Mr. President
Page 19
Matt sets down his coffee, a smirk on his lips. “Neither. Both are friends. My White House years taught me to guard my every step and after . . . let’s just say I enjoy being the hunter in the relationship.” He eyes me mischievously. “What about you, Charlotte?”
“Oh no.” I shake my head, laughing. “My parents have given up on hooking me up with some promising political entity. I’ve simply not found the right guy.”
There’s a silence.
Matt seems oddly pleased. He leans forward. So close that his shoulder touches mine, and a part of me wonders if it’s on purpose.
“Do you want to?” His voice is deep and a tad quiet. He raises his hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, almost like he did when we were running/walking together, and a white-hot shudder races down my spine.
My heart is flip-flopping in my chest as we stare at each other and Matt lowers his hand, still looking at me with heavy eyelids.
“Of course, everybody wants to find that. I’m a realist, but I dream of finding what my parents have.”
“So why not . . .?” he prods, his gaze caressing me.
“Most politicians are old, stuffy, or boring.”
He laughs—a rich, deep sound.
When he falls sober, his voice drops a decibel. “Good thing I’m a lawyer and a businessman, and not a politician. Because I’m not stuffy, and I’m definitely not boring.”
My throat runs dry. Oh, god. He is most definitely nothing like politics has ever seen, even with the Kennedys.
But you’re not available, I think to myself, though I somehow feel too tongue-tied to say it.
A silence settles between us. I feel my nipples pop and I fear Matt, with one glance downward, will notice. There’s a pool of warmth between my legs and a tight clench in my sex, and I’m desperate to get rid of it.
It takes me a moment and a deep breath to get a grip on the sexual tension crackling between us. I remember why I’m even here, working so late, reworking an itinerary I’d already worked on a couple of days ago. I reach beneath my paperwork to pull out an envelope, glancing questioningly into his eyes.
“Would you read this?”
Before I know it, I’m extending my hand.
He takes an absent sip of his coffee and quickly sets it aside. Then he grabs his glasses, puts them on, and takes the letter. Our thumbs brush as he does, and another clench deep in my tummy happens.
He smiles, as if he definitely did that on purpose.
But his smile fades as Matt scans the letter. I know by memory what it says. It touched me deeply.
Dear Matt Hamilton,
I’m very happy that you’re running for president. My mother worries that something can happin to you so I think its very brave. I’m very brave too. I’m seven yrs old and getting a new experiment treatment on my very bad lewkemia called PCL. I asked if it could kill me too. But my dad says someone has to be the innovator and pave new unknown paths like you. My dream is to go to the white house when you become president. I know I will do very well with this treatment because im hopping to go with every breath. So win Matt! Oh and my name is Matt too my parents named me after you.
Matt
“Would you visit this boy?” I ask.
Matt pulls off his glasses and looks at me.
Just looks at me.
So intently and as if he can see everything that I am, have ever been, and ever will be.
I hastily pull out the following week’s schedule and my own version of it. “He’s a son of one of the women at Women of the World. I recognized her name on the mailing envelope. I think I can fit him in before we leave D.C.—he’s being treated at the Children’s National on Michigan Northwest.”
I put my new version of his schedule out for him to see.
But he doesn’t look at the schedule. Only at me. His voice is smooth but deeper than it was before.
“That’s why you’re here so late; you’re trying to fit this in,” he says.
It’s more a statement than a question.
I bite my lip as a gleam of admiration appears in his eyes.
He slides the schedule over the desk back to me without even looking at it. “I’d be happy to go.”
I grin, my chest swelling with happiness.
I launch myself forward and give him a hug and a sweet but chaste kiss on his jaw. “Thank you! So very, very much!”
As my lips touch his jaw, suddenly his scent is surrounding me in a cloak of elegant cologne and soap. I start easing back, startled by my own impulsive action. I realize his hands fell to my waist, gripping me gently but firmly. He looks down at me with a slight smile on his lips, and I look right back; our mutual shock at my impulsiveness turns into something else.
We share a moment of silent understanding, a more powerful connection than anything I’ve ever felt.
The loneliness of the building suddenly becomes even more pronounced. The warmth of his body. The specks of black in his eyes, the dark irises, the thickness of his lashes, and most especially, the look in his eyes.
I’m aware of the admiration in his gaze when he lifts his hand and brushes my cheek with the pad of his thumb. I hold my breath, aching for closeness, to physically establish this connection that I feel, his breath warm on my skin. He brushes his thumb over my cheek a second time, and then, as if that wasn’t enough, his lips follow. The barest touch, a thousand times more powerful than a full-on make-out session with anyone. “You’re welcome.” His voice is gruff.
As I pry myself free, we both can’t seem to stop looking at each other. He’s smiling again, his eyes like liquid metal and a little too hot, and I smile shyly in response. And somehow this is the most honest, hottest smile anyone’s ever given me and I’ve ever given anyone back.
I suppose things should feel awkward, but they just feel a little sharper for the next minute. The sound of his breath or rustle of his clothes as he gets his stuff back to his office, the timbre of his voice when he tells me if I’m done, he’s done and can give me a ride home, the outline of his body close to mine as he helps me into my jacket.
I ride in the back of the black Lincoln with him, his detail, Wilson, driving us.
Matt’s gaze lowers all of a sudden.
Gently he seizes the eagle pin at my collar. He strokes the eagle with the pad of his thumb. Once, that’s all.
“You always wear this,” he says.
“Oh no.” I shake my head, laughing. “My parents have given up on hooking me up with some promising political entity. I’ve simply not found the right guy.”
There’s a silence.
Matt seems oddly pleased. He leans forward. So close that his shoulder touches mine, and a part of me wonders if it’s on purpose.
“Do you want to?” His voice is deep and a tad quiet. He raises his hand and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, almost like he did when we were running/walking together, and a white-hot shudder races down my spine.
My heart is flip-flopping in my chest as we stare at each other and Matt lowers his hand, still looking at me with heavy eyelids.
“Of course, everybody wants to find that. I’m a realist, but I dream of finding what my parents have.”
“So why not . . .?” he prods, his gaze caressing me.
“Most politicians are old, stuffy, or boring.”
He laughs—a rich, deep sound.
When he falls sober, his voice drops a decibel. “Good thing I’m a lawyer and a businessman, and not a politician. Because I’m not stuffy, and I’m definitely not boring.”
My throat runs dry. Oh, god. He is most definitely nothing like politics has ever seen, even with the Kennedys.
But you’re not available, I think to myself, though I somehow feel too tongue-tied to say it.
A silence settles between us. I feel my nipples pop and I fear Matt, with one glance downward, will notice. There’s a pool of warmth between my legs and a tight clench in my sex, and I’m desperate to get rid of it.
It takes me a moment and a deep breath to get a grip on the sexual tension crackling between us. I remember why I’m even here, working so late, reworking an itinerary I’d already worked on a couple of days ago. I reach beneath my paperwork to pull out an envelope, glancing questioningly into his eyes.
“Would you read this?”
Before I know it, I’m extending my hand.
He takes an absent sip of his coffee and quickly sets it aside. Then he grabs his glasses, puts them on, and takes the letter. Our thumbs brush as he does, and another clench deep in my tummy happens.
He smiles, as if he definitely did that on purpose.
But his smile fades as Matt scans the letter. I know by memory what it says. It touched me deeply.
Dear Matt Hamilton,
I’m very happy that you’re running for president. My mother worries that something can happin to you so I think its very brave. I’m very brave too. I’m seven yrs old and getting a new experiment treatment on my very bad lewkemia called PCL. I asked if it could kill me too. But my dad says someone has to be the innovator and pave new unknown paths like you. My dream is to go to the white house when you become president. I know I will do very well with this treatment because im hopping to go with every breath. So win Matt! Oh and my name is Matt too my parents named me after you.
Matt
“Would you visit this boy?” I ask.
Matt pulls off his glasses and looks at me.
Just looks at me.
So intently and as if he can see everything that I am, have ever been, and ever will be.
I hastily pull out the following week’s schedule and my own version of it. “He’s a son of one of the women at Women of the World. I recognized her name on the mailing envelope. I think I can fit him in before we leave D.C.—he’s being treated at the Children’s National on Michigan Northwest.”
I put my new version of his schedule out for him to see.
But he doesn’t look at the schedule. Only at me. His voice is smooth but deeper than it was before.
“That’s why you’re here so late; you’re trying to fit this in,” he says.
It’s more a statement than a question.
I bite my lip as a gleam of admiration appears in his eyes.
He slides the schedule over the desk back to me without even looking at it. “I’d be happy to go.”
I grin, my chest swelling with happiness.
I launch myself forward and give him a hug and a sweet but chaste kiss on his jaw. “Thank you! So very, very much!”
As my lips touch his jaw, suddenly his scent is surrounding me in a cloak of elegant cologne and soap. I start easing back, startled by my own impulsive action. I realize his hands fell to my waist, gripping me gently but firmly. He looks down at me with a slight smile on his lips, and I look right back; our mutual shock at my impulsiveness turns into something else.
We share a moment of silent understanding, a more powerful connection than anything I’ve ever felt.
The loneliness of the building suddenly becomes even more pronounced. The warmth of his body. The specks of black in his eyes, the dark irises, the thickness of his lashes, and most especially, the look in his eyes.
I’m aware of the admiration in his gaze when he lifts his hand and brushes my cheek with the pad of his thumb. I hold my breath, aching for closeness, to physically establish this connection that I feel, his breath warm on my skin. He brushes his thumb over my cheek a second time, and then, as if that wasn’t enough, his lips follow. The barest touch, a thousand times more powerful than a full-on make-out session with anyone. “You’re welcome.” His voice is gruff.
As I pry myself free, we both can’t seem to stop looking at each other. He’s smiling again, his eyes like liquid metal and a little too hot, and I smile shyly in response. And somehow this is the most honest, hottest smile anyone’s ever given me and I’ve ever given anyone back.
I suppose things should feel awkward, but they just feel a little sharper for the next minute. The sound of his breath or rustle of his clothes as he gets his stuff back to his office, the timbre of his voice when he tells me if I’m done, he’s done and can give me a ride home, the outline of his body close to mine as he helps me into my jacket.
I ride in the back of the black Lincoln with him, his detail, Wilson, driving us.
Matt’s gaze lowers all of a sudden.
Gently he seizes the eagle pin at my collar. He strokes the eagle with the pad of his thumb. Once, that’s all.
“You always wear this,” he says.
