Mr. President
Page 32
She nods. “Definitely me, Charlotte. For decades, your father and I have avoided any sort of scandal. Scandal is a career killer in politics.”
“Mom, I know—it was completely innocent.”
“Just remember you’re a lady, Charlotte. Ladies are always ladies first, women second. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand. Don’t worry—I wouldn’t cause any scandal for us.”
“It’s not that Matt isn’t . . . Goodness, he’s a breath of fresh air for this country and he’s running independently. Charlotte, the parties will be out to destroy him—you don’t want to fuel that fire. He belongs to America now. He always has.”
“I know, Mom, I know,” I say.
“Don’t fall in love with him.”
I duck my head, laughing mirthlessly. “Why would you say that?”
Her eyes shine with sympathy and understanding. “Because any woman would. But you’re not any woman. You’re your father’s and my daughter.”
I placate her for the next half hour, and I know I should be concerned; I am concerned. But nothing can stop me from hitting my bed and reliving Matt’s kisses a thousand times.
19
TRAVELING
Charlotte
We’re traveling on a twin-engine plane for the campaign. Our first stop is Dallas, and I’m the only woman flying among a group of four men and a dog. Matt’s junior campaign manager, Hessler, his intimidating grandfather Patrick, Carlisle, Jack, and his hot owner, Matt
Heavenly Kisser
Hamilton.
I’m nervous about the news. Those kisses we shared were so dangerous. I had no idea that I could be so reckless and impulsive until that night.
Matt smiles at me ruefully when he greets me—and I swear every single existing butterfly in my stomach takes flight because he looks genuinely happy to see me. Like he regrets almost getting caught, but he doesn’t regret the kisses one bit.
God. His kisses.
I try not to remember the launch of heat they caused inside me as I greet the men by the plane steps. Carlisle, judging by the tension in his shoulders when he looks at me, seems pretty unhappy about the news.
And the first clue I get that implies I shouldn’t even be traveling with Matt comes from his grandfather. He sees me and asks, “Who is she?”
“My scheduler. She’s Senator Wells’s daughter and an old family friend.” Matt introduces us. “Charlotte, Patrick Hamilton, my grandfather.”
“I know who she is—why is she here?” his grandfather huffs, turning around and boarding the plane.
Wow.
The man hates me.
Matt shoots me an ignore him look and puts his hand protectively on the back of my neck as he urges me up the plane steps. A frisson shoots down my spine and though the touch lasted only a second, the feel of his touch lasts for much longer. Matt settles his big body on the chair facing the cockpit. I take the seat behind his.
I have never before been more grateful that Matt brought Jack. He lets him out of his crate after takeoff and Jack immediately comes over to sniff me and lick my hands. He’s keeping his eyes on Matt while I plug in my earbuds to give the men some privacy while they talk.
Still, I overhear them discussing various subjects—the stabilization of the economy, Matt running as an Independent.
“You’re a Harvard graduate, like your father . . . You’ve lived abroad; you know what’s out there,” his grandfather passionately argues. “Your father was too young the first time he wanted to run and was told to wait and he did. You take the cake of it all, Matthew, really you do.”
“People are loyal to him, Patrick,” Carlisle appeases. “No one sniped about Lawrence after his death. There were no unauthorized leaks of information regarding his presidency. The people are insanely loyal to the Hamiltons.”
“But they’re loyal to their parties, too,” Patrick counters with a meaningful look in Carlisle’s direction.
“What did you want me to be, a senator?” Matt asks in a steely voice that silences everyone.
Even his grandfather finally seems to shut up.
I’m aware of his grandfather constantly glancing in my direction during the flight. He doesn’t even try to lower his voice when he says, “You keep your hands off her. You belong to the country now.”
Dead silence falls.
Jack’s ears perk up as if he senses something. And though the air is thick with tension, Matt leans back in a lounging pose as he eyes his grandfather. “Yeah, Granddad. I appreciate you being here . . . but I know what I’m doing.”
Leaping off the seat next to me, Jack bounds up the aisle and sits at Matt’s feet, nudging Matt’s thigh with his nose.
Matt keeps his intimidating stare on his grandfather as he absently strokes a hand atop Jack’s head and glances at me. He’s got the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows and he’s so muscular that veins pop out on his arms.
I remember our conversation and my mother’s words, not completely dissimilar to his grandfather’s, and I quickly break gazes—too sucked in by the dark, proprietary flash in his eyes—and get myself busy once again, going over all the names of the local aides we will be meeting and greeting at the Dallas headquarters today.
We check into the hotel and head to our local office, and for the next week, the marathon of media and crowds begins all over the Southern states.
Wherever we land, there’s always a receiving committee of people waving placards and chanting.
“HAMILTON FOR THE COUNTRY.”
“BORN FOR THIS!”
I’m so proud of stupid wonderful Matt and how he’s impacting people.
His easy charisma simply wins over the people instantly. For years he protected his privacy, while giving off the air of a handsome, cultured rake with unlimited money and unquenched appetites. He looks like the bad boy of politics at the same time as he looks like the man you want to entrust yourself and your children to.
He already has international respect. His father has a whole library in his name, as many ex-presidents do, and a history of preserving relics, and now it seems like the media has been waiting decades to lie down before the powerful Hamilton legacy again.
He knows just how to greet the reporters; he even knows the names of most. Bulbs flash as we land in Miami and step out of the jet toward a silver SUV.
“Mom, I know—it was completely innocent.”
“Just remember you’re a lady, Charlotte. Ladies are always ladies first, women second. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand. Don’t worry—I wouldn’t cause any scandal for us.”
“It’s not that Matt isn’t . . . Goodness, he’s a breath of fresh air for this country and he’s running independently. Charlotte, the parties will be out to destroy him—you don’t want to fuel that fire. He belongs to America now. He always has.”
“I know, Mom, I know,” I say.
“Don’t fall in love with him.”
I duck my head, laughing mirthlessly. “Why would you say that?”
Her eyes shine with sympathy and understanding. “Because any woman would. But you’re not any woman. You’re your father’s and my daughter.”
I placate her for the next half hour, and I know I should be concerned; I am concerned. But nothing can stop me from hitting my bed and reliving Matt’s kisses a thousand times.
19
TRAVELING
Charlotte
We’re traveling on a twin-engine plane for the campaign. Our first stop is Dallas, and I’m the only woman flying among a group of four men and a dog. Matt’s junior campaign manager, Hessler, his intimidating grandfather Patrick, Carlisle, Jack, and his hot owner, Matt
Heavenly Kisser
Hamilton.
I’m nervous about the news. Those kisses we shared were so dangerous. I had no idea that I could be so reckless and impulsive until that night.
Matt smiles at me ruefully when he greets me—and I swear every single existing butterfly in my stomach takes flight because he looks genuinely happy to see me. Like he regrets almost getting caught, but he doesn’t regret the kisses one bit.
God. His kisses.
I try not to remember the launch of heat they caused inside me as I greet the men by the plane steps. Carlisle, judging by the tension in his shoulders when he looks at me, seems pretty unhappy about the news.
And the first clue I get that implies I shouldn’t even be traveling with Matt comes from his grandfather. He sees me and asks, “Who is she?”
“My scheduler. She’s Senator Wells’s daughter and an old family friend.” Matt introduces us. “Charlotte, Patrick Hamilton, my grandfather.”
“I know who she is—why is she here?” his grandfather huffs, turning around and boarding the plane.
Wow.
The man hates me.
Matt shoots me an ignore him look and puts his hand protectively on the back of my neck as he urges me up the plane steps. A frisson shoots down my spine and though the touch lasted only a second, the feel of his touch lasts for much longer. Matt settles his big body on the chair facing the cockpit. I take the seat behind his.
I have never before been more grateful that Matt brought Jack. He lets him out of his crate after takeoff and Jack immediately comes over to sniff me and lick my hands. He’s keeping his eyes on Matt while I plug in my earbuds to give the men some privacy while they talk.
Still, I overhear them discussing various subjects—the stabilization of the economy, Matt running as an Independent.
“You’re a Harvard graduate, like your father . . . You’ve lived abroad; you know what’s out there,” his grandfather passionately argues. “Your father was too young the first time he wanted to run and was told to wait and he did. You take the cake of it all, Matthew, really you do.”
“People are loyal to him, Patrick,” Carlisle appeases. “No one sniped about Lawrence after his death. There were no unauthorized leaks of information regarding his presidency. The people are insanely loyal to the Hamiltons.”
“But they’re loyal to their parties, too,” Patrick counters with a meaningful look in Carlisle’s direction.
“What did you want me to be, a senator?” Matt asks in a steely voice that silences everyone.
Even his grandfather finally seems to shut up.
I’m aware of his grandfather constantly glancing in my direction during the flight. He doesn’t even try to lower his voice when he says, “You keep your hands off her. You belong to the country now.”
Dead silence falls.
Jack’s ears perk up as if he senses something. And though the air is thick with tension, Matt leans back in a lounging pose as he eyes his grandfather. “Yeah, Granddad. I appreciate you being here . . . but I know what I’m doing.”
Leaping off the seat next to me, Jack bounds up the aisle and sits at Matt’s feet, nudging Matt’s thigh with his nose.
Matt keeps his intimidating stare on his grandfather as he absently strokes a hand atop Jack’s head and glances at me. He’s got the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows and he’s so muscular that veins pop out on his arms.
I remember our conversation and my mother’s words, not completely dissimilar to his grandfather’s, and I quickly break gazes—too sucked in by the dark, proprietary flash in his eyes—and get myself busy once again, going over all the names of the local aides we will be meeting and greeting at the Dallas headquarters today.
We check into the hotel and head to our local office, and for the next week, the marathon of media and crowds begins all over the Southern states.
Wherever we land, there’s always a receiving committee of people waving placards and chanting.
“HAMILTON FOR THE COUNTRY.”
“BORN FOR THIS!”
I’m so proud of stupid wonderful Matt and how he’s impacting people.
His easy charisma simply wins over the people instantly. For years he protected his privacy, while giving off the air of a handsome, cultured rake with unlimited money and unquenched appetites. He looks like the bad boy of politics at the same time as he looks like the man you want to entrust yourself and your children to.
He already has international respect. His father has a whole library in his name, as many ex-presidents do, and a history of preserving relics, and now it seems like the media has been waiting decades to lie down before the powerful Hamilton legacy again.
He knows just how to greet the reporters; he even knows the names of most. Bulbs flash as we land in Miami and step out of the jet toward a silver SUV.
