Mr. President (White House #1)(62)

“Yes, you, Matt,” I agree, shifting beneath him as he unzips his pants and pulls himself out, and then he sheaths himself and fills me, and I’m lost in this, in him.

We move things to the bedroom an hour later, cuddling naked in bed. “I like it here,” I say.

“You’re the first good memory this place has had for a while.” He brushes my hair back and smiles at me. “I’m glad I brought you here.” He kisses me, the sweetest kiss I’ve had in my life, and no matter how exhausted I am, I can’t sleep. Like him, I don’t want to miss a moment of this—even a second.

This isn’t a childish crush anymore. I love him. I love Matt with my whole being. I breathe him, breathe for him.

I breathe to help him win—even if that means I won’t ever, ever feel his arms around me like this again.



I wake to a husky voice. “Charlotte, we’re leaving.”

I stir. “What time is it?”

“Five. We need to get going.” He strokes the top of my head and nods to a fresh cup of coffee. “In case you need it. Did you have a good night’s sleep? Or should we call it a nap, it was so brief?”

I smile and nod, and I don’t expect him to kiss my mouth because we’re in a hurry. But he does, his eyes proprietary as he eases back and pats the side of my butt. “All right, rise and shine, beautiful.”

I fall back in bed, squeezing my eyes shut, and I bite back a smile before I push myself out of bed.





28





RAIN OR SHINE





Charlotte



I seem to be great at organizing the field team as well as all of Matt’s engagements perfectly, but I seem to be really bad at things most normal people are good at.

I can’t sleep.

I can hardly eat.

I’m high from him, from the looks, the stolen touches, the secret lust, watching him at rally after rally, speaking firmly and from the heart to crowds calling out his name.

It’s been eight days since we were at his dad’s place by the beach, and I’m still affected by the intimacy we shared.

I’m in love with him; there’s no doubt about it. It’s not just sex, not just a crush. It all became clear during our time together. Being with him in his secret space was special—as special as the night Matt came to dinner with his father. I feel guilty for caving to my desires, potentially putting his candidacy in jeopardy when I know this man would be so good for the country. But I yearn for more time with him.

Attempting to put some space between us, I told Carlisle I’d ride the bus with the campaign team to New York, but Matt simply sent Wilson to my hotel room to tell me what time he expected me at the airport.

I climbed into the plane along with Hessler, Carlisle, a famous political strategist named Lane Idris, Matt, and Jack. I was grateful Matt’s grandfather was busy running his real estate business from Virginia and wouldn’t be flying with us.

I listen to the men talk politics and observe Matt watching, thinking about their suggestions. When the talk turns to other subjects, Matt turns to me and eyes the book on my lap.

The book I’m reading is Democracy in America by Alexis de Tocqueville.

I love it because it’s not about how perfect democracy is, but rather how imperfect it is. Like everything in life, democracy needs to be balanced.

Strange to be thinking about balance when I’ve never felt so unbalanced in my life.

We spend the short flight discussing politics and democracy.

I learn Matt’s favorite book is The Righteous Mind, which examines why conservatives, liberals, and libertarians have different opinions about right and wrong, most based on their gut feelings. He calls it an eye opener on all our curses and virtues, and says a candidate must bring people together.

When we arrive in New York, I do a good job of acting cool and collected, until Matt tells me he’s heading out for a bite with Hessler and asks me to come along.

“Sure,” I say, as calmly as I can.

But when we stop off at the local campaign office first, I make a detour to the restroom and pull out my makeup kit, making sure I look amazing. Just because I’d never really gone out with him, and it feels like this is the closest thing to a date we could ever have.

Matt asks his driver to drop us off in Nolita so we can walk a bit before arriving at the restaurant in Chinatown. We’re trailed by four security guards as Hessler, Matt, and I make our way along Mott Street to the Peking Duck House, a restaurant he fondly recalls coming to with his parents on special occasions.

There’s something so vibrant about the New York streets. And Matt fits right in. He drew a lot of attention in the other cities we visited, but New York is used to celebrities. Amidst the hustle and bustle, everybody is doing their own thing—and Matt Hamilton isn’t Matt Hamilton today. He’s just a hot guy casually dressed in jeans and a V-neck T-shirt, walking next to a girl who’s having trouble keeping her cool. It’s nice to be able to walk next to him without attracting the attention of everyone passing by.

“This is incredible,” I say, smiling as I take in everything around us.

Hessler is smoking to my left; Matt’s got his hands in his pockets, a look of thoughtful enjoyment on his face as he studies my profile.

“Are you hungry?” he asks.