Commander in Chief

Today I’ve become privy to confidential information—deals with other countries, high-security risks, things our CIA and FBI are engaged in that will proceed as usual unless I indicate otherwise. Intel on the situation with China. Russia’s playing with fire. Cyberterrorism on the rise.

So fucking much to do and I’m ready to get started.

I set the files aside an hour later, but instead of heading back to the buffet, I proceed to the residence to get ready for the inaugural balls.

The White House is never truly quiet, but this evening the top floors are quieter than I remember. No sound of my father or mother, just me. In the place of forty-five men before me.

Jack is sniffing around like there’s no tomorrow as I head to the Lincoln Bedroom, the room I’ve chosen to stay in. “Welcome to the White House, buddy. Like Truman said, the great white jail.”

Crossing the room, I stare out the window at the acres of land surrounding the White House, the District still foggy and cold outside.

Ready to go see her, I shower and change for tonight’s inaugural balls. My hands easily working on my cufflinks as I think about finally, finally looking into her beautiful blue eyes again.

“You miss her?”

Jack raises his head from where he was watching me from the foot of the bed. As if there is only one her in the whole goddamn world.

I smile, then I reach down and I stroke the top of his head while I reach for the tuxedo jacket. “I miss her too.” I shove my arms into the sleeves, then glance down at him. “We won’t have to miss her for long.”

Charlotte

“Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!!”

I almost spill my drink when the announcement echoes across the ballroom.

I stand with Alison, who’s thrilled to be one of the White House photographers. While she was snapping pictures of the partygoers, I was mingling by her side, a drink in hand, when those words rang out.

And if someone had just grabbed a bat and smashed the air out of my lungs, I would absolutely believe it.

This is the smallest ball among all five being held tonight. Everyone expected the president to make it to the other grand balls first. I was barely prepared to see him—I’d only drunk one glass of wine so far!—and now he’s here.

Oh god.

I’m ten times more nervous than all the women in the room. Hundreds of them, all important, highly intelligent or highly beautiful women, all tittering excitedly as Matt Hamilton, my Matt Hamilton, walks into the room.

Um. No. He’s not yours, Charlotte, so you’d better stop feeling possessive over the man.

But I can’t help it.

The sight of him makes me yearn to be walking by his side, with my arm hooked into his, no matter how ludicrous the idea is. It was one thing looking at him at a podium. Farther away.

But it’s another thing being in the room he’s now occupying.

In a tux.

A hot black tux.

So much closer to me than he’s been in two months.

I can almost smell him, expensive and clean and male.

Alison is snapping pictures at my side.

Snap, snap, snap.

Matt takes over the room with his long, confident walk, briskly greeting those who greet him. Is he taller today? He really is towering over everyone. And are his shoulders broader? He looks so much larger than life. His very posture and stride that of a man who knows the whole world revolves around him. Which wouldn’t be entirely false.

“You know what I like about Matt? That he actually backs up the hotness with brains,” she says, making an O with her mouth and exhaling, then licking her lips with a mischievous sparkle in her eye. “Yum.”

Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m licking my lips too. I really need to never do that again.

Alison shifts positions to capture a dozen different shots—not only of Matt but of people’s awed and ecstatic reactions to him.

His eyes are sparkling as he greets one person after the next. They crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and I remember that crinkle. I remember the feel of the stubble on his jaw in the mornings even though his jaw is smooth and perfectly clean-shaven now, his lips curved upward.

His hair is combed back, his features chiseled and beautiful. My whole body spasms uncontrollably. It’s as if every pore and every inch of me remembers him. Still wants him.

I lift my fingers to stroke the place where I used to wear his father’s commemorative pin—but all I touch is my bare skin, revealed by the long, strapless gown I’m wearing.

My heart thuds crazily as he continues greeting the people he passes, approaching where I stand with my drink frozen in my hand. He looks so happy. My stomach clutches with a mix of emotions. Happiness, yes. But his presence is also a reminder of what I’d lost.

Did I lose him?

He was never really mine.

But I was all his. His to take. Body and soul. And I would have done anything he wanted me to. But I’ve tried to regain my sense of self. While traveling through Europe, I’ve tried to see the reasons why it could never have worked, among them that I’m inexperienced and young and not the kind of woman a president needs. I am not ready for what he is. No matter how much I wish I were older, more experienced, more fit to be by his side.

Not that he wanted me there.

I am torn when the crowd keeps parting and he keeps advancing.

“I’m going to the restroom,” I breathe, and I head off, wondering why I came here. Why I said yes. It was his important day. I didn’t want to miss it. But it hurts anew, as if today were the day he was elected, the day I walked away from him—booked a flight to Europe and spent two months there with Kayla, freezing our asses off, drinking hot chocolate. I came back in time for his inauguration—I could not miss it.