“The team wants to know if we’ll agree to have the wedding televised.” I study his chiseled features. “What do you think?”
“I’m all right either way.” His eyebrows furrow thoughtfully. “We can’t hold a secret wedding—now that we’ve come out. I have no problem coming full out if that’s what you want to do.”
“I don’t know. I know you like your privacy, but these four years, they don’t come with that. Everyone is so excited.” I shrug. “There’s no reason why only the bad things need to make the news—we can put a good thing on the news too.”
“Then let’s go for it,” he says easily.
“And the vows? Will we write our own?”
“No,” he says. “The traditional vows say everything I want to say, and whatever more there is, I’d like them to be ours.” He cups my face and rolls over on top of me, looking into my eyes. “If I want to say more, I’ll tell it to you. In private. I might let the public enjoy you a little bit, but you’re mine. Just mine.”
He kisses me, and before we leave, we make love one more time.
I thought we were heading to the White House, and I’m surprised when the state car stops at a five-star steak restaurant, very well known in D.C.
Wilson tells Matt, “Everything is ready, sir.”
And suddenly Matt is pulling me out of the car and into the restaurant.
A restaurant that seems to have been fully vacated for us to have dinner in private.
“What is this?” I ask, eyes wide as I look at Matthew.
“I can’t marry you without an official first date. Now can I?” He pulls out a chair at a table by the window with a small candle flickering at its center, and I sit down and watch in awe as he takes the seat across from mine.
“I haven’t even eaten and this is already the best date I’ve ever had in my life.”
He rewards me with a delicious laugh.
And I remember the wink of a young man teasing a little girl, so many years ago.
“You do like every man’s attention on you, don’t you,” he teases me.
“Not every man’s, just the ones who capture mine,” I joke.
“I’d better be the only one now,” he says.
I smile, glancing at the engagement ring on my finger.
I slide my hand over the table, seizing his. “I love you,” I say, breathless and swooning inside.
He places a kiss on the back of my hand. “I love you too, baby.”
I move the index finger and thumb of my free hand an inch apart over the table. “This much?”
“Not that much.”
“Matthew!” I chide, pulling my hand free with a playful scowl.
Soon, several waiters approach us with a bottle of their best wine.
“Mr. President, First Lady. An honor to serve you tonight.”
While the waiter uncorks the wine, Matt looks at the menu. “Bring us all of the house specialties. Bring us each a different plate so we can taste them all.”
“Absolutely, Mr. President.”
We drink a light red wine, and once the plates are on the table, he looks at me, his espresso eyes piercing intuitively into mine. “How’s your lemon sole?” he asks as we dig in.
“Oh, so good.” And it really is.
He reaches out with his fork and steals a little piece from my plate, slipping it into his mouth. “Hmm, that is good.”
I pick up a piece of cut steak from his plate and speak through the corner of my mouth as I savor. “That’s good too.”
He pushes his plate in my direction, takes mine, and brings it over to his side. I actually have no problem with that.
“I always seem to like what you’re eating better than what I’m eating,” I say, digging into his rib eye.
“You’re a classic case of grass-is-greener-on-the-other-side, Miss Wells.”
“Says the guy devouring my lemon sole.”
“Pretty good. Do you want to try the chocolate mousse cake?”
“I would, but we’ll need an ambulance at the ready outside.”
He summons one of the staff, and a waitress hurries over. “One chocolate mousse cake, one homemade cheesecake. And an ambulance.” He grins and winks exaggeratedly at me.
The waitress smiles dotingly and flushes. “Yes, sir.”
We finish our desserts, and Matt leaves a huge tip and tells the staff he’ll take care of the bill from his office.
“Do I need a stretcher to bring you out?” he asks me. His eyes are brilliant with mischief, his smile amused.
“No. I can walk. Barely,” I add, loving how his arm still comes around me.
“Thank you, Matt,” I breathe, going up on tiptoes and kissing his jaw.
The following week, we’re getting dozens of confirmations from the foreign dignitaries who plan to attend the wedding as they receive our invitations.
Press conferences are the thing of the day, though Matt doesn’t attend them all. Lola has been delivering the news as it comes—the press wants every detail, down to what gifts we’re receiving, and since Matt has no intention of warring with the press over details, neither do I. I’m simply happy the country is getting swept up on cloud nine, right along with me.
24
A PRESIDENTIAL WEDDING
Charlotte
The gifts start arriving the week before the wedding, vetted by the Secret Service before they reach Matt’s and my sight. The President of China sends an American flag sculpture, cast in bronze. The Prime Minister of Canada sends a pair of swans that will find a home in the south fountain of the White House. The President of Mexico asked for special permission to send a mariachi band to sing to us on the evening of our wedding. Soon the rooms of the White House are piling up with gifts from all over the world.