Mr. President (White House #1)(12)

“I’m not wild about this one.” His voice is deep, and it hums with thoughtfulness as he taps a finger to something he doesn’t like. “Reeks of bullshit, and that’s not what we’re about.”

We, as in he and his team.

He seems like the most down-to-earth, unpretentious guy, even when he’s easily the most famous.

“Charlotte.”

He lifts his head and sees me. And he gets that laughter in his eyes I remember so well, and I can’t see what he finds so funny about me. But I smile nonetheless, his smile infectious.

As he eats up the floor toward me, he’s wearing that easy charm that makes everyone want to be his best friend. Or his mother, or better yet, his wife. He does have that thing a reporter once said that “suggests to the easily suggestible he needs some loving.” A sad tilt to his eyes makes him all the more handsome.

He’s the man his father groomed and that a nation has waited for.

Hamiltons inspire loyalty more than any other family ever has who’s been in executive power.

His hand clasps mine.

“Mr. Hamilton.”

“Matt,” he corrects.

His hand is warm, big. All-engulfing. I feel it slide over mine, I shake it and try to hold his gaze. But it feels as he squeezes me in his grip that he’s squeezing my whole body. I’m nerve-wracked, and I blame the twinkle in his eyes and that handsome love-me, take-me-home, mother-me-or-f*ck-me face.

He drops his hand at his side and shoves it into his pocket, and I glance at it for a second and wonder if he felt that electric rush that I felt when he touched me.

He glances down at my hands too, as if realizing how small my hand is compared to his too. “Settling in all right?”

“Yes, sir. I’m absolutely thrilled to be here.”

“Matt …” someone calls.

He nods at the guy who hands him a phone, reaches out with his free hand and sets it lightly on the back of my shoulder as he nods at me. “We’ll catch up, Charlotte.”

He squeezes me—the lightest bit—and the touch sears me—it’s a little unexpected—and though it lasts just a second, it sends a frisson of heat shooting down my body. My toes curl in my shoes.

I can’t help but follow his retreating back as he lifts the cell phone to his ear and retreats to his office to take the call.

God, I’m in so much trouble.

Focus, Charlotte!

Nope. Not on his ass.

I tear my gaze free and paste a smile on my face as I’m led toward my cubicle.



My first day consists of a basic rundown of my duties as a political aide.

“Why did he run? He’s been fiercely trying to protect his privacy for years.”

Two young women talk by my desk, one dark-haired and the other with a sporty, short blonde bob.

“True. But only for as long as he chose to be,” the blonde tells the brunette.

They glance at him. I resist the urge to do the same.

Matt is stepping into the limelight after years fighting for his privacy from obsessed reporters. The resourceful press would find itself filtering into Harvard when he began college, and every event where he was enlisted to help promote, he’d end up being the headline rather than the cause he was so generously trying to push.

It annoyed him.

“When he offered the job, I asked him, why me? And he said, why not you?” the blonde then shares. “Because you’re so hot no woman can work around you and think straight,” she answers herself, laughing.

I smile and pull my attention back to organizing my desk.

My office is perfection, with a view of the city. Outside this building it feels serene, the country on track, as always, but there’s a hum inside this building, in my coworkers, in me.

After settling in, I head into the small kitchenette for coffee. With a full cup, I turn the moment I hear footsteps behind me, but I miscalculate how close the newcomer is. I start when I bump into her and slosh coffee all over her shoes.

I’m mortified. Dammit, Charlotte! I pry my coffee-stained fingers from the cup and set it aside and grab napkins. “That didn’t just happen. Your shoe.” I start to bend but the blonde with the sporty bob bends too, getting it before I do.

“Hey, it’s fine. A little excitement never hurt anybody.” She smiles. “I’m Alison.” She puts her hand out, and I take it. “The official campaign photographer.”

“Charlotte.”

“Charlotte, I know how you can make it up to me.”

She waves me after her and we head into Matt’s office as she carries her camera and stands inside. The instant I realize this is Matt freaking Hamilton’s office I’m walking into, I run my fingers nervously through my hair—spotting his broad shoulders and hot self in the chair behind the desk, all gorgeous and busy as he reads some papers.

As he reads, my finger gets stuck on a small knot in my hair and I quickly try to smooth it out.

When I finally do, I summon the courage to look at him, and he’s watching me, a frown on his face. “Do you want to be in the shot with me?” His voice is low and terribly deep.

I stare in confusion. “God, no. Absolutely not.”

“All that effort and you won’t let the world enjoy it?” he asks, his expression unreadable as he quirks an eyebrow, signaling to my hair.