Mr. President (White House #1)(17)

The effect this is having on women voters is almost naughty.

Primaries aren’t over until a few months from now, but I can already tell that his most formidable adversary will be the current president. On the other hand, the leading Republican candidate is so radical and people are so sick of things, he’s gaining traction too.

From one fundraising political event to the next, Matt is fielding two hundred to five hundred speaking invitations a week.

Today, we’re all sitting at Matt’s round table, and the tension in palpable. Matt’s creative design and marketing people have been pitching ideas, hoping to answer the big question on the docket for the day: “How should we market Matt’s campaign?”

The basics have been nailed down by Carlisle, who said simply that the efforts of the campaign should center around Matt’s strengths: his father’s successful presidency and his incredible popularity as president, Matt’s popularity among the people (especially those ready for real change), and Matt’s singleness.

However, the campaign has yet to come up with a real campaign strategy to bring Matt’s ideas for change to the public.

Matt looks exasperated, running his fingers through his dark hair and rubbing his knuckles across the slight stubble on his chin.

I want to speak up, give a suggestion, but the silence is intimidating . . . he is intimidating. His unreadable expression seems to make everyone in the room shift nervously.

He raises his gaze and sweeps it across everyone, meeting each and every gaze. “We can do better.”

His gaze only passes me, but it definitely connects, and for that second, suddenly I’m eleven again, awed and confused by the effect he has.

I bite my lip, and I think about the letter from a young boy. I’ve been able to answer every letter, even some pretty crazy ones proposing marriage, but I can’t figure out what to tell this one fan. Every time I think of him I ache, but I don’t have the courage yet to go directly to Matt and ask him about it.

“Come on, guys.” He sighs. “Is this really all we have?”

Papers shuffle and I can hear an awkward cough or sigh every now and then. We all look at each other, silently pleading with our eyes for someone, anyone, to speak up.

I feel myself itching to dare and pitch my idea, but Carlisle beats me to it, and I feel my heart sink in my chest.

Carlisle suggests that Matt market his campaign as the “next step” or “continuation” of his father’s presidential plan. Calling it a Hamilton 2.0 of sorts, the new-and-improved Hamilton plan.

Matt immediately shoots it down. “I want the people to know that I will continue my father’s legacy, but that I also have ideas of my own.”

Carlisle sighs and exasperatedly raises his hands in defeat. “Does anyone else have any ideas?”

Matt looks at us all and his piercing gaze settles on me. I feel my breath catch in my chest. He quirks an eyebrow at me, silently beckoning me to speak up. To take a risk and speak my mind.

Unable to take his unsettling gaze anymore, I clear my throat, and immediately everyone looks at me.

“What do you guys think of something that brings home the fact that we are working on everything—down to the fundamentals?” I nervously begin. “We can call it the alphabet campaign. We’re fixing, working, and improving everything from A to Z in this country. Arts. Bureaucracy. Culture. Debt. Education. Foreign relation policies . . .”

The table is quiet. I turn to Matt and I see his eyes shimmering in approval.

Carlisle is the first to speak up, cracking a smile and turning to Matt. “That’s actually really good.”

Matt doesn’t turn to look at him, just keeps his gaze on me. “It is,” he says simply. He nods and stands, buttoning his jacket. “We’re doing that. I want to have a full alphabet of campaign issues tomorrow first thing,” he announces as he keeps walking. Immediately, everyone leaves the table, relieved to have something to do now that Matt chose an idea.

An idea that just so happened to be mine.

I turn to join them, a deep sense of pride bubbling up inside me and warming my chest. I keep walking but before I get to my cubicle, Matt speaks again.

“Charlotte, come to my office, please.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and manage a “Sure” before following Matt there.

He sits down and gestures for me to take the seat across from him.

I sit down and start to twist the rings on my fingers.

“You did well in there, Charlotte,” he says, looking at me with warm eyes. I can’t tell if he wants to pat me on the back and tell me “good game” or kiss the hell out of me and tell me “come for me.”

I shake my head, because that thought brought warmth between my legs.

“Thank you.” I smile.

He smiles back and rubs the stubble on his jaw, saying more to himself than me, “I knew I brought you on this campaign for a reason . . .”

I cock my eyebrow at him. “And what reason would that be?” I ask.

He looks me up and down, a devilish smile on his face. “Your looks, of course.”

I laugh, and he laughs with me, but his laughter fades. “I brought you on because something told me you are just as passionate about this country and about real change as I am.”

I feel myself blush. And he eyes me curiously.

“I didn’t think you would say yes, you know,” he confesses to me, and then prods, “Why did you?”