Prime Minister (Frisky Beavers #1) Read online

  Prime Minister

  Ainsley Booth

  Sadie Haller

  Booth Haller Books

  Contents

  Dedication

  About This Book

  Glossary

  Foreword

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Also by Sadie Haller

  Also by Ainsley Booth

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  Dedication

  The sexiest part of a man is his brain

  And his forearms

  Bare feet are hot too

  Hands…

  A sense of humour

  Kindness (this list is in no particular order)

  * * *

  For every man who is smart enough to put his partner first

  and for every woman who knows that

  one day she’ll find that man

  (or woman…group of people…whatever works for you)

  About This Book

  Gavin:

  Ellie Montague is smart, sensitive, and so gorgeous it hurts to look at her. She’s also an intern in my office. The office of the Prime Minister of Canada.*

  That’s me. The PM.

  She calls me that because when she calls me Sir I get hard and she gets flustered, and as long as she’s my intern, I can’t twist my hands in her strawberry-blonde hair and show her what else I’d like her to do with that pretty pink mouth.**

  * * *

  Ellie:

  How much I like the PM varies on a daily basis. He’s intense, controlling, and a perfectionist in every way—and he demands the same of his staff.

  How much I want him never wavers.

  There’s something about him that tugs at me deep inside, and makes me wish that just once he’d cross the line in a late night work session. I’d take that secret to the grave if it meant I got a taste of the barely restrained beast inside him.***

  * * *

  FOOTNOTES:

  * This is a fictional erotic romance. No prime ministers or interns were harmed in the making of this book.

  ** Except it’s a BDSM romance, so they were hurt a little.

  *** Spoiler alert: she gets more than a taste. And she likes it.

  Glossary

  Canadianisms

  Toque - wool winter hat

  Donair - like a doner kebab, but with a unique Canadian sweet sauce

  Chesterfield - couch

  Acronyms

  PM - Prime Minister

  MP - Member of Parliament

  DND - Department of National Defence

  CANCON - Canadian Content (specifically referring to television and radio requirements to play a % of CANCON)

  RA - Research Assistant

  TA - Teaching Assistant

  ABD - All But Dissertation

  Foreword

  This book is a work of fiction. Hot, erotic fiction, set against a political backdrop that may seem familiar. We promise you that Gavin Strong and Ellie Montague are figments of our imagination and any similarities to real people are entirely coincidental.

  * * *

  For purposes of keeping this story focused on their romance, we’ve simplified some of the complex realities of political life. We’ve reduced the number of principal staff that the prime minister relies on. We assumed you wouldn’t want to read about the dozens of awesome, smart people who support a nation’s leader. That’s what watching re-runs of West Wing is for.

  1

  Ellie

  The only thing worse than being late for your first day of work is when your first day of work is at the Parliament Buildings and your new boss is the prime minister.

  Who you have a secret crush on, except it doesn’t need to be a secret, because he’s single and hot and every other woman in the country also has a crush on him.

  You could wear a placard that says I want to bang the PM and nobody would even notice, because they would all be wearing variations on the same theme.

  Of course, it should be a secret because I’m going to be working for him.

  With him.

  Under him.

  Stop it, Ellie.

  It’s only a three month internship, and technically there’s a deputy director of communications and a chief of staff between us in the chain of command. But my nipples don’t understand that and they’re super excited about working so closely with Gavin.

  Mr. Strong.

  Like every other straight woman, gay man, or anyone in the middle of the Kinsey scale, I’ve got a crush on the man. Which is why I should have been early for work, and is also why I’m running late.

  I should have been focused on making a good impression.

  Instead, I’d changed my outfit three times and chose heels that made it impossible to hustle when I realized just how late I was.

  I squeak in the front doors at 7:59 by the clock on my cell phone. But of course there's a security line to get through and—

  "Ms. Montague?"

  I'd recognize that voice anywhere. Thick with humour, warm and rough enough at the edges to appeal to steel workers and farmers—that was the panty-melting voice of our nation's brand new prime minister.

  I know that voice.

  Until this moment, I had no clue he might know me.

  So I stare at him dumbly.

  This is not my finest hour.

  "Sir," I finally stammer out.

  The women behind me in line giggle.

  That's the effect this man has on people. I'm now officially blocking the security line into the building and nobody cares because Gavin Strong, The Honourable Prime Minister of Canada, is flashing his baby blue eyes at everyone in a thirty foot radius. He’s done this before—stop and talk to his staff on the way in, but I’m still flustered. I don’t think I ever expected to talk to him, and definitely not before my first day has even begun.

  “Shall we head inside?”

  “Yes, of course.” I yank out my wallet. “I’ll see you in there.”

  He holds my gaze for a moment, probably a second or two, but it’s the kind of second that stretches. Long enough to be meaningful for me but nothing for him.

  And then he’s turning, shaking hands with the people in front of me. Welcoming them all to work today.

  Who does that?
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  Gavin Strong. Union lawyer, community activist, Habitat for Humanity volunteer. The most personable man in the entire country, possibly the smartest, too, although he likes to play that bit down.

  Surround himself with experts, he says.

  That’s where I come in.

  I’m hardly an expert, but I’m getting there. Bachelor’s degree in Women’s Studies and Sociology. Master’s in Women’s Studies. One year into my doctorate, which is loosely a business degree but specifically a communications specialty.

  And I’ve scored one of ten brand-new internships with the federal government. Cultural Change Officers, we’re called. I’ve taken a three-month leave of absence from my studies to do this job.

  To work under the prime minister.

  And I didn’t make it three minutes into the role without my panties getting wet.

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

  It takes five hours for my crush to die a miserable death.

  Gavin might be hot, and smart, but he’s also a perfectionist, and he expects that of his staff. Which is fine for me, because I haven’t pissed him off yet, but by lunch I’ve witnessed enough to know that if I don’t lock down my libido and bring my A-game, I’m going to get called on the carpet.

  The showdown he had midmorning with his Chief of Staff—Stew Rochard, my boss—over fundraising and lobbyists has the entire office in a panic, because we’ve got a private event in five weeks that might need to be cancelled if the PM decides to take a hard line on influencers.

  That’s how I’ve decided I need to think about Gavin. The PM. The Prime Minister.

  I’m not going to notice how good he looks in a suit or how his powerful thighs are outlined every time he sits down. The suit represents the position. It demands my respect, nothing else.

  Instead of taking me out to lunch for my first day, Stew gives me half of the ham and Swiss on rye that his wife made him, digs two cans of Diet Coke out of a box he keeps under his desk, and tasks me with figuring out how we can spin the $5,000 a plate dinner into something that won’t offend our boss quite so much.

  Because I’m a freak for these kinds of problems, this makes me happy. A nice lunch would probably be nothing but small talk, and I’m kind of awkward when it comes to that. Like I should have asked Stew about his wife and kids when he gave me the sandwich, but I was already poring over the file on the fundraiser—the history of it, the host, the criticism on the other events that led to the PM’s edict two hours earlier that we would not be in the pockets of the wealthy.

  “One problem with him saying that over and over again is that he’s rich, too,” I point out as I lick mustard off my fingers. “And everyone knows it. Don’t get me wrong—most people like that about him. But he’s hardly one of us with the sandwiches from home.”

  Stew snorts. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

  “He’s a man of the people in many other ways. He knows how much a loaf of bread costs, that’s all that matters. But he’s also comfortable with these donors, right? What if it wasn’t a fundraiser for the party? What if it was…like a kick-off for a community challenge?”

  “Keep talking.” He roots around in his lunch bag. “Chocolate chip cookie?”

  I shake my head. “But I’ll take another pop if you’ve got one.”

  “He shouldn’t shut himself off from business leaders. He needs to stay connected to them, and show them who’s boss. Canadians just want to know that he’s not in their pockets. They’ll be thrilled if he can turn it around, make them bend to his will.”

  “Shit.” He rocks back in his chair and shoves the rest of his cookie in his mouth. “That’s good.”

  The truth is, it’s not a new idea. It was a critique I wrote six months earlier for a class, as a response to a hypothetical case study that was eerily similar. I got lucky on my first day, but I’m smart enough to pretend that my luck is actually talent. “Thanks.”

  “It’ll need some work. You’ll need to present it with the repercussions forecasted out in all directions.”

  “Of course.” I’ve done that at school before, too. If I’ve got time, I’ll tap a couple of my profs and get their—

  “I want you to pitch it tomorrow in the morning briefing.”

  Oh, crap. So no time, then. “Tomorrow. Right.”

  “That a problem?”

  “No.”

  Stew opens his mouth, maybe to warn me about what the PM expects, or maybe to question how sure I am, I don’t know, because before he can say anything, in whirls a six-foot-three-inch hurricane wearing a suit and righteous indignation.

  “This report from the Ministry of the Environment is fucking bullshit, Stewart,” the PM growls as he storms in from the hallway.

  Stew doesn’t miss a beat. “I’m in a meeting, Gavin.”

  The PM’s gaze swings around to where I’m sitting. “Ms. Montague. Would you step outside?”

  My immediate reaction is yes, of course. But that’s the wrong answer.

  That’s the woman inside me doing what a man has asked of her, because he doesn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable.

  Seriously? Fuck that noise. “I’d rather stay.”

  He gives me a hard, unreadable look.

  “Sir,” I add, swallowing hard. “I’d rather stay, sir.”

  His eyes flash in surprise and anger, and my palms go all sweaty.

  “Because…I’m the barometer, right? Without me, you’re talking in an echo chamber. That’s what you said in your announcement about these internships.” I turn to my boss. “I don’t think your office is an echo chamber, of course, Stew.”

  Gavin chuckles, an unexpected sound after a day that’s felt beyond tense. “No, Stew has no problem telling me when I’m wrong.”

  I take a deep breath. “Neither will I. Sir.”

  He gives me another long look, this one more complicated, but just as hard to read.

  Finally he nods. “But stop calling me sir. That’s my father’s name.”

  His father’s name is Vince, but I get the point. “Okay. So what part of the report is fucking bullshit?”

  He laughs and turns back to Stew. “This one can stay.”

  2

  Gavin

  By ten o’clock this morning, my day had completely derailed—not an unusual situation. Twice my assistant Beth quietly suggested that we change our estimated arrival time at the City Farm Camp. There’s a press conference at five thirty, after the kids have left for the day. I only need to be there for an hour beforehand to get a tour and have a photo op with some of the children.

  But I’m only three months into my first term as PM. I’m not interested in doing the bare minimum. I’ve heard amazing things about this program, and we’ve got a plan to greatly expand the tax credits and subsidies for ones just like it across the country.

  I’m not going to talk about that without actually spending some real time with the kids and the counsellors.

  Plus, horses and sheep and chickens. What’s not to love about that? It’s certainly more fun than a bullshit environmental report that completely misses the mark—

  I cut myself off. I’m not going to get worked up about it. The delightful Ellie Montague is going to tear into that report and tell me all the ways we can render it null and void, and justify spending the money on a new one.

  I need to have Substantive Fucking Policy tattooed on all deputy ministers’ foreheads, clearly.

  I’ve just finished the most intellectually stimulating conversation I’ve had in weeks in Stew’s office, with Ellie…Ellie, who I can’t get off my mind.

  Dangerous territory, I tell myself. I don’t listen. There’s something about her that fires me up in a long-dormant way.

  “It’s two o’clock,” Beth says as she strides into my office. She’s going to try again to rearrange my day.

  “You haven’t had a chance to return these four calls yet,” she says smoothly, sliding a call sheet on top of the report I was just about to open. Reading t
ime is over—her message is clear.

  I give her a side-eye and she just smiles sweetly at me.

  Beth. She’s like the sister I already have. Between her and Pia, my actual sister, I don’t get cut any slack. So Beth is like the baby sister I never had, and when she’s not riding my ass about the damn itinerary, I like her a lot. Even the bossy parts.

  She’s adjusted amazingly well to the new role. I hired her on my first day in the city as an MP two years ago, and everyone said she was too young and inexperienced to be the executive assistant to a national leader. Everyone was wrong. She’s my secret weapon for keeping a tight schedule—every day except today.

  Today, I’m going to camp whether she likes it or not.

  She doesn’t.

  Oh well.

  I grab the call sheet and wave it at her. “You sure you don’t want to come with me?”

  She gives me a look of great alarm. “To muck out barns?”

  “Yeah.”

  “No. Make those calls or I’m coming to find you later! Remember I can see who you call on your cell phone.”

  Yeah. That’s why I have two phones. The official phone of the Prime Minister of Canada, and the burner phone I use to call my best friend, Max, when this all gets to be a little too surreal.

  As I hop in the back of my armoured town car, I think this should be one of the times I call him. But I’ve got four phone calls to make in a thirty minute drive to the Agriculture Museum, and I have a certain doctoral candidate to do a little more research on, too.

  Ellie Montague.

  I try to tell myself that my interest is purely professional. She’s smart and capable and she’s only on loan to us for three months from the University of Ottawa. If she’s impressing Stew on her first day of the job, we need to be amping up her responsibilities while she’s here.