Mr. President
Page 26I stare after him. His words hit a bull’s-eye, though not the target my grandfather had aimed for.
All of this effort, the dream I’m pursuing . . . I’ve been determined to do it alone. I saw what my father’s neglect did to my mother. I experienced firsthand what it did to me. I wouldn’t want to wish it on someone I cared for.
But a redheaded, blue-eyed scheduler with a gentle heart and true love for her country keeps hammering in my head. For the first time, I wonder what it would be like to reach the heights I aspire to with someone by my side.
“Matt.” My mother presses her lips together as she wages an inner battle, the mother’s battle between supporting her son and protecting him. “You want to use the White House to change the world, and I’ll support you.” She walks over to me and pulls me into her arms to speak in my ear. “But it changes you before you can change a centimeter of it,” she says sadly, kissing my cheek.
I drag my hand over my face in frustration as I watch her head upstairs. She’s a strong woman, but even strength breaks. When Father won, she went from private citizen to public and handled it with grace and style.
The country never saw her quiet suffering as she slowly lost my father to his job—and then to two bullets, one to his stomach and the other to his heart.
Yeah, the White House changed us all.
But what happens in the White House is reflected across the entire nation, and I’m determined to change things for the better.
I still have a busy day ahead when I step outside and climb aboard the black Lincoln that Wilson has parked by the front door.
I ride in silence toward my first speaking engagement of the day. In my mind, Charlotte is gasping as I slide my lips across her cheek and toward hers. She’s holding her breath as I press softly, testing her, nearly losing control when I realize she wants it.
She wants it as much as me.
I push the thought aside as the car stops, and I step out into the crowd.
“Matt!” I hear my name surround me, and I start shaking hands on both sides of the people flanking me, as many as possible on my path to the main building, thanking them for coming.
COFFEE
Charlotte
I’m nervous the next day after what happened in the car between Matt and me. I’m at the kitchenette, sort of wondering if I should go and take him coffee. Maybe because I want to talk about it, to know why he kissed me. Or maybe because I want to see him.
Before I can think better of it, I pour two cups—remembering the time he brought coffee to my desk the night we both stayed in late. I set mine on my desk on the same spot he did, then head to his office and peer past the opening.
“Can I come in?”
Matt was looking over some paperwork and when he lifts his eyes to look at me above the rims of his glasses, my heart trips a little. He nods permission, and I start when I spot Jack getting to his feet from where he was lying by Matt’s desk.
“Hi, Jack,” I say awkwardly. “I brought you coffee,” I then tell Matt as he comes to his feet.
As I hand him the warm cup, the dog races toward Matt and jumps up, desperately trying to lick the coffee mug, accidentally spilling its entire contents over Matt’s shirt.
“Jack, down!” The dog immediately sits, but the coffee is already soaking into the shirt. “Coffee’s his weakness.”
“That’s definitely something you can’t relate to. How does it feel to live a life without vices?” I ask.
He winks at me as he crosses the room to shut the door. As he passes, he gives me a heated once-over, and says, close to my ear, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
My stomach feels like he just lit it on fire with the combination of his words and the look in his eyes as he raises his hands and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
He’s so hot I can barely breathe.
Though it’s a well-published fact that Matt Hamilton looks amazing in clothes, amazing cannot even capture the complete athletic perfection of his shape and form and muscles. Every single muscle of his chest is defined and flexed hard. He’s also got silky dark hairs on his chest—and I find this so hot that liquid heat seems to flood between my legs.
Something warm and female starts flickering in my tummy as I stare helplessly at him.
“Hand me that campaign T-shirt?” he asks.
I glance at the shelves behind me. I reach over for a white T-shirt with a purple Hamilton ’16 logo. It’s like a sports jersey.
I hand it over, trying hard not to notice how his slacks accentuate his lean hips, how his broad shoulders taper down inverted-pyramid style to a narrow waist, and how those freaking abs make me want to trace each square with my fingertips. And those incredible arms, the bulging biceps as he lifts the shirt over his head.
“I like it.” I point nervously at the T-shirt.
“I wanted someone to test it out. Guess I found him.”
He pulls it over his head, and I swallow. Oh god.
I can’t stop flushing.
He tosses the stained shirt aside and runs his fingers through his hair. Jack has stealthily gotten up from his ass and is licking the coffee at my feet.
“Oh no, Jack.” I kneel and try to stop him. Matt comes to grab him by the collar and leads him away.
“That makes two of us.”
I watch him smile down at his dog and run his hand over his head even as he frowns at him for being mischievous. “You never sleep, do you?” I blurt out.
He lifts his gaze. “Got a lot on my mind. I’m lucky if I grab a few straight hours.” I watch him grab his sodden shirt and drape it over the back of his chair.
“I could wash that for you, Matt,” I say. It just sort of slipped out, but I’m mortified a second after I hear myself say it.
Matt glances at the shirt.
“I mean . . . unless you have . . . you probably have someone to do your laundry.”
“Yeah. My dry cleaners.” He laughs. I feel stupid as he leans over with the napkin I had brought to sop up the coffee, then balls it up and tosses it into the trash can. “But that’s the most titillating proposition I’ve ever received from a woman.”
“Really. It turns you on to get your clothes washed.”
“I’m as surprised as you are.”