Mr. President (White House #1)(33)

I climb into the back of the car, surprised to notice Matt is wearing black sweatpants and a black T-shirt. And running shoes.

His hair is perfect. He looks like some athletic centerfold for Nike.

As Wilson pulls us into traffic, I study my own attire—skirt and a blouse and heels—and finally ask, “We’re running?”

Matt is staring at my shoes with a tilt to his lips, his eyes rising to mine. “More like some light hiking.”

“I . . .” Helplessly, I look at my three-inch heels. “These are going to be a problem,” I say.

He just smiles at me, but he doesn’t look especially heartbroken. “They are.”

We ride in the back of the town car in silence, and I frown at him, wondering why he doesn’t even seem concerned. Matt has never struck me as selfish.

“Wilson, stop to get Miss Wells a pair of running shoes.”

“Wait. Matt!” I protest.

He grabs a white Nike cap from the back of the car and slips on a pair of Ray-Bans. “Two minutes, we’re in and out,” he tells Wilson as he climbs out and peers back inside. One eyebrow goes up in question. “You coming?”

Two minutes inside the shopping center end up being twenty.

I try on a pair of white-and-pink Nikes that I’d always salivated over, and when they fit just right, Matt glances at Wilson, and Wilson takes the box and goes to pay while Matt and I wait outside the store. People are glancing in his direction as if speculating but unsure, and Matt keeps his eye on his phone to avoid getting their attention.

When we’re back in the car and he jerks off the cap and the sunglasses and sets them aside, I say, “I guess Hamiltons never get any privacy.”

He smiles at me, but with a haunted look in his eyes. “Never.”

We ride on.

He admits, “I’ve almost forgotten what it was like when it was simpler.”

Simpler.

Like . . . taking a hike with me, I realize. People are going to see.

I’m anxious now.

“Turn the car around.”

He swings his head, shocked. “Excuse me?”

“Turn the car around now, Matt.”

He chuckles and drags a hand over his face, as if I exasperate him.

“Really. This . . . can look a way that it’s not. Tell him to turn around.” I drag my eyes to Wilson, then look back at Matt.

“I can’t.” He shakes his head in bemusement.

“Why can’t you?” I’m getting testy, and so is he.

“It’s the only slot on my schedule open and my only chance to be alone with you for a while.” He looks up at Wilson through the rearview mirror when the car stops and tells him, “See you at Jefferson Memorial in a couple of hours.”

He opens the door for me, and I grab my notepad to keep it professional. His lips quirk when he sees that, but he says nothing as we start heading down the trail, which treks around a large body of blue water surrounded by a path that runs all around the basin’s circumference. From here you can see the Washington Monument, the tall columns and majestic white dome of the Jefferson Memorial, and right up ahead, the spot where the first cherry blossom trees were planted.

It’s spring, and the trees are fully bloomed, their long, slim limbs dotted with cherry blossoms.

It’s a chilly day, but the sun warms my face as we walk toward the nearest memorial, which is only a few years old.

“I’ve never taken this walk before,” I admit. I take in the huge marble carving of Martin Luther King Jr. “I’ve only been to this area once, really, when my father brought me to the paddle boats.”

“Robert in the paddle boats? That I’d like to have seen.” He seems amused at the thought as I absorb the thirty-foot-tall monument of a man whose favorite quote of mine is, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”

I realize Matt is watching me, as if he knows the site by memory—but not the sight of me. My cheeks warm as I start walking down the trail by his side.

He glances at our feet, stops walking, and drops to his haunches to lace up my running shoes.

I’m breathless as he stands to his full intimidating height and jerks his head toward the white dome across the water. “See that?”

I look around, thinking he spotted some reporters. Call it paranoia.

“I don’t see.” I’m trying to figure out if anyone is recognizing him—a six-feet-plus, gorgeous-looking man, who’s not looking? I quickly open my notepad and pretend to scribble something.

He laughs and turns my head to shift me around to face the water. The touch sends a frisson down my spine and I can’t see straight. “Seriously? You think that little notebook makes a difference? People will see what they want to see. This is no different than our morning runs. Now look.”

“At what?”

He laughs softly. “Stop talking and look.”

Matt turns my face an inch higher over the water, and I see. How the monuments reflect in the water, the water doubling the effect of their beauty.

I stare at the white classical building across the water. “Oh.”

And he’s looking at me, at his finger on my chin.

“Take me,” I say, then clear my throat when I see the male laughter in his eyes as I point at the Jefferson Memorial. “I mean, take me there. I’ve never been inside.”