Mr. President (White House #1)(40)

I didn’t expect that.

Hearing Matt—young, virile, every woman’s fantasy—say that confuses me.

“Why?”

There’s a silence.

“Why don’t you plan to have children?” I ask, this time being more specific. My voice still low.

I sound a little stunned and maybe a little regretful, but that’s because I think Matt would be a great father.

Matt Hamilton would be the hottest baby daddy in the continent.

In the world.

A smile tugs at one of the corners of his lips, and amusement lights up his eyes over my brazenness. “I don’t like doing things half-ass.”

As I register what he’s said, I glance down at my lap. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m aware of Matt’s grandfather staring at me with a scowl.

And then it hits me. His plan to be president will take precedence over everything else, even his personal plans.

I don’t even know what to say.

It hurts to know this, but beyond that . . .

I just didn’t think it was possible to admire him more than I already did.



“Charlotte!” Alison says beside me as we mingle with the crowd, her camera always at the ready for her to snap the next shot. We’re at a fundraiser consisting of mostly businessmen and women, and the room is packed to capacity, almost a thousand people here at the exclusive event, all craving to meet their candidate.

“You two are looking lovely tonight,” Mark says as he joins us to mingle.

We’re in Miami, and because the event fell on the weekend, Mark surprised us by joining us unexpectedly.

“Couldn’t miss the fun, Mark?” Alison teases.

There’s a silence between them and Alison giggles, and all the time, I keep stealing covert looks at Matt. One second, his eyes flick up from the crowd and in my direction as if he has an extra sense. I turn away and laugh with Mark.

“Uh, what’s so funny?”

“I’m sorry, I . . .” I shake my head and smile.

While Alison goes to take a good shot of Matt, Mark and I compare life stories, mine a bit sheltered, I suppose, and I learn that he married his childhood sweetheart and divorced at only thirty.

“Sounds hard,” I tell him.

“It is. Adult love is different, more . . . sacrificing than we thought. It sort of opened our eyes. We grew apart. But enough tear-jerking. I want to know about you.”

“Mark.”

He turns to one of our co-workers, a middle-aged man who’s in charge of web advertising. “When I come back,” Mark then finishes. He winks and leaves just as Alison returns.

“He’s nice and he’s into you, FYI,” she says.

“He’s nice and he’s not into me.”

I watch him leave and search myself for a tiny spark and nope, there is no spark. Alison starts circling the room, taking shots of other significant figures in attendance. I look at where Matt was and feel a kick of disappointment that he’s no longer there.

“He was thirsty.”

I swing around when I hear his voice behind me, and he shows me a glass of wine.

I frown. “I was looking for Mark,” I lie.

“Hmm.” His eyes twinkle, and he takes a sip. We stand side by side, his shoulder touching mine.

I glance at Carlisle across the room, whose expression is more than ecstatic—obviously the fundraising is going well, and the turnout was greater than we’d all anticipated. “You seem to have an innate ability to draw crowds,” I compliment.

Matt glances around the ballroom, and then back at me. With that mercurial face, he’d make any other president sweat during negotiations.

“You’re not drinking anything,” he finally says.

“I’m too lazy to go to the bar and I’d rather the waiters take care of the guests, but Mark offered.”

“Mark’s with Carlisle.” He waves at one of the waiters, who immediately comes forward. “The lady would like . . . what would you like, Charlotte?”

“Any white wine is fine.” Butterflies rush down my arms when he plucks a flute from the tray and hands it over.

He’s looking at me, watching me sip, when he’s approached by a group of newcomers, and I reluctantly duck away and start blending with the crowd again.

“Charlotte, ah, yes.”

Turning in surprise at the voice, I spot a young, tall African American. His face is vaguely familiar, but I can’t seem to place it. “Do I know you?”

He nods in the direction of our candidate. “I’m friends with Hamilton.”

“Ahhh.”

“College days,” he explains.

“Ahhhh!” I point at him cheekily. “I bet you know quite a few things.” I steal a look at Matt, but he’s in such a large group that I can’t spot him.

He lifts his fingers and invisibly zips up his lips. “Definitely won’t be telling.”

“Oh, come on.” I now realize why he seemed familiar. Clad in jeans and a preppy sweater, I realize Beckett is Matt’s best friend. He’s got a shaved head, pristine-smooth complexion, warm eyes and full lips, and teeth that flash white against his smile.

He grins and signals for me to take a seat at one of the nearby tables, joining me. “We used to try to lose the Secret Service—they tagged along everywhere he went. It annoyed Matt. He tried to lose them for life. And look at him now.”