Mr. President (White House #1)(19)

I still can’t believe he put my name on the letter C . . .

“Everybody thinks I’m a good girl. I’ve never done anything wrong; I just never wanted to embarrass my parents.”

I send him a shy look that says your turn.

“Law student. As you know.” He shoots me a sly look. “I’m the bad boy, but I’m not really that bad. Everything’s always exponential when the media picks it up. Growing up, there were actually very few people in my life that I could be certain wouldn’t run to the media with the story a night later.”

I’m surprised by this, kind of blown away by the realization of how difficult it must be to live your life always under scrutiny. I don’t know that I could ever do it. “I was so nervous when we met. For years I had a picture of you on my wall.”

“You did, did you?” he croons, chuckling a low, rumbling sound.

I laugh. “My mom let me keep it just because it probably helped keep me away from the boys and, well, I’m an only daughter. I really always tried to be good.”

“My dad was a senator before he became president. I grew up an only son, so I know exactly what it feels like to be the apple of your parents’ eye.”

I smile. “Except you’re also an ex-president’s son now. Which must be doubly hard because you’re the apple of the public eye, too.”

“Not really.” He frowns as he thinks about that.

“I’ve been very amused by your fan letters. I enjoy even the crazy ones. Did you know you got several proposals for marriage in the past forty-eight hours?”

He pretends to look surprised and crosses his arms as if super interested. “I hope I declined.”

“Of course. Throughout the campaign and presidency, you’ll be hopelessly single. Carlisle briefed us all.”

He just gives me a glimpse of the merest sexy twitch of his lips and then stares ahead, thoughtful.

“I wouldn’t be the first bachelor president, you know,” he says as he glances at me again with a casual hike of his shoulder. “James Buchanan already filled that role.” His brow creases. “Not a very good president. But a bachelor to the end.” His lips quirk.

My curiosity is piqued. “What did he do?” I ask.

“More like didn’t do.” His frown deepens. “His inability to take a firm stand on slavery and stop the secession led us right into the Civil War.”

We keep watching each other with an intensity that nearly curls my toes.

There’s a soft breeze and I realize my shirt is plastered to my skin, and his presence has my breasts feeling heavy.

I look down and my eyes widen when I realize my nipples are totally showing—harder than little rubies.

I cross my arms, and Matt smiles. “I made your nipples hard that day at the campaign kickoff too.”

“Oh, wow. Well, my nipples weren’t the only things getting hard that day, I’d say.”

“You don’t know the half of it.”

I groan and roll my eyes, laughing inwardly but hating how much my nipples have popped now.

I’m so nervous that I trip. He catches me, his reflexes lightning fast as his hand curls around my elbow to keep me on my feet, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I’m amazed by how much we have in common, and by the way he reels me back to find my balance and then, somehow, reels me still a little more—a little closer to him.

He lifts his other hand and brushes a tendril of hair behind my forehead, his eyes as dark as ever.

Desire floods me as our bodies connect, my front against his front, and I can feel him. I can feel how big he is, how thick and hard, pulsing against my abdomen.

And in this moment Matt Hamilton, my crush of all ages, the sexiest man alive, the hottest candidate in U.S. history, becomes so real to me. So very real. I can feel the warmth of his body through the wet fabric of our shirts. I can smell him, a scent of soap and rain, and I can see him as a guy, a very hot guy with an extraordinary destiny to fulfill.

I feel something leap up to lick my cheek and I jerk and step back, startled by the dog’s kiss.

“Shit,” I breathe, laughing.

“Jack!” A harsh curse follows, and I feel Matt straighten me and then put distance between us. “Sorry. You all right?” he asks. He brushes my hair back as if on impulse before we begin walking again, and electricity tingles down my body. I nod quickly. I’m so, so nervous. “Yes. I’m sorry I said shit.”

“Why?” His lips quirk. “Don’t be.”

I laugh, not believing I was forgetting who he was, caught up in the moment of his nearness, how much I want him—realizing that, whether he wants to or not, his body responds to me as well.

“I’d better get away before I’m late. I wouldn’t want the boss to be mad at me.”

“The boss could never be mad at you.”

His tone is sober, but his eyes twinkle, and my whole body feels flushed under his regard. “’Bye, Matt,” I say, lifting my hand a little awkwardly in a wave before I cut a path through the grass and head to the sidewalk.



That night, my parents invite me to dinner, and I can’t stop thinking about Matt and his energetic Jack and the conversations we had about his childhood and mine. Then I think back to the day we met, and the president, and his death.