Mr. President (White House #1)(15)

“A puzzle as to her inclusion in the permanent staff and speculation on why Matt Hamilton chose her …”

“Gut instinct,” I tell them, sitting back once the image disappears, raising my beer and taking a swig.

“She seems to have a solid Catholic background and a penchant for helping those in need. That angelic face will definitely not gain any haters …”

“Plus she’s pure and untouched by you,” I say, setting my beer aside and watching the pictures of her flash across the screen.

It’s been nine years since my father’s funeral, but I still remember the way she cried, as if my father had been hers.

“We have a snippet of her in Matt Hamilton’s arms at the funeral of President Hamilton. Think there’s any romantic entanglement?”

“Not yet,” I mumble. Whoa! Did I just say that?

Not happening, Hamilton. Not now.

Fuck.

I finish my meal and carry the plate to the kitchen, dropping it into the sink. I frown and lean on it when her face filters back into my mind. Charlotte, in that shimmering yellow dress. Carlisle’s confirmation that she’d agreed to join the campaign. I’m confused by how much that affected me. How much I want her around.

I head back to the living room to hear the rest.

“Not really. Hamilton has been very careful with that, a very discreet man.”

“It’s true that since his abrupt departure from the White House he’s been amassing the public’s sympathy and support—the amount of fans he’s gained so far is unprecedented for an Independent and donations are reportedly pouring in before the fundraisers begin. It’ll be interesting to see what this team of rather young but impressive people do. Original and inventive strategies to reach the public and a massive online campaign are expected.”

I rub the back of my neck and turn off the TV.

I’m used to the attention. My mother never approved of my father’s willingness to use me for publicity. She tried to fiercely guard my privacy, and I guess, before this, so did I.

But my father taught me the press didn’t have to be foes, they could be friends, or tools to aid his administration. Those White House years, we were always swarmed by an armada of press and resourceful photographers. The only respite was found at Camp David where they were out of bounds. Yet, we rarely went there, no matter how much my mother loved the vacation spot. Dad felt as if he belonged to the people, and insisted on being as open and available as possible.

“I spend so much time away, I want you to know me,” he’d tell me.

“I do.”

I’d walk him out to the South Lawn as he boarded Marine One. As always, I was a teen with a fascination with all things military.

“What do you think?” he’d ask of anyone, with the paternal pride of any American parent. “He’ll be president one day,” he’d say.

“Ahh, no,” I’d laugh.

He would have loved to see me try.

Instead, he’s been gone for almost a decade.

My mother got the call from a U.S. senator when it happened.

My granddad saw on TV that his son was dead.

All I remember of the funeral is my mom kissing the top of his head, his fingers, his knuckles and his palms, putting her wedding ring in his hand, and taking his in her own.

The vice president sent my mother a letter, and one for me.

Matt, I know the phenomenal man and leader your father was. He won’t be forgotten.

The letter was a kind reminder that my mother and I were homeless for the first time in our lives.

After the state funeral, we packed up as the new family established itself in the White House. I looked at the oval office one last time, the walls, the desk, the empty seat, and walked out, never imagining how determined I’d be to walk back in two terms later.





9





FIRST WEEK





Charlotte



I have restless dreams about the campaign, wondering who’ll win the primaries for the main political parties, and flashbacks of the day Matt’s father was killed.

It’s still dark when I wake. I take a hot bath, but I’m not that tired even though I didn’t sleep well. I’m still running on adrenaline from the excitement—stumbling half-naked around my kitchen, dressing while having breakfast.

I wear a khaki skirt, a plain white button-down shirt, and a pair of tan open-toed shoes with sensible three-inch heels. My hair is pulled back into a practical ponytail, not too tight, but tight enough that no wayward strands can escape.

The excitement in the room is palpable when I arrive at the building. Keyboards are clicking, phones are buzzing, people are maneuvering past the small halls, getting quickly from one place to the next. There’s respect in the air, gratitude for being here.

We want our candidate to win.

Matt asks us what we all desire for our next president, what we desire for our country. As the group mulls his questions over, that ridiculously sexy stare locks on me. “If you had a genie that granted you three wishes, what would they be?”

Every word he says is like an indecent proposal.

The women around me look a bit like perspiring.

I wonder if they’re all thinking of sleeping with him as their first wish and marrying him their last, like I am.