Mr. President (White House #1)(13)

Oh god.

I’m blushing. They say Matt enjoys life, he enjoys life so much he wants to change it. I smile, a little too nervous, and just stand aside as Alison sets up the camera. “Here, Matt?” she asks.

“Why don’t we do something more natural?” His dark gaze remains on me as he crooks a finger, luring me forward. “Charlotte, want to hand me one of those printouts behind you?” he asks, his voice a bit rough.

Feeling a knot of nervousness in my throat, I grab one and walk up to him, aware of him watching every step forward that I take when I hear the consecutive clicks.

“Lovely,” says Alison.

Matt takes the folder with lazy grace, his gaze still holding mine, his voice still terribly deep and unnerving. “See? I knew there was a reason I brought you on. You make me look good,” he says approvingly. His lips curl just a tad.

I lift my brows; he lifts his too, as if challenging me. Heat crawls up my neck and cheeks. Really, there’s nothing that can make him look a little better than he already does.

By the time I go home I’m beyond embarrassed. Go ahead and look like a crushing fool, Charlotte, I chide as I head to my apartment.



When I get home, I’m thinking of the most somber outfit I have. No matter if I’m petite and have a childlike face, I want to be taken seriously here. My feet are killing me, my neck is killing me, but I don’t slip into my pajamas until I pull out a soot-black power suit, slacks and a short black well-cut little jacket for tomorrow. I spread it out on the chair that sits by my window and eye it judiciously. It’s smart and crisp, exactly how I want to look tomorrow.

Matt Hamilton is going to take me seriously if it kills me.

My parents are proud.

Kayla has been texting nonstop, and she wants the details.

I spend a while texting her back, alone in my apartment.

I hadn’t realized how lonely it would be to sleep in my apartment on my own. You wanted to be independent, Charlotte. This is it.

The light of my answering machine is blinking, and I play back the messages.

“Charlotte, I’m really not happy about you being there in that little apartment, especially now that you’re doing this. Your father and I would like you to come back home if you’re serious about embarking on a year of campaigning. Call me.”

I groan. Oh no, Mother, you won’t.

We had discussed that I’d be able to move from home and carve my own path at twenty. Mother, not happy when the date approached and I was still in college tempted to be foolish, pushed it to twenty-two. Now, a month after my twenty-second birthday, I’ve paid my dues, stood my ground, and refused for her to push the date farther.

She insisted the building was relatively unsafe—with only one man at the door. If any of the inhabitants summoned him upstairs, the door and lobby would be unmanned. It was small and uncomfortable and not safe.

I thought it was perfect. Well situated, the right size to keep clean and tidy. Although I haven’t met anyone except two of my neighbors, one a young family, the other an army veteran. And I do feel, at night, that things creak and croak and keep me awake. This was the first step of me carving my path on my own.

So I lie in bed and set my alarm for tomorrow. I’m physically exhausted, but my mind keeps replaying the day.

I think of the campaign and of Matt and of President Hamilton’s assassination. I think of our current president and my personal hopes for our future president.

Every person that I know, every person conscious of themselves and their potentials … we all want to make an impact, a contribution, to work on something that matters to us. I’m on a new path that I’m carving on my own. I’m young and a little insecure, but I’m making a difference, even if small.





8





THE TEAM





Matt



The thing about presidential campaigns is that you don’t just need the right candidate. You need the right team. I eye the dozens of folders strewn across my desk. I’m on my sixth cup of coffee, and I take the last sip as I consider the latest addition to my team.

“Women of the World, Charlotte Wells. She’s almost an intern—no experience. You certain about this?” Carlisle asked.

I decided all this over a box of donuts, veggie wraps, soda cans, and bottles of Voss water.

You can’t say Charlotte is beautiful, she’s too stunning for that. You just don’t forget a face like hers.

Red hair like a flame falling down her shoulders. And that spark in her eyes. She’s energetic, unapologetic, exquisite. Despite being raised as a senator’s daughter, she’s so far been untouched by political scandal—untouched by the sometimes seedy dealings politics are paired with.

She’s more right for the job than Carlisle believes. I’m aware of his reluctance, but more than certain Charlotte will prove herself in spades.

Rather than bring in the experienced political allies from my father’s era, all too willing to back me up, I’m bringing in people who want to make a difference. Who’ve made it a habit of thinking of others before themselves and their pockets.

I’m determined to have her on my team.

Even before setting eyes on her at the kickoff party, I’d planned to have Carlisle pay a call to that girl I’d met, the one who cried an ocean and a half at my father’s funeral. The one whose letter I skimmed, for some reason, the day my father died.