Mr. President (White House #1)(56)

I want to hold him to me, and I want to tell him that I love the way he loses control, and that I love the fact that he wears all of the expectations the world has placed on him because he just happened to be named Hamilton really well.

Instead I simply ask him for a ride home, wondering if a man as isolated as Matt has ever really let down his guard with anyone before.

“Lose the tails. I want to drop Charlotte off,” Matt tells Wilson after we get in the car, and Wilson makes a few movements—slipping into several underground parking lots to lose the tails before he pulls over in front of my apartment.

Matt follows me inside my building.

His face is set, and he looks thoughtful.

“If you’re still thinking about the Mark thing, now you know how I feel watching a thousand and one gorgeous women throw themselves at you.”

He laughs, then drags his hand over his face. “I’m jealous. I’m man enough to admit it. I’m jealous of any guy who can take you out, walk down the street with you in his arms.”

My eyes widen at the confession.

Matt Hamilton jealous of any normal guy?

I feel like I can’t compare anything to the delicious electrical current the words send through me.

I’m melting down my thighs, to my toes, as I walk to my apartment.

One of my female neighbors appears.

“Charlotte, I—”

Matt turns.

My neighbor stutters. “Oh, wow.”

“Nice to meet you.” Matt smiles easily, and my neighbor’s eyes can’t flare any wider.

Matt sends me a questioning look, and I briskly announce, “Matt, my neighbor Tracy.”

“A pleasure, Matt!” my neighbor calls.

Matt greets her and then I lead him into my apartment. “The paperwork is right here, Mr. Hamilton,” I say as I usher him inside, making sure Tracy hears and praying that will keep her appeased. Once we’re inside I tell him pointedly, “My point. About the girls either throwing themselves at you or dropping to the floor for you.”

It’s so dark in my apartment, I flick on a lamp and it still feels like the shadows are engulfing us. I enter the kitchen and pull out a loaf of bread just to try to keep my hands busy—not going to his shirt, his jaw, his hair. “I’m going to make myself something to eat. Sometimes I get dizzy when I haven’t had any food for a while . . . Want some?”

He drops down on a stool and drags out the other one with his toe so he can prop his foot on the footrest and lean forward. “Look at you,” he says.

“What?”

“Quite the little homemaker,” he croons appreciatively.

I prepare a sandwich, laughing. I can’t think with Matt in my kitchen.

“I know some recipes,” I boast. “Jessa would teach me when I was young. The day you and your dad came over, I was shocked the president’s food would be tasted before he could eat.” I glance at him. “It was the highlight of my life. I felt like I’d been selected for something special, which is why I bought the pin. I was even inspired to join Women of the World because of that. I kept you very present in my mind.” I laugh.

He just looks at me, and I realize he seems a bit thoughtful.

“Please. Don’t be so charming. Don’t try to impress me. I would probably vote for you anyway.” I laugh, and he doesn’t laugh. He stands as I bite into my sandwich, and as I chew, I lift the sandwich in offering. He watches me finish chewing, and when I set down my half-eaten sandwich and wipe a napkin across my lips, he silently tucks my hair behind my ear, leaning forward as if he wants to be close.

I say, nervous now, “Really, I’m smitten with every part of you already.”

I freeze when I realize what I said, and my eyes widen, and his eyes darken and narrow as he lifts his hand and drags his thumb across my lips—a mix of rough and tender, lustful and loving.

“If you’re so smitten, why are you giving Mark even a second’s thought?” he husks out.

I’m panting. “You haven’t dropped that? That’s totally an only-son syndrome. Not sharing his toys?” I tsk.

He looks as if he wants me up against the wall, and I want to run my tongue and fingers all over him.

“I can give a second to Mark,” I add. “More than that after the election. You can’t have it all, Matt.”

“But I want it all, and you want me to want it, you want me to want you—is that what this is about? With Mark and now this other guy?”

“No.”

“Don’t go out with Mark. Don’t go out with Whatshisname. He’s not right for you.” He shakes his head and strokes my lips with his knuckles now. “Don’t give these lips to just anyone. They’re too pretty. And too rare. And they’re mine.”

I groan and put my hands to my face, hating that I’m still that eleven-year-old with a crush, except now the crush is crushing me in his embrace. “Matt . . .” I lift my gaze. “My neighbor saw you. You have to go.”

“Are you worried she’ll be daydreaming about me?” Cockiness flits in his words and across his lips.

“No,” I deny, but maybe I am!

“It’s the rumors, then,” he says, his gaze darkening.

I nod. “But I’ll say I seduced you. That I had evil designs on the White House.”