Mr. President (White House #1)(46)

If I don’t do this one risky thing, we’ll keep doing a million risky things right up until Election Day.

I need to stop this before we get in too deep . . . to the point of no return. A part of me fears that we already have, and a part of my soul tells me that no attempt on either of our parts can really stop the avalanche of emotions now surging between us, present in every look, touch, smile, and kiss.

I need him to know that we can’t continue this dangerous thing we have started, because I would never forgive myself if I cost him his presidency. Presidential elections, and especially presidential campaigns, are very delicate things.

One wrong move, one wrong comment, one slipup can mean game over. And for Matt, an Independent candidate already having to fight against two long-standing parties with history, loyalty, dirty tricks, and a lot of money on their sides . . . he can’t afford a slipup.

I ask my parents if I can borrow their car for the night and say that I’m going out for drinks with my friends.

However, I drive toward Matt Hamilton’s house. I didn’t want to take a cab because I didn’t want anyone else knowing of my little trip.

When I roll up to his house, I feel my stomach turn and twist into a million knots. I force myself to open my car door and walk up the steps to ring his bell.

A couple of shaky breaths later, and a couple more thoughts of chickening out, Matt Hamilton stands in his doorway. Barefoot, hair rumpled, in black jeans and a dark blue T-shirt.

He inhales a sharp breath when he sees me, and rakes his eyes over my body before asking me in a gruff voice, “Why are you here, Charlotte?”

I smile, but I know it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Can I come in?”

He doesn’t respond, merely eyes me with curiosity and steps aside to let me walk past him. He moves just enough to let me go by, but not enough for me to do so without touching him.

My shoulder grazes his chest, and his scent envelops me.

He leads me to his living room, where I see the TV is on with the volume low. On his desk is a mess of papers and folders.

He sits across me and clasps his hands behind his head, his eyes never leaving mine. He sits in silence, piercing gaze on me, and I just take him in. Every fiber of my being telling me to go crawl into his lap and let his warmth soothe away any doubt or fear in my head, but I can’t move.

“I can’t do this, Matt. What happened in your hotel room . . .”

I meet his gaze, his eyes like hot coals, his jaw clenched tightly.

I gulp and continue. “We almost got caught. I can’t be the reason for you losing this presidency.”

“You will not be the reason for me losing. If anything, you’ll be the reason for me winning.”

I shake my head. “You know that we’re playing with fire. This is the Oval Office. The White House. I can’t let you throw it away for me.”

“I’m not throwing anything away, Charlotte.” He eyes me steadily. “Why are you so worried?” he prods.

“Why do you think? The whole nation has their eyes on you, Matt! The last thing you need is a scandal.”

“There will not be a scandal. I won’t allow it. You need to trust me.” He leans forward, his eyes scanning my features, his voice unwavering, hard and deadly serious. “I would never let anything happen to you. And even if something broke out in the news, I would protect you.”

“If anything happened, you know you would need to throw me under the bus. It would be the only way to salvage your image with the people and keep your campaign going.” My heart breaks at my words, because as much as it hurts, it’s the truth. He would have to place the blame on me, control the narrative in such a way that made me seem like a power-hungry girl looking to sleep her way to the White House, and make Matt seem like the victim. That’s just politics.

He stands up and starts pacing, and lets out a sarcastic laugh. “You really think I would do that to you?”

I stay silent, unable to speak.

“Jesus, I would rather lose the presidency than hurt you,” he growls, in a voice so low I wasn’t sure I heard him.

“That is exactly why we need to stop!” I plead.

He digs his hand into his hair in an exasperated motion.

“I don’t want to stop,” he says, looking at me with such conviction and desire in his eyes, it almost scares me.

“Neither do I,” I whisper, “but we have to.”

“Fuck, Charlotte—just let me have you! Let me have this!” His eyes pin me to my seat, his raw, unrestrained frustration burning bright. “I may be the next President of the United States! I’ll be damned if I don’t have what I want,” he growls, “and I want you. I not only want you, I need you. No matter what I’m doing, I’m thinking of you. No matter who I’m with, I would rather they be you . . .”

He stands there, his chest rising and falling with his every breath, his fists clenching at his sides, the muscle in his jaw ticking.

I sit there in shock at his outburst . . . at his words.

My heart is practically bursting in my chest at the adoration I feel for this man—and I let myself go. I let myself go to him. Because I want to.

I rise from my seat and his pupils dilate as I walk toward him, his fists still clenched at his sides. I see him fighting the urge to reach out to me.