Commander in Chief (White House #2)(25)

Last night, I was taking a walk outside to clear my head when his best friend from Harvard, Beckett, arrived.

“Is the president still in the West Wing at this hour?”

I nodded.

“Wow.” He frowned. “He hasn’t answered my calls. Any reason he’s so hell-bent on getting everything done now?”

“He said he would. He wants to make his first one hundred days groundbreaking and set the tone for the rest of them.”

“He’s inspired by you,” Beckett said, winking and heading over. “I’m going to drag him out of the office, take him out for a run.”

“Good. Take Jack with you—he’s been restless with the rain and cooped up inside. I don’t think he gets a kick out of politics the way Matt does.”

His words linger with me.

Do I inspire Matthew, really?

I know that he’s driven to succeed, that he inherited a broken kingdom that he must mend, burnt bridges between parties that he has to rebuild, all while navigating the complicated politics of D.C. involving a myriad of players, quite like pieces in a chess game—the lobbyists, the House, the Senate—all while keeping in mind the goals, the will, and the welfare of the people.

When I met his father, President Lawrence Hamilton, I felt so inspired. But nothing in my life has ever inspired me the way watching Matt work does. So I decide that tonight, rather than wait in my room, I’ll visit him at the Oval Office when he’s back from his run and the halls are quiet.



“What is it?” I ask, alarmed and confused over Matt’s expression.

I came to visit him at the Oval. I was barefoot, finding him behind his desk, working behind the light of a lamp. I thought I was being sassy when I headed over to his desk and tried to prop myself up to the desk top. When I did, something loosened from underneath, and Matt caught it in his hand as it started fluttering downward.

It was a scarf. A pink scarf, that seemed to be tucked into some sort of compartment in his dad’s desk.

Now I have a sick feeling in my stomach as we both stare at the pink scarf in Matt’s hand.

My lips tremble as a bone-chilling shiver travels down my spine.

“This doesn’t belong to my mother,” Matt says.

I can’t even think about it. I’m too shocked about seeing such a flimsy thing in the Oval, and feel sort of like a voyeur, as if Matt and I just caught his father doing something forbidden.

Matt’s expression is a mix of rage and disbelief.

“I’m sorry.” I reach out and take his hand. “Do you want to …”

“I need some air.”

Matt stands and steps out of the room, and after a moment, I hear the agents rushing after him—and I’m alone in this house, with my dreary thoughts and my mind buzzing with worry.

Matt comes back shortly after.

He seems to have cleared his head outside, for he dives straight for the phone.

Matt calls my father over. He was a friend of his father for many years, and I suppose he trusts that whatever he discussed with my dad will never leave the room.

We sit with him in the sitting room adjacent the Oval as Matt asks him questions about his father.

“But you never knew of his interests outside of policy and the White House?”

“I knew—suspected—something changed the year before he was killed. He smiled more, he traveled more. He seemed to get new life injected.”

“Could this have anything to do with a woman?”

“Possibly. I don’t know for sure. I always assumed it was him realizing that he was close to done serving as president, and he’d be able to make it up to his family now.”

“Thank you, Robert.”

Matt seems calm, but only someone who knows him—truly knows him—could detect the tension pulsing in his shoulders.

“Charlotte, I’d like to talk to your father alone for a moment.”

I smile when I look into his reassuring eyes, nodding quietly as I go and hug my father. “Thank you, Dad.” I kiss his cheek and he pats my hand when I rest it on his shoulder, watching me with pride as I leave.

Something about the way Matt asks makes me tingly. I wonder if he’s going to tell my dad about us. It seems in character that he’d want to let him know there’s something between us before we eventually move forward and tell the word.

Two minutes later, I’m pretty sure that he did tell him something about us—for when my dad leaves, he’s got a spark of mischief in his eye as he waves goodbye.

Matt contacts the FBI next. I’m still rattled by things. As Sigmund Cox arrives to the Oval, Matt asks me to stay. As he hands over the scarf, his roiling bronze eyes meet mine, and they look crisp and metallic, cold as I feel.

I know what this finding means. How disappointing it could be—to imagine that his father possibly had an affair what he was president. Especially considering he neglected his mother and son. For the country, it was one thing, but for another woman?

After explaining to Cox what we found, Matt slides the FBI files across his desk.

“I want the case reopened and I want a special task investigator working twenty-four seven on this. I want real information on this. I want specifics. Details. I also want this to be top secret. Nobody but you, those of us in this room, and the special investigator will know.”