Chapter 3
Andi
Present Day
Not everyone can say they’ve touched the prime minister of Canada’s boxer briefs. On multiple occasions.
That statement sounds far more scandalous than it actually is.
Like most things in this life, the truth isn’t all that titillating.
Folding and packing the PM’s unmentionables is just a typical day in the life of me—the personal assistant to Gretchen Nichols, wife of the Right Honorable Eric Nichols.
I sigh, staring at the ominously high pile of tighty-whities, wondering how many I can stack before they topple over.
You’d think after Underweargate (when a pair of Eric’s tighty-whities ended up on eBay for $750), he’d diversify his underwear collection.
Maybe add a splash of color, a playful pattern.
But he has not, which is a choice. I respect it.
Technically, the housekeepers are responsible for laundry, but after Underweargate, the Nichols family is understandably less trusting about who handles their unmentionables. And after three years as Gretchen’s PA, I’ve been deemed trustworthy of the privilege. Lucky me.
I won’t lie—there are times I wonder how I got here.
When I landed that coveted summer internship with the Democratic People’s Party fresh out of university, I was bright-eyed, idealistic, hell-bent on sticking it to the man and making the world a better place for those who need it most—one policy memo at a time.
As it turns out, jobs on the Hill are Hunger Games–level competitive.
So when the manager of the household staff called me out of the blue and informed that the PM’s wife urgently needed a PA with a “get-up-and-go” spirit and “sparkly” personality, I took the position, no questions asked.
I left out the part that I possessed neither of those qualities, because I wasn’t in a position to be picky.
I was freshly single, in my own apartment, and I needed the money, badly.
Besides, I know firsthand how quickly life can go downhill if you find yourself unemployed for too long.
I also mistakenly assumed the job would offer enough flexibility to pursue my side passion: writing romance.
And it did for a few months, until Gretchen realized I’m allergic to the word “no” and took over my life.
Now, my days are packed from dawn to dusk: fielding phone calls from Gretchen’s pesky mother, steaming her capsule wardrobe of neutral linens, or hand-burying the Nichols children’s deceased pet hamster in the backyard (and arranging its themed “gone but not FUR-gotten” funeral).
Instead of writing sweeping love stories in my spare time, I’m in a constant state of catch-up.
I’m lucky if I can get a few sentences down a day.
To be fair, being Gretchen’s PA isn’t as bad as it sounds, even if her intensity terrifies me.
Over the years, I’ve come to believe that changing the world isn’t always about grand, lofty ideals and fancy policy documents.
Maybe making a difference is in those small, honorable everyday tasks, like playing Jenga with Eric’s undies.
The deeds that require you to roll up your sleeves and get your hands dirty, literally.
I’m about to start unpacking Eric’s socks when the bedroom door bursts open.
Gretchen charges in like an impeccably dressed beige storm cloud and stands over me.
“I know I texted you about packing that champagne satin dress for dinner, but I was looking at pictures from the fitting and I think the cowl neck makes me look boxy, don’t you?
I can’t even wear a bra with it. I know nipples are in, but mine are way too aggressive.
This is what happens when you exclusively pump-feed two children,” she cautions, peeking at them disapprovingly under her blouse.
As a childless woman with my original nipples, all I can do is nod and pretend to understand the struggle. Most of the time, all Gretchen wants is to be heard.
“The beige one doesn’t scream romantic anniversary dinner, either,” she continues, lips pursed. The word “anniversary” catches my attention.
Shit.
She doesn’t know. This is the third time I’ve had to be the bearer of bad news in the past few months.
Thankfully, she’s gotten good at reading me. It takes her all of two seconds to figure it out.
“Eric canceled again, didn’t he?” she demands before I’m forced to say it aloud. As a former attorney, the woman is scarily perceptive.
I dip my chin, softening my gaze. “I know you were looking forward to it.” She and Eric had plans to spend the weekend in Mont Tremblant for their sixth anniversary, hence the packing.
It was going to be a weekend of fine dining and relaxing couple’s spa treatments.
I booked the entire thing months ago, and just like that, I’ll be spending the afternoon combing through cancelation policies and negotiating refunds.
She’s more upset than she’s letting on, by the way she’s furiously digging at her cuticles, shoulders squared in an effort to look casual and unaffected.
Tension aside, she’s still absolutely stunning.
Her bone structure is otherworldly and her poreless, tanned skin makes me want to cry.
Then there’s her long, thick hair that always looks windswept, like she walks around with a fan blowing on her at all times.
If she doesn’t receive at least one compliment on her lush locks, it’s a bad day for her.
If I didn’t know she was an attorney, I’d assume she was a cover model.
Canadian designers are constantly sending sample pieces in hopes she’ll wear them.
She huffs. “What’s going on this time?”
“It’s Kirkwood,” I tell her, because really, that’s all she needs to know. Kevin Kirkwood is the minister of finance—well, former minister as of 6:00 a.m. He stepped down publicly, and now they’re scrambling to find a replacement.
“Sex scandal?” she confirms knowingly.
I nod.
She lets out a throaty, marginally evil laugh, her eyes narrowed to slits. “I knew I didn’t trust him the first time we met. He was trying to guess the bra size of every woman at the table. Then, at the end of the night when I was going to leave, he claimed I owed him a hug.”
She’s not lying. I’ve lost track of how many times I dodged advances by men like Kirkwood as an intern.
“Who did he stick it in this time?” Gretchen asks before I can say anything.
“The nanny.” It’s not the first time Kirkwood has been embroiled in a sex scandal.
In the two times previous (both interns), it was just whispers on the Hill with no actual proof, like most scandals of this nature.
But this time, the nanny herself came forward with receipts (i.e.
, screenshots of laughably bad sexts where he had the audacity to type the word “bosom,” as well as a terribly angled dick pic for good measure), which hit the media, finally exposing his trash bag ways once and for all.
“The nanny.” Gretchen lets out a derisive snort. “So uninspired. If you’re going to have an affair, at least do it with some pizzazz. Some flair. We never hear of them sleeping with the gardener, or the delivery person.”
A feeble laugh bubbles up from my throat. “All right, so I’m going to cancel all the weekend bookings.”
Gretchen grumbles, mentally incinerating the suitcase with her amber eyes.
“It would have been nice to actually spend our anniversary together. I thought with the House rising for the summer, we’d actually have more time together,” she says, referring to the months when members of Parliament return to their home constituencies for the summer.
“But he’s busier than ever, if not more with the G20 summit.
And with the election coming up in the fall, I won’t see him for months.
” She’s not wrong. The election is in October, and while Eric is predicted to win again, the months leading up are jam-packed with travel, events, and general campaigning.
“I’m sure he’ll make it up to you…after the election,” I say hopefully as she disappears into the mahogany-paneled walk-in closet.
“I doubt it,” she says over the clank of metal hangers and the woosh of fabric. “It’s always something.” Her words strike me in the heart, and I can’t help but remember the starry-eyed look she used to give him four years ago.
During the election campaign, Gretchen would stop by his office.
He’d stop whatever he was doing to wrap her in his arms and plant tiny kisses all over her face and neck when he thought no one was looking.
They were even advised to cool it in public to appease the conservative-leaning voters.
Fast-forward to now, and she and Eric don’t even sleep in the same bed.
It doesn’t help that Eric travels constantly, domestically and internationally. And when he is home, he’s usually in his office until the late hours, reading a stack of briefings that comes up to my boobs until he falls asleep on the couch.
I tilt my chin, unsure what to say, aside from, “I’m sorry, Gretchen.”
She rights her posture immediately, as though refusing to admit the disappointment to herself.
“It’s fine. It’s what I signed up for, isn’t it?
Honestly, I’m more pissed about missing out on that hot stone massage than anything else.
” She flicks through her phone mindlessly. “Think you can book one for me today?”
“Absolutely.”
“Now that my weekend is free, I should probably go for lunch with Mireille, the owner of that restaurant with those brushed gold caramel dome desserts. We need some more big-ticket items for the gala’s silent auction.
Oh, maybe you can help me with the kids’ variety show costumes,” she continues, her mind always racing with things to do, just like mine.
“Oh. Right. Um, actually, I was going to ask if I could have Saturday off.” She purses her lips and I can already tell the thought of it stresses her out.
So I add, “But never mind. I’ll be here if you need me.
” I don’t bother explaining that I had plans with my sister, Amanda, while Gretchen was supposed to be away.
It’s been weeks since we last saw each other, which feels like an eternity, given we were two peas in a pod as kids, running up and down the halls of the run-down social housing complexes we lived in for years.
My sister and I were going to do lunch and then peruse a flea market, where she would inevitably buy more novelty junk she doesn’t need.
Thankfully, Amanda won’t mind if I cancel.
She only recently moved here from Toronto, and already she has a million friends or acquaintances she can call, unlike me, who has exactly one friend, who is now blissfully engaged to my ex.
Besides, when you have a job like mine, a social life is basically impossible. “I’m going to meet the event coordinator at the Chateau to confirm the dimensions for the stage this afternoon,” I note. Gretchen is a bit of a micromanager and likes to know what I’m up to, which is fine by me.
“Go home after that,” she instructs me. “We have the Squamish trip next week. You’ll need all the rest you can get.
” Squamish is a mountainy town north of Vancouver, BC, and happens to be Eric’s riding, aka his hometown, where he was originally elected as a member of Parliament before being named the party leader.
They’re going for two days to meet with local constituents.
“Seriously. I’ll be checking your location to make sure you’re home by a decent hour. ”
I catch myself mid-yawn and nod, though we both know leaving early is merely fantasy in this line of work.
By the time I complete everything on my to-do list, it’ll be well after dinner.
But that’s typical. There are no set hours, especially with the twenty-four-hour news cycle, which is why my ringer is always set to max volume, even in the middle of the night.
You never know when the next scandal will break.
“I’ll have to see how it goes with the—” I’d continue, but her attention is pulled to the doorway. Eric is standing there, tie askew, bags under his eyes. He looks visibly stressed, presumably by the whole Kirkwood thing. “Sorry, am I interrupting?”
Gretchen folds her arms over her chest. “What do you need?”
“I just wanted to…” He pauses for a beat while I hold my breath, praying an apology is to follow, or it’s about to be a nightmare weekend for all of us. But instead, he looks at me and says, “Introduce Andi to my new CPO.”
By CPO, he means close protection officer, aka the James Bond–esque folks with earpieces who follow the Nichols family around 24/7. Gretchen hates it, but given Eric’s popularity, it’s necessary.
It was a little unnerving when I first started working for Gretchen, having someone dressed in all black lurking around in the shadows, watching your every move.
But I’ve gotten to know most of them pretty well, particularly Ben, Kyle, and Joanna, her main CPOs, considering how much time they spend around us.
They’re pretty down-to-earth if you can learn not to be personally offended by their disapproving expressions.
The new CPO’s head is turned, looking in the opposite direction. From my vantage point, his hair has an I-just-got-out-of-bed look to it and the collar of his white dress shirt is a little loose.
He’s not wide and beefy like some of the CPOs. He’s leaner, with a figure reminiscent of a soccer player—muscular and agile, but not overwhelmingly hulking. Though based on the way I have to crane my neck to look at him, he’s tall.
When he finally turns his head, our eyes meet in a devastating flash of blue.
A hot surge of recognition shoots through me. I know him.