Mr. President (White House #1)(10)

“Trust me, you don’t,” I whisper, flushing.

He shifts forward and grabs a strand of my loose red hair, tugging it and watching me lick my lips in nervousness. “You’re wondering why I ran.”

“No! I’m . . .” wondering why you’re here talking to me. I don’t say that, I just trail off and watch him curl the strand of my red hair around the tip of his index finger, then slowly release it, watching me as he uncurls his finger very, very slowly and lets it fall.

“So how are you?” he asks, his voice deep.

“Good. Not as good as you seem to be,” I say. Gosh, am I flirting? Please don’t be flirting, Charlotte!

“I doubt that. I thoroughly doubt that,” Matt says, his voice still so deep and the smile still in his eyes—but not on his lips.

He seems so focused on me that it’s like he doesn’t realize everyone is glancing in his direction.

I’m nervous in his presence, but at the same time, I don’t want him to leave.

“You know, I’ve met you three times and realize I don’t know anything about you other than the occasional story I hear,” I blurt out. “They’re so contrary I don’t even know which to believe.”

“None of them.”

“Oh, come on, Matthew!” I laugh, then I realize I called him by his name. “I mean … Mr. Ham—”

“Matt. Charlotte. Unless you’d still like to go by Charlie.”

“God, no! Are you dead-set on embarrassing me today?”

“Not really. Though I can’t deny I find the pink on your cheeks quite charming.”

His lips curve sensually, and there’s a flutter in my stomach when he winks at me.

I shyly glance down, and I realize that the hard little points of my nipples are popping out against my dress.

Mortified, I lift my arms to fold them in front of me, but not before I catch his eyes noticing too. He slowly lifts his gaze to mine, his expression revealing nothing as he pulls his attention back to the crowded group.

“I should get going. But I won’t say goodbye.” He raises one sleek eyebrow in meaning. Pushing his chair back and standing to his full height.

His words leave me confused. I can’t manage to answer quickly enough, so he simply smiles at me and leaves me to ponder them the rest of the night.

I have no idea how long my mother and I stay there, really, but I know exactly three times that I glanced in Matt’s direction, he turned to meet my gaze—as if he has some sort of radar or simply sensed me watching him.

My stomach went crazy each of those times, and I jerked my eyes away.

When we’re ready to leave, my mother takes the time to say her goodbyes. I consider grabbing Matt’s attention to wish him good luck before heading out, I just really wish that we hadn’t been interrupted when we were and that we’d been able to talk some more. But he is busy when I search for him through the crowd, and I don’t want to interrupt. As I follow my mother to the door, one of her old congressman friends stops to say goodbye to us both. I smile and nod, and past his shoulder, I see Matt’s eyes meet mine and realize he’d been watching me leave.

He smiles at me, and cants his head in the barest of nods, and there’s something about that smile and that nod that fills me with an odd sense of anticipation.

For what, I just don’t know.



I ride in the back of the town car with my mother, sort of unable to stop replaying the things Matt said to me when he came over. Sort of hating the fact that I still can’t control the things he brings out in me. “He’s going to win,” my mother says softly.

“Do you think so?” I ask her.

The wanting for him to win suddenly hits me with so much force, it almost overwhelms me. Sitting there talking with him, I sensed a genuine quality in him and a strength that makes you want to cling to it. Which is silly, really, but don’t you want a strong president? You want someone who can keep his head in a crisis, someone confident, and someone real.

“Well, his announcement caused quite a stir. But the Democrats and the Republicans won’t let go of the presidency that easily,” my mother says, and I press my lips together.

As I start to get out of the car, my mother says, “Charlotte, you know how much I hate you living alone here …”

“Mom,” I groan, shaking my head with a chiding frown, then wave her off and shut the door behind me.

That night is not the first time in the past eleven years that I dream about Matt Hamilton again, but it’s the first one where the guy in the dream looks exactly like he did tonight.





6





THE NEXT MORNING





Charlotte



I’m still thinking about the previous evening as I head to Women of the World. I’ve been working with my mother since I was eighteen, winging both my studies in Georgetown and social service hours here. I help run the organization and my days are usually a combination of fundraising, job hunting, and supportive talks with the women we take under our wing. I’ve just gotten off a phone call when a tall man with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair appears at my office door and knocks.

“Hi, Charlotte. Good morning.” He speaks with the familiarity of old friends.

I recognize his face, but I can’t pinpoint where I know him from.