Mr. President (White House #1)(71)

I feel raw, vulnerable, and I don’t want him to see. So I close my eyes and kiss him softly. His lips leave mine to nibble my earlobe, and then as I try to catch my breath, his tongue comes to graze mine, playing, tasting, stroking.

He tips my chin up and forces me to meet his gaze. “I would not mind waking up to your face every morning.” I can see by the crinkle of his eyes that he’s smiling. Smiling as he looks at me, but then his smile fades, and I know what he’s thinking.

He doesn’t want a wife. Not someone long term. Not at the White House. I want to tell him I’m willing to try, that I’d be willing to stand behind him, support him, not ask for more than he could give. Instead I’m afraid I’d be lying, that I really would have no idea what I’d be getting into, that I might resent him and ache for his time and his attention, his love and comfort, things a normal man would readily give the woman he loves.

And so I tell him, “You’ve got so much on your hands, there’s no room for me in your bed.”

We’re a perfect couple, in the most imperfect situation.

He won’t be a man who’ll be there to always kiss me goodnight. Not as the president.

If I could wish one thing, I’d wish to hear him tell me he loves me.

And he never will. He can’t.

Hearing the passionate way he talked to his mother about returning to the White House, I see it clearly: he has a mission, a calling, and nothing will stop him.

Have you every loved someone so much it hurt like hell?

I hadn’t until now.

I slide from his lap and we sit there quietly.

We met eleven years ago, almost twelve now. In the years in between, it feels like he never left me or my mind. And I wonder if I was ever in his. For a moment at least. Until he saw me again at the campaign kickoff.

There is no need to speak. My knowledge of him is deeper now than when we started campaigning. And he knows me. He knows I’m afraid of heights and yet I can’t seem to keep from following him to high places. He knows I have a weakness for children and animals and am as protective about my privacy as he was when his father was president and he was thrust into the limelight.

He knows maybe I bear this situation just because I want to be near him and because he’s right: I love my country and I want to do whatever I can to make it a better place, if not for me, for the children and animals I love so much.





33





GONE





Charlotte



I rearranged his schedule so that he can take three days off. It’s been known the Hamiltons have a huge mansion in Carmel and I imagine him there, regrouping, sunbathing in the buff, maybe meeting up with his friends, clearing his head from everything, when I get a text early Monday.



Taking one more day off. You’ll have to shuffle some more things around.

M



I reply:



Count on it.



I sigh and set my phone aside, worried.

After the debate, Gordon and Jacobs have been attacking Matt relentlessly. We’re getting closer to voting day, and he’s lost two points in the last polls—courtesy of a relentless campaign against him from both parties. President Jacobs accuses him of being a philanderer with no family values, no wife.

Gordon accuses him of being a playboy, listing dozens and dozens of women he’s had affairs with, claiming his phobia of commitment is a measure of his inability to stick with one thing. If he can’t commit to one woman, how can you expect him to commit to an entire country?

Funny, this coming from a man who’s had four wives.

And in that list of women, of course, he mentions me. Charlotte Wells. How ridiculous it is for Matt to consider bringing an inexperienced twenty-something-year-old to the White House.

I wonder if Matt has seen everything, and what he thinks. I picture him saying, “People will think what they want to think,” and leaving it at that. But I can’t feel the same. I feel a shudder of humiliation when I think of two things.

Of what people believe. Of what my parents will be exposed to if Matt and I continue playing with fire.

And of losing to two men who don’t deserve the seat I believe my candidate deserves.

My thoughts are racing dangerously as I open my computer and stream the news.

Pictures of me and Matt running . . .

Of Matt buying me shoes . . .

Of Matt looking at me during campaign events . . .

I keep waiting, dreading someone will have a picture of us kissing in New York. But it doesn’t pop up. I keep watching, but it still doesn’t appear.

I can’t take the guilt and the worry that it will, that it’ll all get f*cked up in one second.

I shut the news tab, my throat tight as I open a new computer file. My fingers are trembling, but in my heart, beneath the pain, I know this is what I need to do.



I head to Carlisle’s office that evening. I take a seat and slide the paper across his desk. The letter is facing him, but he doesn’t read it; his eyes are fixed on me.

“My resignation,” I say quietly.

He reads it over, his expression opaque, then he lowers the paper and turns it around to face me. “Are you certain about this?” He sets a pen on the side, so that I can make it official and sign it.

I stare at it and my throat starts to close as I read my resignation letter.