Mr. President
Page 34
“Mark.”
He turns to one of our co-workers, a middle-aged man who’s in charge of web advertising. “When I come back,” Mark then finishes. He winks and leaves just as Alison returns.
“He’s nice and he’s into you, FYI,” she says.
“He’s nice and he’s not into me.”
I watch him leave and search myself for a tiny spark and nope, there is no spark. Alison starts circling the room, taking shots of other significant figures in attendance. I look at where Matt was and feel a kick of disappointment that he’s no longer there.
“He was thirsty.”
I swing around when I hear his voice behind me, and he shows me a glass of wine.
I frown. “I was looking for Mark,” I lie.
“Hmm.” His eyes twinkle, and he takes a sip. We stand side by side, his shoulder touching mine.
I glance at Carlisle across the room, whose expression is more than ecstatic—obviously the fundraising is going well, and the turnout was greater than we’d all anticipated. “You seem to have an innate ability to draw crowds,” I compliment.
Matt glances around the ballroom, and then back at me. With that mercurial face, he’d make any other president sweat during negotiations.
“You’re not drinking anything,” he finally says.
“I’m too lazy to go to the bar and I’d rather the waiters take care of the guests, but Mark offered.”
“Mark’s with Carlisle.” He waves at one of the waiters, who immediately comes forward. “The lady would like . . . what would you like, Charlotte?”
“Any white wine is fine.” Butterflies rush down my arms when he plucks a flute from the tray and hands it over.
He’s looking at me, watching me sip, when he’s approached by a group of newcomers, and I reluctantly duck away and start blending with the crowd again.
“Charlotte, ah, yes.”
Turning in surprise at the voice, I spot a young, tall African American. His face is vaguely familiar, but I can’t seem to place it. “Do I know you?”
He nods in the direction of our candidate. “I’m friends with Hamilton.”
“Ahhh.”
“College days,” he explains.
“Ahhhh!” I point at him cheekily. “I bet you know quite a few things.” I steal a look at Matt, but he’s in such a large group that I can’t spot him.
He lifts his fingers and invisibly zips up his lips. “Definitely won’t be telling.”
“Oh, come on.” I now realize why he seemed familiar. Clad in jeans and a preppy sweater, I realize Beckett is Matt’s best friend. He’s got a shaved head, pristine-smooth complexion, warm eyes and full lips, and teeth that flash white against his smile.
He grins and signals for me to take a seat at one of the nearby tables, joining me. “We used to try to lose the Secret Service—they tagged along everywhere he went. It annoyed Matt. He tried to lose them for life. And look at him now.”
I laugh. Somehow I can tell that he is protective of Matt.
We then talk about Matt’s dad and the golden era, and what got him killed.
We fall silent when we see Matt approach us.
“Beckett was telling me some stories . . .” I tell him.
He eyes his friend dubiously as if suddenly, he just doesn’t trust him.
“He said you’d do anything to get rid of your detail. That you learned to fly the Marine One helicopter as your eighteenth birthday present from your dad, and that your first dog in the White House was named Lucky but your mother called him Loki because he loved to tear up the tulip beds.”
“Did he tell you all that?” He lowers one brow a little farther than the other and gives him a you didn’t look, and Beckett laughs.
“I couldn’t resist.”
He slaps his back and as Beckett stands up to cede his seat next to me I swear he tells him, “I don’t blame you.”
Butterflies pop in my stomach, swift and violent. It’s not just the words but the tender tone that surprise me. I tear my eyes away and stare at the glass in my hand, suddenly very preoccupied with how much liquid is in there and the exact situation of the wine.
Matt simply says something to Beckett that I can’t hear, his hand resting on the back of the chair Beckett just vacated.
I sit here, struggling with all my emotions.
“If these are the crowds you draw as a candidate, I won’t want to know what kind of power you’ll hold as president,” I say as I glance around.
Matt watches me all this time. His sharp espresso eyes narrow a little. “What else did Beckett tell you?” he asks suspiciously.
I shrug mysteriously, and his lips quirk over my stubbornness when Carlisle comes and asks Matt to give a speech.
As Matt stands and crosses the room, the crowd breaks out in applause, and I get hit with a THIS IS WHO YOU ARE moment. THIS IS WHAT YOU’RE DOING.
I can’t stop smiling.
He’s quiet as he goes up on a small podium. Matt Hamilton. I want the warmth of the light that Matt Hamilton represents.
Matt waits for everyone to settle down and then everyone waits in silence, all eyes on him.
“I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight—nice to see so many familiar faces and so many new ones as well.” He nods at everyone. “I’m sure you’ve noticed we lack slogans in tonight’s decorations . . . I’d like to thank my team for their efforts—the truth of the matter is, nobody pays attention to slogans anymore.”
“They need to know what you bring to the table!” a very boisterous elderly man yells.
“I bring me.”
Silence.
He spreads his palms on the podium and leans forward. “For years the public has come to believe every promise made by every candidate has been a lie. Nobody believes in them anymore. Politics have been totally tainted by propaganda. I want it to be clear we’re running a very easy slogan campaign, and a no-slandering campaign. I serve my country. When asked how I plan to serve, my team,” he looks pointedly at me, “and I have to come to this.” He nods behind him to where Carlisle has turned on a visual. “We’re calling it the alphabet campaign. We’re fixing, reworking, and improving everything from A to Z in this country. It’s an ambitious goal and one I will work tirelessly to achieve. There are so many things right about this country, and so many things that can be better than right. We want to go back to the times—we want to even surpass the times—when they’ve been phenomenal.” He starts naming them. “Arts. Bureaucracy. Culture. Debt. Education. Foreign relations policies . . .”
He turns to one of our co-workers, a middle-aged man who’s in charge of web advertising. “When I come back,” Mark then finishes. He winks and leaves just as Alison returns.
“He’s nice and he’s into you, FYI,” she says.
“He’s nice and he’s not into me.”
I watch him leave and search myself for a tiny spark and nope, there is no spark. Alison starts circling the room, taking shots of other significant figures in attendance. I look at where Matt was and feel a kick of disappointment that he’s no longer there.
“He was thirsty.”
I swing around when I hear his voice behind me, and he shows me a glass of wine.
I frown. “I was looking for Mark,” I lie.
“Hmm.” His eyes twinkle, and he takes a sip. We stand side by side, his shoulder touching mine.
I glance at Carlisle across the room, whose expression is more than ecstatic—obviously the fundraising is going well, and the turnout was greater than we’d all anticipated. “You seem to have an innate ability to draw crowds,” I compliment.
Matt glances around the ballroom, and then back at me. With that mercurial face, he’d make any other president sweat during negotiations.
“You’re not drinking anything,” he finally says.
“I’m too lazy to go to the bar and I’d rather the waiters take care of the guests, but Mark offered.”
“Mark’s with Carlisle.” He waves at one of the waiters, who immediately comes forward. “The lady would like . . . what would you like, Charlotte?”
“Any white wine is fine.” Butterflies rush down my arms when he plucks a flute from the tray and hands it over.
He’s looking at me, watching me sip, when he’s approached by a group of newcomers, and I reluctantly duck away and start blending with the crowd again.
“Charlotte, ah, yes.”
Turning in surprise at the voice, I spot a young, tall African American. His face is vaguely familiar, but I can’t seem to place it. “Do I know you?”
He nods in the direction of our candidate. “I’m friends with Hamilton.”
“Ahhh.”
“College days,” he explains.
“Ahhhh!” I point at him cheekily. “I bet you know quite a few things.” I steal a look at Matt, but he’s in such a large group that I can’t spot him.
He lifts his fingers and invisibly zips up his lips. “Definitely won’t be telling.”
“Oh, come on.” I now realize why he seemed familiar. Clad in jeans and a preppy sweater, I realize Beckett is Matt’s best friend. He’s got a shaved head, pristine-smooth complexion, warm eyes and full lips, and teeth that flash white against his smile.
He grins and signals for me to take a seat at one of the nearby tables, joining me. “We used to try to lose the Secret Service—they tagged along everywhere he went. It annoyed Matt. He tried to lose them for life. And look at him now.”
I laugh. Somehow I can tell that he is protective of Matt.
We then talk about Matt’s dad and the golden era, and what got him killed.
We fall silent when we see Matt approach us.
“Beckett was telling me some stories . . .” I tell him.
He eyes his friend dubiously as if suddenly, he just doesn’t trust him.
“He said you’d do anything to get rid of your detail. That you learned to fly the Marine One helicopter as your eighteenth birthday present from your dad, and that your first dog in the White House was named Lucky but your mother called him Loki because he loved to tear up the tulip beds.”
“Did he tell you all that?” He lowers one brow a little farther than the other and gives him a you didn’t look, and Beckett laughs.
“I couldn’t resist.”
He slaps his back and as Beckett stands up to cede his seat next to me I swear he tells him, “I don’t blame you.”
Butterflies pop in my stomach, swift and violent. It’s not just the words but the tender tone that surprise me. I tear my eyes away and stare at the glass in my hand, suddenly very preoccupied with how much liquid is in there and the exact situation of the wine.
Matt simply says something to Beckett that I can’t hear, his hand resting on the back of the chair Beckett just vacated.
I sit here, struggling with all my emotions.
“If these are the crowds you draw as a candidate, I won’t want to know what kind of power you’ll hold as president,” I say as I glance around.
Matt watches me all this time. His sharp espresso eyes narrow a little. “What else did Beckett tell you?” he asks suspiciously.
I shrug mysteriously, and his lips quirk over my stubbornness when Carlisle comes and asks Matt to give a speech.
As Matt stands and crosses the room, the crowd breaks out in applause, and I get hit with a THIS IS WHO YOU ARE moment. THIS IS WHAT YOU’RE DOING.
I can’t stop smiling.
He’s quiet as he goes up on a small podium. Matt Hamilton. I want the warmth of the light that Matt Hamilton represents.
Matt waits for everyone to settle down and then everyone waits in silence, all eyes on him.
“I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight—nice to see so many familiar faces and so many new ones as well.” He nods at everyone. “I’m sure you’ve noticed we lack slogans in tonight’s decorations . . . I’d like to thank my team for their efforts—the truth of the matter is, nobody pays attention to slogans anymore.”
“They need to know what you bring to the table!” a very boisterous elderly man yells.
“I bring me.”
Silence.
He spreads his palms on the podium and leans forward. “For years the public has come to believe every promise made by every candidate has been a lie. Nobody believes in them anymore. Politics have been totally tainted by propaganda. I want it to be clear we’re running a very easy slogan campaign, and a no-slandering campaign. I serve my country. When asked how I plan to serve, my team,” he looks pointedly at me, “and I have to come to this.” He nods behind him to where Carlisle has turned on a visual. “We’re calling it the alphabet campaign. We’re fixing, reworking, and improving everything from A to Z in this country. It’s an ambitious goal and one I will work tirelessly to achieve. There are so many things right about this country, and so many things that can be better than right. We want to go back to the times—we want to even surpass the times—when they’ve been phenomenal.” He starts naming them. “Arts. Bureaucracy. Culture. Debt. Education. Foreign relations policies . . .”
