Commander in Chief (White House #2)(54)

His stare drills into me, and we stare at each other across the ringing silence.

“Matt, he was getting crushed. He was just a boy trying to give me a drawing he made for me.”

He grits his jaw so tight, I can see a muscle flexing angrily in the back, his glare burning through me. “You want to make your mark and I’m proud of you for that,” he growls, clearly struggling for control. “But for all that’s holy, baby, do not ever—ever—put yourself in danger again. Do you fucking hear me?”

His voice is deathly low, deathly quiet.

Suddenly angry and frustrated, because I know Matt doesn’t seriously want me to stand by and watch a boy come to harm, I spin around, open the door, and start heading down the hall, wordless.

Wanting to cry for some reason.

Matt catches up with me, taking my arm and leading me up the stairs and to the residence.

He releases me in my bedroom, exasperated, his frustration evident on his face.

“What the hell was that?” he growls.

“I’m sorry I scared you!” I yell. “I was scared too! I didn’t want to make a scene in the Oval—that’s like sacred space. But all the attention was on me, Matt, everybody trying to save me—nobody thinking of the little boy.” My voice breaks and my lips begin to quiver. I purse them.

His eyes darken as he looks at me. He works the back muscle of his jaw like there’s no tomorrow.

Matt looks clearly tortured, torn between wanting to hug me and shake some sense into me. “You did a brave thing, Charlotte, but for the love of god,” he rips the last word out, trying to sound patient but failing as he takes my shoulder in his hand, squeezing, “think of what could have happened to you. You’re over four months pregnant and you’re pushing yourself too much—too fucking much. I don’t like it.”

“I’m just keeping busy, Matt! Trying to do my part the best I can. I like what I do, and with the baby on the way I’m trying to do as much as possible before it’s born. You’ve been so busy, and I don’t like it when I start to miss you . . .”

I drop my gaze to his throat, my voice quieting over my confession.

“I keep waiting at night to see if you come to bed and I always fall asleep before you do. I want to make a difference, and there are so many things that I don’t have time for them all, but sometimes instead of thinking of that I’m thinking of you and when I’ll be with you . . .”

“Go on,” he says, thickly, squeezing my shoulder.

I swallow. “I won’t. I’ve said enough.”

Silence.

His tone turns gruff with emotion as he tugs me closer. “For what it’s worth, you’re doing an incredible job out there. I’m proud of you.” He runs his knuckles down my cheek, his expression so intense, I’m weak-kneed. “I’m so damn proud of you.”

He grabs the back of my head, pressing his forehead to mine.

“I think of when I’ll be done so I can come and lie next to you. And by the time I get there you’re asleep. I sit on the chair in my room, just like the one you have here in yours, and I watch you, and I watch you dream—not always good dreams, sometimes you’re restless, and I do this . . .” he strokes my hair, “and you settle down. And I don’t want to catch some sleep because those hours are the only hours when the demands aren’t pressing on me, and the few hours I have you to myself, and I don’t want to miss any of it. Not a second.”

I grab him by the tie and kiss him. He grabs the back of my head again and takes control of the kiss, deepening it.

“I love you,” he husks out, taking me by the back of the neck as his eyes blaze down on me. “You can’t pull a stunt like that again. Not ever, not even when we’re out of here—do you hear me? You’re every fucking thing to me. You don’t need to keep exposing yourself like that—understand me?”

“It’s just that I miss you. Doing things that make a difference is all that can fill some of the void of missing you. Sometimes being here, with all these amazing people, I feel alone.” I drop my head. “I can’t explain it. I don’t want to feel it.”

I squeeze my eyes closed and cover my mouth. God, I can’t believe I just said that.

Here I am, being selfish. I want him all to myself. He’s the fucking president. What do I think I’m doing?

He looks slapped.

Oh god.

I probably sound like his mother did when his father was busy, and I never want to sound like that.

How could I be so selfish and say that aloud? This man is giving his all to his country, his whole life.

“I didn’t know you felt like this,” he says. His voice is gruff and low.

I turn away, but he stops me, raising his voice. “Don’t pull away from me. Jesus!” He lifts my chin and turns me to meet his eyes, and his fingertip sears my skin. His touch sears my heart. “I’ll do better.”

“No, you’re already doing so much. I’m sorry I said that. I want us, now and in the future,” I admit.

Regret and frustration swim like dark shadows in his eyes. “You’re my future.”

I place my hand over the one holding my chin, my palm against his knuckles. “Let’s not fight.”

He clenches his jaw again. “You’re not alone. Ever. Do you hear me?” he says sternly. “You have me.”