Commander in Chief (White House #2)(38)

I wanted to make a difference, to find out my calling, to have a man to love. This is it. Unbelievably, this is it. A normal girl, with the most extraordinary love from the most extraordinary man.



I call my parents first. My mother is sort of speechless, and my dad takes the phone from her and tells me he’d talked to Matt before he proposed, but he hadn’t told my mother, that she’s shocked but they’re thrilled with the news and that they look forward to the wedding.

Then I call Kayla.

“I’ve been trying to contact you!”

“I was on the line with my mom and dad.”

“Charlotte, oh my god!” she says.

“I know, I know!” I say, giddy, looking at my engagement ring. It’s a pear-shaped diamond, with two trapezoid emeralds flanking its sides, and it’s so stunning I can barely look at it without feeling myself go breathless.

“You’re marrying the president of the United States,” she declares.

“Yes,” I say.

“You’re marrying the fucking president of the United States,” she repeats, disbelieving.

“I’m already his first lady; don’t act so shocked,” I say, laughing.

“He’s like . . . the most coveted bachelor in the land! Hammy! Hammy is marrying you, and you’re marrying Hammy!”

“Kayla,” I groan. “Make sense for a minute. You can’t be all awestruck when you stand by me at the altar as my maid of honor.”

“Your what?”

“You heard me.” I laugh. “It’s going to be a speedy wedding. When Matt told reporters he wanted to marry me ‘today’ he wasn’t exactly joking.”

“So when is it?”

“As soon as we can. It’ll take me at least a month to get everything ready, but—”

“A month. Oh my god!” she cries. “I’m in.” Her voice breaks. “Charlotte, I’m so happy for you. I always thought Sam would propose first and that you’d be sort of heartbroken because you still hadn’t found a guy of your own. Now look at you!”

We laugh, and we reminisce about the days when we were younger, and both promised that we’d always be friends, even if one of us got married and moved across the continent, or became a philanthropist recluse.

After we hang up, I take calls from Alan and Mark, both of whom sound sort of mind-blown and a little sore about it, and then from twelve more friends, a mix of ex-coworkers from Women of the World and old Georgetown friends.

The news travels fast—especially considering it’s on every website. Clarissa shows me a few of the headlines, sounding as ecstatic as the rest of the White House is, and I’ve been hugging the staff members—many who have become warm, gentle presences in my life.

Wedding at the White House!

Say Hello to the First Family

While America continues rising as the undisputed superpower of the world, President Hamilton falls (in love, that is)

Hammy finally to get wed—to his FLOTUS!

Condolences to the women out there: The most coveted bachelor in the world, our very own President Hamilton, is to be a bachelor no more.

In the meantime, Lola is busy fielding the White House press corps, all of whom want to know more details about the wedding.

Within a matter of hours, the excitement in D.C. is palpable in the air, as palpable as the incoming spring. After Grover Cleveland’s long-ago White House wedding in 1886, there’s finally another presidential wedding taking place—and even the international press is reporting on the news.

We’ve been receiving calls nonstop.

“Vogue wants to feature you and the president on the cover of their April issue.”

“Vera Wang wants to design your wedding dress.”

“The designer of the yellow outfit you wore on the Today Show? He called to say he sold out of the outfit and got orders from Bergdorf and Neiman Marcus. He wants to send more designs and is sending a huge congratulations on the wedding.”

“That’s great!” I say.

“Charlotte, the chef wants to know if you’d like a tasting menu prepared this Sunday so you and the president can start looking at dishes—”



Matt



I’m a happy man when I walk into the Oval Office to find one of the White House staffers leaving a pile of letters on my desk. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. President,” she says, about to leave. She pauses. “I’m one of those who read the letters and help select the ones we will place on your desk.”

I absently nod. “Thank you.”

“Sir, I also read some of the letters for your father. I’ve been working here for a long time.”

I skim through the envelopes.

“You get some hate mail,” she says.

I keep flipping through the envelopes as I laugh. “Yeah, I don’t doubt it.”

“He got more. Sometimes from the same guy.”

I frown. Raise my head. “And you know this how …?”

“Just the postage, the way the letters were made. Looked like the same guy. He sent you one. It’s not hate mail, just a magazine cut-out of an eye.”

“Where does all the correspondence go?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do me a favor. Talk to Cox at the FBI about this. I’ll have him contact you.”