Mr. President (White House #1)(28)

“And I know you still are.”

I scowl. “How do you know me so well? Hmm?”

He spreads out his arms and crosses them behind his head. “Some say I’m a perceptive man.”

“I disagree. You failed to see how stone-hearted I am, able to read your letters, day after day. How hard I can be. H is for heart of stone.”

He laughs. It’s so nice to hear him laugh. “No, Charlotte, it’s optimally just one word per letter, so that’d make you just all heart.”

I shake my head, frowning. “I can show you my hard-heartedness in your next schedule I draft.”

“Be my guest—I thrive under pressure.”

“Good for you, ’cause I’m bringing it.”

“You always do.”

His gaze slides past my shoulder at the sound of a soft knock. Alison is at the door, watching us, narrowed-eyed. “Matt, the pictures you asked for.”

She walks in as I excuse myself and leave, but soon Alison catches up with me. “Were you just flirting with Matt?”

“What? No! We were having a discussion.”

“You were discussing with Matt?”

“I . . . no!” I flush and head to my desk, sit down, and lift my head to glance past his office window, where he’s wearing those sexy glasses of his, reading, a hand over his mouth as if to cover his smile.





14





EYES





Charlotte



I called Children’s National and told Carlisle about Matt’s visit so he could alert the press coordinator and everyone who needed to be involved.

“You’re coming with me,” Matt says before he leaves.

“Me?”

“It was your idea.”

I groan inwardly. Spending more time with Matt is the last thing I need right now. But I do love seeing him in action, so I hurry to slip into my sweater and follow him outside. When we reach the hospital, there’s a small crowd, waving placards and chanting.

“Matt!” one of the younger female crowd members breathlessly gasps out his name.

“Matt Hamilton!” her friend calls, louder, cupping her hands around her mouth so that her voice carries over.

He thanks them, then waits for me to go in along with Wilson. Little Matt is wearing a Redskins T-shirt, a matching cap, and an IV.

The way his eyes light up when his hero enters the room makes my chest tighten. I turn away and try to regroup when I hear Matt’s voice.

“Heard there was a tiger in the building. I had to come see.”

“Where?!” the boy asks excitedly.

“I’m looking right at him.”

When I turn back around, Matt is chucking the boy’s cap, smiling down at him.

The boy grins. “Wow. You came.”

Matt pulls up a chair to sit next to him in bed. “Charlotte—the lady you see by the door—seems to be as big a fan of yours as you are of me.”

“Wow,” he says.

Soon they get a crowd. Little Matt tells Matt he wants to be a football player when he grows up. The parents approach me and begin telling me how grateful they are as Matt and little Matt chat.

“If you win you’ll invite me to the White House—” tiny Matt says.

“Not IF, WHEN . . . you’re coming to the White House,” Matt promises.

He plays chess with the bedridden boy. The nurses start to line up out in the hall, grinning and ogling.

It’s not the fact that he’s doing this, it’s the fact that you can tell he’s genuinely having fun that touches me. I believed in him: Hamilton and all that the name represents. But right now if I’d never seen him and had a stupid little crush on him, if he’d never been raised under the spotlight and with the fame of his name, it’s today that Matt—for all the flaws the media tries to exaggerate—wins my vote.

When we leave, Wilson picks us up at the curb.

Matt is quiet.

I am too.

“Thank you.” His voice is low and sounds achingly honest.

“Makes me sad.” My own voice cracks, so I stop talking.

I glance out the window and try to regroup. He seems to realize he’s out of his element with a nearly weeping female in the car. “Let’s go get you some food.”

“No.”

He frowns, then his eyes gleam in confusion and amusement. “You’re too warm for politics, Charlotte. We need to toughen you up.”

“Take me sword fighting, but not eating. I’m not hungry right now.” I sigh and shoot him a sidelong glance. “It’s your fault.”

“Pardon?”

“I wouldn’t be in politics if you hadn’t run.”

“Says the lady who offered to help me when she was what? Seven.”

I arch my brows. “Eleven.” I thrust my chin out. “I can still vote for Gordon.”

“God, no. No,” he says emphatically. He laughs and runs his hand in frustration over his hair.

“Well, someone needs to knock you down a peg. Gordon Thompson has my vote,” I declare.

“You wound me, Charlotte,” he says.

“Oh you look so wounded, haha.”

He looks deathly sober except for his eyes, laughing at me. “My wounds run deep.”