Mr. President
Page 62
“And trust me when I say I won’t let it be you.”
I exhale, then hug my arms around myself.
“Why did you leave?” he asks.
I try to keep my voice level. “I thought it was for the best.”
“Never. That’s the last thing I wanted when this began.” His eyes keep holding mine, a muscle working in the back of his jaw. “I don’t want you gone. If anything, I want you closer to me.”
I flush harder and try to push any talk about the connection between us aside. “The polls, Matt—”
“Two points lost are two points I can gain back. We’re gaining them back. You’ll pile up my schedule even if I don’t sleep.”
I laugh, but he doesn’t. He leans forward, his thighs stretching the material of his jeans and his shoulders the cotton of his sweater. “Come back to the campaign.”
“Charlotte,” I hear Jessa say as she brings a tea tray from the kitchen, “your mother wanted me to bring this.” She sends a beaming look in Matt’s direction, flushed as if she were nineteen instead of sixty-three.
“Thanks, Jessa.”
“Thank you,” Matt says warmly, reaching out for a cup and taking a sip.
She seems to flush even more as she heads back to the kitchen.
“My mother will be worried about a scandal. You need to go, Matt.”
I stand and tug at his hand, forcing him to release the cup, set it down, and he catches my fingers as he comes to his full height. “Can I count on you?”
His nearness suddenly engulfs me. Every atom of my body is awake and buzzing with the heat of his so close, the feel of his eyes on my face, expectant, warm as the sun and just as bright.
“Always,” I croak.
His hand and mine are linked and burning.
He smiles at me, a dazzling smile, and squeezes my fingers, looking down at me with the most adorable expression on his face. “Thank you.”
He releases me and pets my cat one last time before he walks to the door, and I walk with him.
“Thank you for coming. I’ll bring my things back tomorrow,” I say.
“Tomorrow is the gala—” he begins, and I cut him off.
“I’ll be there too,” I assure him, pushing him out the door before he can kiss me. Even a kiss to the cheek would devastate me, and I’m afraid of yielding to the impulse to do more.
He’s smiling, amused as he watches me slam the door shut.
I close my eyes and inhale, hating that I know the same thing I knew then: that he can never really be mine. But to quote him back, that hasn’t stopped me from wanting him.
34
GALA
Charlotte
Tonight’s gala seems to be the grandest and busiest of all the galas we’ve held. We’re at the grand ballroom of The Jefferson Hotel.
The White House is so close, you can practically feel its power churning and surging, surrounding you. I glanced at its white columns as I arrived, and not for the first time I wondered what Matt’s life was like there. If there was any normalcy at all.
The ballroom is glittering tonight, everyone who is anyone is attending—from huge industrialists to prominent artists, musicians, doctors, and teachers—and yet my attention is focused on spotting only one person. The one.
I’m in a white dress and my eyes drink in the luxurious decorations surrounding me in my search of the one thing I most want to see.
The figure of the man that has my heart pounding like this.
“Charlotte!” Alison launches herself and hugs me. “A vision in white—I approve!” she happily says, then leans back and lifts her camera. Click.
“Alison, come on!” I groan, and she tugs me into the crowd, where I say hello to my team colleagues. No one even hints at noticing or knowing that I’d left, and I’m sure it’s due to Carlisle’s expert hand at damage control.
I keep searching for Matt across the room with a pounding in my heart and a knot of nervous anticipation in my stomach. It feels like forever until my eyes snag on the tall, dark figure of a man—and they stay there, absorbing everything that is Matt Hamilton
Dressed in a pitch-black suit and black tie, his hands—long-fingered and tan—keep shaking those of the people who walk up to greet him. The outlines of his shoulders strain against his suit jacket. He stands among the crowd, wickedly handsome, his face animated as he speaks to them about something he’s clearly impassioned about.
Our country, I know . . .
And then his eyes lift and he spots me across a sea of heads. The touches of humor around his mouth and eyes fade as our eyes lock.
The intensity of his gaze hits me like a punch. His stare is so galvanizing, it sends a tremor through me. The harder I try to hide the way I feel about him, the harder it hits me. I glance away, anywhere, really.
That’s when my eyes fall on a couple wading into the ballroom. My parents.
My eyes widen in surprise.
My mother spots me and gives a light queen-like wave in my direction. My father’s eyes are on something—someone—else.
I’m so surprised my father agreed to attend, it takes me a few blinks to make sure he’s really here. Being a Democratic senator, it’s a huge testament to his support of Matt. Huge.
As I approach to greet them, I see Matt do the same. His walk is all confidence and vitality. “Senator Wells,” he says, as he greets my father. His handshake is firm and swift, full of grace and virility.
God, his voice. How can you even miss someone’s voice?
A warmth fills my stomach when I see the genuine respect in both men’s eyes as they greet each other.
I thought perhaps my dad being here meant he was supporting me as I venture into the world of politics, where my parents had always wanted to see me. But as I watch them, I know my dad is not only supporting me—he wants Matt to win.
To realize my father finally supports Matt—to know that Matt, his campaign, his touch with the people, has won him over like his own father did all those years ago—makes my admiration and awe of Matt grow.
I’m dying to talk to him, but it’s impossible with him being the center of attention. The center of everything. I step in to greet my parents as well, and I feel Matt’s eyes on me as I do.
For some reason, he shifts his stance to stand closer to me as he’s greeted by the mayor of D.C. and his wife, and instinctively I remain where I am and let him introduce me too.
I exhale, then hug my arms around myself.
“Why did you leave?” he asks.
I try to keep my voice level. “I thought it was for the best.”
“Never. That’s the last thing I wanted when this began.” His eyes keep holding mine, a muscle working in the back of his jaw. “I don’t want you gone. If anything, I want you closer to me.”
I flush harder and try to push any talk about the connection between us aside. “The polls, Matt—”
“Two points lost are two points I can gain back. We’re gaining them back. You’ll pile up my schedule even if I don’t sleep.”
I laugh, but he doesn’t. He leans forward, his thighs stretching the material of his jeans and his shoulders the cotton of his sweater. “Come back to the campaign.”
“Charlotte,” I hear Jessa say as she brings a tea tray from the kitchen, “your mother wanted me to bring this.” She sends a beaming look in Matt’s direction, flushed as if she were nineteen instead of sixty-three.
“Thanks, Jessa.”
“Thank you,” Matt says warmly, reaching out for a cup and taking a sip.
She seems to flush even more as she heads back to the kitchen.
“My mother will be worried about a scandal. You need to go, Matt.”
I stand and tug at his hand, forcing him to release the cup, set it down, and he catches my fingers as he comes to his full height. “Can I count on you?”
His nearness suddenly engulfs me. Every atom of my body is awake and buzzing with the heat of his so close, the feel of his eyes on my face, expectant, warm as the sun and just as bright.
“Always,” I croak.
His hand and mine are linked and burning.
He smiles at me, a dazzling smile, and squeezes my fingers, looking down at me with the most adorable expression on his face. “Thank you.”
He releases me and pets my cat one last time before he walks to the door, and I walk with him.
“Thank you for coming. I’ll bring my things back tomorrow,” I say.
“Tomorrow is the gala—” he begins, and I cut him off.
“I’ll be there too,” I assure him, pushing him out the door before he can kiss me. Even a kiss to the cheek would devastate me, and I’m afraid of yielding to the impulse to do more.
He’s smiling, amused as he watches me slam the door shut.
I close my eyes and inhale, hating that I know the same thing I knew then: that he can never really be mine. But to quote him back, that hasn’t stopped me from wanting him.
34
GALA
Charlotte
Tonight’s gala seems to be the grandest and busiest of all the galas we’ve held. We’re at the grand ballroom of The Jefferson Hotel.
The White House is so close, you can practically feel its power churning and surging, surrounding you. I glanced at its white columns as I arrived, and not for the first time I wondered what Matt’s life was like there. If there was any normalcy at all.
The ballroom is glittering tonight, everyone who is anyone is attending—from huge industrialists to prominent artists, musicians, doctors, and teachers—and yet my attention is focused on spotting only one person. The one.
I’m in a white dress and my eyes drink in the luxurious decorations surrounding me in my search of the one thing I most want to see.
The figure of the man that has my heart pounding like this.
“Charlotte!” Alison launches herself and hugs me. “A vision in white—I approve!” she happily says, then leans back and lifts her camera. Click.
“Alison, come on!” I groan, and she tugs me into the crowd, where I say hello to my team colleagues. No one even hints at noticing or knowing that I’d left, and I’m sure it’s due to Carlisle’s expert hand at damage control.
I keep searching for Matt across the room with a pounding in my heart and a knot of nervous anticipation in my stomach. It feels like forever until my eyes snag on the tall, dark figure of a man—and they stay there, absorbing everything that is Matt Hamilton
Dressed in a pitch-black suit and black tie, his hands—long-fingered and tan—keep shaking those of the people who walk up to greet him. The outlines of his shoulders strain against his suit jacket. He stands among the crowd, wickedly handsome, his face animated as he speaks to them about something he’s clearly impassioned about.
Our country, I know . . .
And then his eyes lift and he spots me across a sea of heads. The touches of humor around his mouth and eyes fade as our eyes lock.
The intensity of his gaze hits me like a punch. His stare is so galvanizing, it sends a tremor through me. The harder I try to hide the way I feel about him, the harder it hits me. I glance away, anywhere, really.
That’s when my eyes fall on a couple wading into the ballroom. My parents.
My eyes widen in surprise.
My mother spots me and gives a light queen-like wave in my direction. My father’s eyes are on something—someone—else.
I’m so surprised my father agreed to attend, it takes me a few blinks to make sure he’s really here. Being a Democratic senator, it’s a huge testament to his support of Matt. Huge.
As I approach to greet them, I see Matt do the same. His walk is all confidence and vitality. “Senator Wells,” he says, as he greets my father. His handshake is firm and swift, full of grace and virility.
God, his voice. How can you even miss someone’s voice?
A warmth fills my stomach when I see the genuine respect in both men’s eyes as they greet each other.
I thought perhaps my dad being here meant he was supporting me as I venture into the world of politics, where my parents had always wanted to see me. But as I watch them, I know my dad is not only supporting me—he wants Matt to win.
To realize my father finally supports Matt—to know that Matt, his campaign, his touch with the people, has won him over like his own father did all those years ago—makes my admiration and awe of Matt grow.
I’m dying to talk to him, but it’s impossible with him being the center of attention. The center of everything. I step in to greet my parents as well, and I feel Matt’s eyes on me as I do.
For some reason, he shifts his stance to stand closer to me as he’s greeted by the mayor of D.C. and his wife, and instinctively I remain where I am and let him introduce me too.
