Mr. President (White House #1)(39)

I remember our conversation and my mother’s words, not completely dissimilar to his grandfather’s, and I quickly break gazes—too sucked in by the dark, proprietary flash in his eyes—and get myself busy once again, going over all the names of the local aides we will be meeting and greeting at the Dallas headquarters today.



We check into the hotel and head to our local office, and for the next week, the marathon of media and crowds begins all over the Southern states.

Wherever we land, there’s always a receiving committee of people waving placards and chanting.

“HAMILTON FOR THE COUNTRY.”

“BORN FOR THIS!”

I’m so proud of stupid wonderful Matt and how he’s impacting people.

His easy charisma simply wins over the people instantly. For years he protected his privacy, while giving off the air of a handsome, cultured rake with unlimited money and unquenched appetites. He looks like the bad boy of politics at the same time as he looks like the man you want to entrust yourself and your children to.

He already has international respect. His father has a whole library in his name, as many ex-presidents do, and a history of preserving relics, and now it seems like the media has been waiting decades to lie down before the powerful Hamilton legacy again.

He knows just how to greet the reporters; he even knows the names of most. Bulbs flash as we land in Miami and step out of the jet toward a silver SUV.

“How do you do that?” I glance at Matt, who’s dressed in jeans and a white button-down shirt, emitting more heat than the Florida sun up above.

He shoots me a questioning sideways glance. “What?” he asks with a grin, the wind playing with his hair. Damn wind. My fingers are jealous.

“Know exactly how to treat them,” I add.

He shrugs, as if getting along with the press is simply second nature to him.

“The thing with the press is,” he says, “you need to keep them fed so they don’t steal into your home and have a picnic at your expense. Keep them sated with just the right amount of info so they’re not hungry enough to try to rummage through the entire contents of your kitchen.”

I smile. “You’re cunning.”

“Cautious,” he easily contradicts.

“Calculating.”

He continues to smile, silent, then he looks at my lips for a second—long enough to make my stomach clutch with wanting—and he quietly admits, “No contest.”

I laugh and try to shake off his effect on me as we climb into the SUV.

I’m nervous.

Tummy-clenching, butterflies-fluttering nervous.

Not because of traveling. But you know the flutters that are there even when your mind is somewhere else? I have them. I’ve had them for the past week. I can’t get rid of them.

My breath keeps catching when Matt’s and my gazes meet. I keep feeling my sex grip when he looks at my mouth, or asks me for something and seems to purposely drag his fingertip over my thumb when I hand it over.

We’re in the car now.

I’m sandwiched between him and his grandfather, and yet the car is all about Matt. Matt’s smell, the space Matt’s body takes.

This is the first guy I’ve ever fantasized about, and the young version of him was only an inkling of the man he is now.

The whole ride to our hotel, I’m aware of a low, dull hum in the pit of my stomach and the things his hands are doing as he fiddles with his phone and takes a call from someone named Beckett, who I’ve learned is one of his Harvard friends and who it seems will be catching up with us later.

Quietly I stare out the window at the scenery, and then I opt to review the week’s itinerary. When Matt ends his call, he leans over my shoulder. His jaw is about an inch from touching my shoulder.

And is it strange that my shoulder feels hot simply by that nearness of him?

Stomach clutching harder than before, I lift the schedule so Matt can look at it.

His beautiful lips curve, and he shakes his head, that adorable smile still on his lips. “Don’t show it to me. Difficulty reading small type. Remember?” he chides, but then he reaches for his reading glasses, slips them on, takes my copy—dragging his thumb over the back of mine as he does—and skims it.

My lungs feel like rocks; I can’t really say I’m breathing right.

But I don’t want to pass out here, in front of him and his grandpa!

I study the hard planes of his face as he reads, which soften as his hair falls on his forehead. He shuts the agenda and removes his glasses. “I’m going to be busy,” he says.

“I know you like busy. And at this point, you kind of don’t have any other choice.”

He frowns as if offended I even implied this. “I don’t want one.” Then a gleam of admiration settles in his eyes. He lowers his voice so that only I can hear him. “You’re doing a great job, Charlotte. You’re one of the most hardworking people I’ve ever met. I can tell you really believe in what you’re doing.”

His voice so close shoots a million and one sparks along my body. I keep my gaze on his.

I keep my voice low too. “I was born here. And I’m going to die here. And I want my children to live here. And my grandchildren. And I want it to be as wonderful as it was for me—even more wonderful than it is now.”

He looks intently into my eyes, and for a mere second, a smile appears. “Well, I’m not planning on children or grandchildren, but I’d like to make sure yours have it as wonderful as you’d want it to be.”