Secrets of a First Daughter

Chapter One

How could I have so many options but no real choice?

I scanned the pantry shelves again. Fifteen varieties of vanilla, and not one bag of chocolate chips anywhere. Arg!

It wasn’t the first time I’d wished the White House steward would let me stock the kitchen pantry in the residence wing. Who wants to eat Norwegian sardines and melba toast crackers made from organic whole wheat?

I rose to my tiptoes and reached into the deepest recesses of the pantry’s top shelf. My fingers unearthed a packet of dried sour cherries. Ooh, killer. The possibilities started clicking: cherry-mocha cheesecake? Pancakes drizzled with cherry-flavored syrup? Would cherry-cheese biscuits taste delicious or disgusting? I only had one bag of cherries. Decisions, decisions…

The smell of smoke snapped me out of my culinary fantasies. Yikes! I’d forgotten to set the timer on the last batch of blueberry-pecan scones. Maybe I should’ve waited before starting on the cinnamon-chip-and-coconut muffins and the crunchy peanut butter cookies for Mom and the crew down in the Oval Office. I was stressing out, and when I stressed out, I baked. Lots.

Chill, Morgan. It’s one test…one test that will determine the rest of your entire life!

Suddenly it was hard to breathe. I felt as if all gazillion pages of the United States government budget had been plopped on my chest. Why did my every move have to reflect on the leader of the free world? Like I needed that on top of the regular stress that comes with the SATs. Usually I could bake my way to relaxation; mixing random ingredients and walking the thin line between taste-bud explosion and gag reflex. Except this morning it wasn’t working.

Morning, Puddin’ Pop. Dad sauntered into the kitchen wearing jeans and a bomber jacket, office attire at Abbott Technology, his Fortune 500 company. Mom had finally convinced him to shave off his goatee with the argument that the First Gentleman shouldn’t look like a roadie at a rock concert, but she still couldn’t get him to wear a business suit for anything other than official White House occasions. Not even the president of the United States could tame my father. Which made him pretty cool in my eyes.

You’re up…early. Dad dubiously surveyed the cookies, scones, and muffins heaped on the kitchen table. Is this your way of getting ready for your big trip abroad? he asked, picking up a scone and taking a huge bite.

I can’t wait to visit London. I sidestepped the question of why I was baking like a fiend. It’s my first official overseas trip where I’m not going to be stuck in a hotel room with a bunch of Secret Service while you guys have all the fun.

Well, if you call two-hour photo ops and endless reception lines fun. I feel bad I’m not going with you and Mom this time. He paused for effect. "Not. Dad popped the rest of the scone into his mouth. Hey, this is pretty good. The bottom’s not even burned."

So funny. I paused, reflecting my dad’s comic timing. "Not."

Speaking of London, though, you’ll have to really watch yourself over there. Your mother and I have been mostly successful getting the press off your back, but now that you’re growing up, they’re getting more aggressive. They’ll follow your every move: what you’re wearing, who you’re with…even if you’re overseas.

I know. Boy, did I know. Over the last few weeks I’d dealt with unflattering photos splashed in gossip rags, salacious rumors, and downright bad press. When you’re the First Daughter, you’re media roadkill. Everyone wants to dig into your life and throw it open for a quick buck.

And since screwing up was a natural talent of mine, the press had coined a new nickname for me: National Disaster.

Dad reached for another scone. These are great. Mind if I take a dozen to the office?

Take two dozen. There’s plenty to go around. I waved my hand over the crowded table.

Dad kissed the top of my head on his way out of the kitchen, a sack of scones in hand. A few minutes later, Mom breezed in wearing her red power suit. She took one look at the goodie-packed table and said, What’s wrong?

Good morning to you, too, Madam President. I made sure my expression remained bland. She couldn’t know I was up to anything. This was going to be tricky—because she always seemed to sense when I was up to something. I, uh, wanted to bake a few treats, uh, to share with the junior staffers in the West Wing.

"A few treats?"

Yeah. Scone? I handed Mom a warm blueberry-studded scone fresh from the oven.

She took it, but her sparkly brown eyes, the ones I had inherited, narrowed in suspicion. You don’t bake like this unless something’s bothering you.

Mom, c’mon. I gave her a gee-whiz-I’m-just-a-kid smile, the one that could be counted on to soften her up like butter. What could be bothering me?

Mom countered with her I’m-not-in-the-mood-to-entertain-any-b.s. expression she’d perfected over the years. Well played, Mom. Well played.

I don’t know, you tell me, she said.

The smile on my face began to wobble a little. Oh no, I was going to blow it! Luckily, the PDA in Mom’s jacket pocket beeped.

It’s Humberto, she said after she’d fished it out and glanced at the screen. The Joint Chiefs are waiting for me in the Cabinet Room.

Humberto Morales, Mom’s chief of staff, my hero! Here, take some muffins with you. I shoved a loaded plate at her. Maybe the Joint Chiefs would like a snack while you’re discussing how to save the world from terrorist threats.

Hm, do you think this might help them take the news that I’m about to cut their budget a little easier? Mom quipped. I’ve got to run, but maybe we can talk tonight.

Sure thing. I’d worry about how to avoid that discussion later. For now, the prime objective was to get Mom out the door before she asked any more uncomfortable questions. Like how I did on the SAT. I shut the door behind Mom and briefly leaned against it.

I bombed. There. I said it. The daughter of the president of the United States choked taking the SAT. How’s that for a headline?

Okay, maybe bombed is too strong a word. But my scores would never secure a place at an Ivy League college. As painful as taking the SAT was, it would be even more painful to show my pitiful scores to my parents, so I’d secretly scheduled a retest today in the hopes I could raise the score to non-suckitude levels.

But right now, I had a different secret mission to attend to.

Thankful that Mom and Dad were too busy to ask their usual million questions about my day’s agenda (like I ever planned anything out in advance), I wrapped up some warm scones, poured fresh-brewed organic Kona coffee in a thermos, and edged out of the kitchen. I’d have to be sneaky to pull this off.

At the end of the hall in front of the Secret Service’s com center (a desk loaded with GPS tracking devices, monitors, and inscrutable wireless gadgetry), a tiny woman in a no-nonsense black pantsuit talked to Parker, head of my mother’s security detail. At first glance, one might take her for an elf or a pixie: Short-cropped white-blond hair sprang from her skull like milkweed. I had to move fast—if she turned and caught sight of me, her enormous green eyes would swallow me up in a cauldron of suspicion and exasperation. I’d seen those tiny hands grip a government-issued sidearm and wield it with supreme assurance. I’d also seen her drop a man three times her size and put him in a headlock before he had a chance to scream. This was not a person to mess with.

Georgina George Best—my new Secret Service agent—scared the crap out of me the way no other agent on my security detail ever did. It takes epic ingenuity to give her the slip, and nine times out of ten I failed to do it. I swear it’s like she implanted a GPS chip in my brain so she could track me.

I held my breath and tiptoed along the hallway wall until I reached the door leading to the back stairwell. From there it’s a straight shot down to the basement. Carefully I eased the door open, keeping an eye on George.

The hinge on the door squeaked ever so slightly.

At the opposite end of the hall, George stiffened. I froze. If she caught me before I could complete my mission, I was sure I’d have a breakdown. It was super important that I sneak away. My sanity depended on it.

Luckily, Parker saved the day by offering George one of the cinnamon-chip muffins that I’d placed on the desk earlier that morning, distracting her for one second…and one second was all I needed.

I slipped through the stairwell door. Success! First Daughter: 1; Secret Service: 0!

I raced down the stairs, feeling my tension ease. Maybe there was hope for me yet.

Chapter Two

I gripped the blazing-hot thermos of coffee in one hand and a bag of scones in the other as I headed down two flights of stairs. Luckily it was Saturday, so the multitude of staffers working in the White House basement—flower shop, the curator’s office, the kitchens—didn’t start their weekend shifts until later. I scooted down the basement hallway, deftly avoiding housekeeping carts, stacks of hotel pans, and a forgotten delivery of kale left out of the cold storage room. My destination: the carpenter’s shop.

Hey, it wasn’t glamorous, but at least it would be private.

The smell of sawdust did not add to the romance of the occasion, but as soon as I saw Special Agent Max Jackson lingering near an elephant-size wide-belt sander that buffed scratches from the White House furniture, we might as well have been in a gondola floating down a Venice canal. Or at the very least walking along the National Mall at night when the Washington, D.C., skyline lit the horizon like a galaxy of stars.

Max’s face brightened when he saw me, and I about keeled over right there. God, he was adorable. Was it hard to get away? he asked.

Max Jackson was the smartest, most chill guy I’d ever dated, and when he looked down at me with his gorgeous blue eyes that crinkled at the corners, all I wanted to do was run my fingers through his short-cropped curls, pull him close, and kiss him.

And don’t even get me started on Max’s kissing prowess. Every kiss was DEFCON 1—an all-out nuclear meltdown.

No prob. You should know I’m an expert at giving my security detail the slip.

Do I ever. He smiled ruefully. Max had been the head agent on my Secret Service detail until a few weeks ago. He was one of an elite team of young agents trained by the National Security Agency to go undercover where an older agent would stick out like a senior citizen at prom. In other words, he’d been specially trained to guard this National Disaster.

From the get-go, Max and I had butted heads and squabbled until we finally realized the reason sparks flew whenever we were together was because we were crazy about each other. Max asked to be reassigned when