Chapter Text
You didn’t usually drink this much. But then again, you didn’t usually land the kind of internship that could change your life.
Two vodka sodas in, you’d been telling yourself it was fine—you deserved to celebrate. By the third drink, you were convincing yourself you could relax for once. By drink four, well… you were grinning too hard at your friends’ jokes and clapping too loudly when someone in the bar attempted karaoke.
You knew you should’ve stopped. Even in your tipsy haze, the nerves were still there, burrowed tight in your chest: the internship, the future, the terrifying truth that next week you’d be in D.C., trying to prove yourself in a room full of powerful men and women who could tank your career with a single unimpressed glance.
And you didn’t even know which congressman you’d be working under yet. You were told the selection was anonymous.
God. The thought alone made you want to order another drink.
Your friends were already heading out, the responsible ones with morning obligations. You waved them off, promised you’d Uber back, and turned toward the bar for water—only to feel the heat of someone at your shoulder.
“Hey there.”
The voice was too close to you. It reeked with the oily confidence of a man who practiced hitting on girls in his bathroom mirror. You ignored it, sliding onto the barstool, flagging down the bartender.
But the man only leaned closer, breath tinged with whiskey. “Pretty girl like you shouldn’t be drinking alone.”
You forced a tight smile. “I’m not alone. My ride’s on the way.”
“Then I’ll keep you company till he gets here.” His hand brushed your arm, lingering.
You stiffened. The room tilted slightly with the alcohol, but your instincts screamed nope. You slid off the stool, muttering something about the bathroom, and pushed through the crowd as fast as your unsteady legs allowed. Your heart hammered, pulse a frantic rhythm in your ears.
Just get away. Just make it to the hallway.
You dared a glance behind you, and thankfully, he wasn’t following. Relief flooded through you, a shaky laugh escaping as your shoulders slumped. And then you slammed face-first into a wall.
“Ouch!”
Your hands flew up to cradle your nose. But the wall was… warm? Blinking through the sting, you pressed your palm forward and felt the ridged lines of buttons, the hard plane of muscle beneath fabric. Slowly, dread pooling in your stomach, you lifted your gaze.
Oh. Oh no.
Not a wall. A man.
A very tall, very broad man. A very unfairly gorgeous man with dark hair that curled slightly at the collar, and eyes the color of storm clouds in late afternoon. His crisp white button-down strained faintly across his chest, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loose like he’d just left something official.
And you recognized him instantly.
Holy. Shit.
Congressman James Buchanan Barnes. Newly appointed. Already infamous for his cool composure, his sharp jawline, and the way journalists whispered about his military background when they thought the cameras were off. You’d seen his face splashed across articles all month. And now here you were, plastered against him like some drunk disaster.
Oh my god, you just felt him up.
His brows knitted, voice low and smooth. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I—um, I’m fine.” Words tumbled out, barely coherent. You ripped your hand back from his chest, heat searing your cheeks. “I am so sorry. I was just trying to get away—” You cut yourself off, mortified. “No. Sorry, not important—have a good night!”
You spun on your heel, determined to vanish into the bathroom and never resurface.
But his voice stopped you. “Get away?”
Your spine went rigid. Slowly, you glanced back. His eyes were sharper now, scanning the crowd like a man trained to notice threats. You wondered if all that talk about him was more than just gossip.
“It’s nothing,” you muttered, hugging your arms.
“Doesn’t look like it’s just nothing.” His gaze flicked toward the bar, narrowing on the man still loitering nearby. “Is he bothering you?”
The heat in your cheeks spread to your ears. “I can handle it.”
“I’m sure you can.” There was no mockery in his tone, just quiet certainty. “You got anyone else here?”
“Yes—well, I did. Everyone cut the celebrations early, so now it’s just me waiting for my ride.”
“Let me keep you company then,” he said, nodding at the guy at the bar who was clearly still looking around for you. “Walk you over and make sure he doesn’t try anything again.”
You should’ve said no and insisted you didn’t need rescuing, but when he shifted closer, the scent of cedar and something fresh hit you, and suddenly you weren’t thinking clearly at all.
“Fine,” you mumbled.
He guided you through the crowd with a steady hand at your elbow. People parted without realizing why. Something about him carried authority, like he held his own gravity. You caught glances from strangers as they either ogled or recognized him, too, but he didn’t seem to notice. His focus stayed on you.
“Thanks,” you said softly once you reached an empty corner towards the front of the bar. “Sorry again. For… y’know.” You gestured vaguely to his chest.
The corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Takes more than that to knock me over.”
Was that—was Congressman Barnes teasing you?
You blinked, brain short-circuiting. “Right. Well, thanks. I’ll, uh… see you around.”
See you around? Seriously?
His voice came again, gentler this time. “You mentioned a celebration?”
Your stomach dropped. Had you said that out loud? God, maybe you had. “Oh, uh. I got an internship on Capitol Hill. Starts next week if I don’t completely screw it up in record time.”
“Don’t look so nervous,” he said, and there was something almost kind in his expression now. “I’m sure you’ll be able to handle yourself.”
Easy for him to say. He was already a congressman, commanding a room with one look. If you could barely string sentences together around him, what were you going to do around the others? You laughed nervously, but thankfully, your phone buzzed with a notification that your ride was here. You mumbled another thank you, then bolted for the door like a coward.
The next morning, your head pounded with the kind of hangover that could rival an earthquake. You chugged water, swore off vodka sodas for life, and told yourself the embarrassing run-in was already forgotten the second you walked out of the bar. There’s no way he would remember your face if you saw him again, and the chances of that were slim.
By the time Monday rolled around, you had convinced yourself everything would be fine. First day of your internship. You were professional, put-together, sober. Your heart still raced as you stepped into the congressional office building, clutching your new ID badge, nerves buzzing like live wires.
The coordinator of this program led you down a hallway, rattling off introductions you barely heard as you smiled politely. Your palms were sweaty. You smoothed your blazer, whispered a silent prayer, and forced yourself to walk tall. He knocked, waited a couple of seconds, then opened the office door, and you froze.
Behind the desk sat Congressman James Buchanan Barnes. The very same man whose chest you had face-planted into just days ago. His eyes lifted from the file in his hand, and a slow smile curved his mouth, as if he very much remembered your face.
“Good morning,” he said smoothly. “So. You still nervous?”
Your stomach plummeted straight to the floor.
Oh, shit.