Mr. President (White House #1)(3)

Alan sends Sam a look that definitely says yeah, she’s ready to go home, man.

“She’s so wasted,” I apologize to Alan. “Come here, Kay,” I say as I wrap my arm around her waist while Sam lets her lean on his shoulder. Together, we help her outside and into a cab Alan has hailed for her, sending them on their way.

Alan and I jump into the next cab. He gives the cabbie my address then turns to me.

“What did she mean?”

“Nothing.” I glance out the window, my stomach caving in on itself. I try to laugh it off, but I feel sick to my stomach thinking of people actually knowing how infatuated I was with Matt Hamilton. “I’m twenty-two, this happened ten, eleven years ago. A little girl’s crush.”

“A crush that’s been crushed, right?”

I smile. “Of course,” I reassure him, then turn to stare out at the blinking city lights as we head across town to drop me home.

A crush that’s been crushed, of course. You can’t seriously crush on someone you’ve only seen like, what? Twice? The second time was so fleeting and at such an overwhelming moment in time … and the first … well.

It was eleven years ago, and I somehow remember everything about it. It’s still the most exciting day I can recall even though I don’t like the effect that meeting President Hamilton’s son had on my teenage years.

I was eleven. We lived in a two-story brownstone east of Capitol Hill in Washington, D.C. My father, my mother, a tabby cat named Percy, and I. We each had a daily routine; I went to school, Mother went to the Women of the World offices, Dad went to the Senate, and Percy gave us the silent treatment when we all got home.

We didn’t stray far from that routine—as my parents preferred—but that day something exciting happened.

Percy was sent to my room, which meant that Mom didn’t want him causing mischief. He curled up on the foot of my bed, licking his paws, not interested in the noises downstairs. He only paused to occasionally stare at me as I peered through a tiny slit in my doorway. I’d been sitting there for the last ten minutes, watching the Secret Service walk in and out of my home.

They spoke in hushed tones into their headsets.

“Robert? One last time. This one? Orrrr this one?” My mother’s voice floated into my bedroom from across the hall.

“This one.” My father sounded distracted. He was probably getting dressed.

There was a pregnant pause, and I could almost feel my mother’s disappointment.

“I think I’ll wear this one,” she said.

My mother always asked Dad what to wear for special evenings. But if he didn’t pick the dress she wanted, she wore the one she’d hoped he’d choose.

I could picture my mother putting away the black one and carefully setting the red dress down on the bed.

My father didn’t like it when my mother got too much attention, but my mother loves it. And why not? She has stunning green eyes and a thick mane of blonde hair. Though my dad is twenty years older and looks it, my mother looks younger by the day. I dreamt of growing up to be as beautiful and poised as she is.

I wondered what time it was. My stomach growled as the scent of spices teased my nostrils. Rosemary? Basil? I got them all mixed up no matter how many times Jessa, our housekeeper, explained which is which.

Downstairs, the chef from some fancy restaurant was cooking in our kitchen.

The Secret Service had been preparing the house for hours. I was told the president’s food would be tasted before it was served to him.

The food looked so delicious I’d gladly taste every morsel. But Father asked Jessa to bring me back upstairs. He didn’t want me to attend because I was “too young.”

So what? I thought. People used to get married at my age. I was old enough to stay home alone. They wanted me to act mature, like a lady. But what was the point if I never got to act the part they’d been grooming me for?

“It’s a business dinner, it’s not a party, and god knows we need things to go well,” Dad grumbled when I tried to plead my case.

“Dad,” I groaned. “I can behave.”

“You really think Charlotte can behave?” He shot my mother a glance, and my mother smiled at me. “You’re not eleven until next week. You’re too young for these events. It’ll be nothing but talk of politics. Just stay up in your room.”

“But it’s the president,” I said with so much conviction my voice trembled.

My mom stepped out of her bedroom in that glorious red dress that tastefully draped over her figure and spotted me eagerly peering down at the excitement downstairs.

“Charlotte,” she said, with a sigh.

I straightened up from my crouched position.

She sighed again, then walked to her bedroom, picked up the phone on her nightstand, dialed an extension, and said, “Jessa, can you help Charlotte get dressed?”

My eyes widened and, miraculously, Jessa suddenly swept into my bedroom, smiling gleefully and shaking her head. “Girl! You’d cajole a king out of his crown!”

“I swear I didn’t do anything. Mother simply saw me peeping and must’ve realized this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”

“All right then, let’s put your hair into a nice long braid,” Jessa said as she started pulling open the drawers of my vanity. “Which dress are you going to wear?”