughter. He couldn't remember the last time he had laughed so much in twenty-four hours.
18
Oh god, oh god, oh god. Rhett had never been this nervous in his life. He was in the White House's family dining room. With the president and the first lady. Having dinner, served by butlers in black pants and crisp white dress shirts, which in itself made him incredibly self-conscious. He felt horribly underdressed in his Dockers and button-down shirt, even though the other men were wearing jeans and shirts.
Milan Bradbury introduced himself to Rhett and insisted he call him by his first name. As if he would do that—the man was the first lady's brother—but Rhett lacked the mental energy to protest. He'd just avoid calling him anything, which shouldn't be hard. He'd vowed to say as little as possible so he wouldn't embarrass himself.
How the hell had he gotten himself into this situation? More importantly, how would he survive?
They'd moved from the living room to the dining room, just across the hall. Of the residence. In the White House. God, he was about to freak out. Why was he so nervous about this? He'd been working here for months now, and he'd been in the residence multiple times. Hell, the first lady had even given him a short tour, and he'd seen the infamous Lincoln bedroom. He'd admired the view from the Truman balcony. So why was he suddenly so tongue-tied, so starstruck?
Because this wasn't work. He wasn't here in a professional capacity. He'd been invited to dinner as Rhett, not as the White House photographer, and it made all the difference in the world, even though it shouldn't.
The dining room was impressive but, in his opinion, not particularly pretty. He liked the massive chandelier above the oval dining table, but the blue and—what was that color, mint green?—wallpaper was too classic for him. And he would never have paired those with the rust-red curtains that had a busy flowery pattern on them, but what did he know? His taste ran more toward Ikea anyway.
He'd die a thousand deaths if he had to live here, terrified he'd damage or, god forbid, break something. Those dainty antique dressers and chairs might be stylish, but they were too fragile for him. He'd better pay attention not to scratch the dining table either, though the shiny wood looked fairly sturdy.
"This looks and smells amazing, Francis. Please tell Chef Morgan that," Mrs. Shafer told one of the butlers. Maybe the head butler? He seemed to be in charge, though Rhett wasn't sure what the hierarchy was. How did one get used to several people walking around to serve them? It was awkward enough in a restaurant, let alone in his own home. He'd better never move into the White House, then. He smiled. As if.