Mr. President (White House #1)(27)

“Gordon will rub it in. Jacobs will keep on the First Lady issue . . .”

“Really, if that’s what we have to be afraid of . . .” Matt lets out a low, self-assured chuckle.

Carlisle sighs. “You have a bit of a sense of humor, which makes you approachable but, god, your stubbornness, Matt.”

I knock on the door.

Matt lifts his head, waves me in, and suddenly he is watching every step I take into the room.

I set the folder on his desk and as I slowly leave the room, I hear Carlisle insist, “We need more slogans, Matt. People need to know what you bring to the table.”

“I bring me.”

Carlisle sighs.

“Carlisle. For years the public has come to believe every promise made by every candidate has been pure bullshit. Nobody believes in them anymore. Politics have been totally tainted by propaganda. It wasn’t like this in the beginning, Carlisle. There weren’t slogan campaigns; hell, until Andrew Jackson, not even slandering campaigns. I serve my country.”

“Speaking of. Our opponents are barely underway with primaries and they’re already attacking the streets with propaganda.”

Matt listens attentively, then says, “We’re in modern times, Carlisle. The internet works. Hamilton is tree-friendly.” He angles his head. “Charlotte.” Matt raises his voice as he calls my name when I step outside.

I peer back in.

“You can save more trees as the president,” Carlisle mumbles as Matt waves me forward. I’m tempted to tell Carlisle that I do like Matt’s different approaches.

Political figures are loved and hated across the world. They’ve come to be seen as necessary evils. But it wasn’t that way with Washington. He’s the only president who received every single vote—he was a champion, a leader, not a “necessary evil.” There was no propaganda, no marketing campaign, no bullshit slogans. Matt is not a politician, and I think it makes a difference. He gives no practiced speeches. He doesn’t even look 100 percent polished. He prefers sweaters and slacks and button-down shirts when he goes out in public. He looks steady, which is what the country wants, a little bit rebellious, which is what the country needs, and different, the embodiment of the change we crave.

But I keep my thoughts to myself.

Carlisle exits and Matt steeples his fingers, nodding in the direction of the now empty doorway. “What do you think?”

“I . . . about what Carlisle says?”

He nods, that infuriatingly adorable dancing sparkle appearing in his eyes.

I smile privately. “I do think you’re stubborn,” I admit, scrunching my nose playfully at him.

“Is that all?”

I shrug mysteriously.

But no, that’s not all at all!

He has good judgment, drive, and discipline.

When the character debates come up later in the game, Gordon has had four wives, President Jacobs lets his wife rule the country for him, and Matt, on the other hand, is a very balanced man. He listens to opinions of people he respects and whose intelligence matches his own, but ultimately he makes his own choice.

We’ve raised hundreds of millions of dollars for his campaign, most of the funds coming from small donations from average Americans ready for a change. The technological infrastructure we’ve set up at headquarters in order to reach the three-hundred-plus million Americans through the net is unprecedented until this election. But people’s interests have never been harder to pique than in the days that we live in now.

“I think going heavy on the internet can get you a lot of traction with the young voters,” I finally say, “and if you can figure out a way to get them interested in your most exciting plans with each alphabet letter, it could really stick.”

He rubs his chin with the tips of his two index fingers, makes a hmm sound, and frowns thoughtfully. “C is for Charlotte.”

“J is for junk food in cafeterias, which must be stopped at once.”

He laughs.

I signal at his schedule. “Here’s the schedule for the months of April, and May. Since things get very heavy in late April, I thought I might include a free weekend for you to recharge.”

“That’s thoughtful of you.” He slips on his glasses and scans it.

“Yeah, well, I’m a thoughtful gal,” I say.

I turn away and glance out the window, because something about the times he slips on his glasses always gets to me.

“A thoughtful gal who somehow manages to make me think of her a lot.” I turn my attention back to him in surprise as he looks up at me over the rims.

My heart thuds.

He sets the schedule down and pries the glasses off, folding them and setting them over the schedule, his eyes fixed on me.

A silence settles in the room, making me aware of how disquieted I am on the inside.

“Why did you want me to be your new scheduler?” I ask quietly.

He leans back with a sardonic smile that quickly turns admiring. “Because I believe you have a good head on your shoulders, you’re dedicated and smart, and anyway”—he grins even wider—“I thought you were a tad too soft to keep answering those phone calls and letters.”

“I am so not soft!”

“P is for pudding.”

“So not pudding, Matt!” I narrow my eyes and lean one hand on his desk. “You wanted me to keep an eye out for letters like that one little Matt sent.”