Mr. President (White House #1)(73)

That night, we’re having dinner—my father, my mother, and me.

“I think you should move back in with us for a while. Until all this settles down.”

“There’s no dust to settle.” I shake my head firmly at my mom. “I’ll go back to my place tomorrow.”

By the time we reach dessert, I check the time again.

“Is there somewhere you need to be, Charlotte?” my father asks. He sounds terribly exasperated.

“Not me, Matt,” I absently answer as I head over to the television in the living room. “There’s this speaking engagement tonight. I’m sure it’ll be televised.”

I grab the remote on top of the TV and skim through the channels. Carlisle appears onscreen, standing there instead of Matt.

“Apologies, friends and supporters, tonight Matt needed to cancel. I’m here to answer any questions you might have . . .”

He cancelled?

I’m shocked.

He never cancels. Even when he had a headache, he’d just pop the Advils I’d set on his desk.

I drop the remote and watch as Carlisle begins to answer questions. What if something’s wrong? I want to call Carlisle, but he’s clearly busy. If I called Hessler, would he tell me? What about Mark or Alison—would either of them know?

I grab my phone and quickly skim my contacts, my hand shaking.

“Come and have tea with us, Charlotte,” my mother calls.

The doorbell rings and my mother turns. “Jessa, darling, can you see who’s at the door?”

Jessa rushes from the kitchen to the front door, passing the dining and living rooms as she does, then she comes back to where we sit. “It’s Mr. Matt, miss.”

My mother’s teacup clatters, my father raises his head, and I don’t think I’m breathing.

“Well, don’t stand there, show him in,” my mother urges.

I’m in the middle of the living room, while my parents sit frozen at opposite ends of the dining table, when Matt appears. I don’t think I’m breathing when I see him. I just didn’t expect to see him anytime soon. And suddenly it just hurts. My eyes hurt. My chest hurts. All of me hurts.

I feel as if something is squeezing around my heart, and it takes my every conscious effort to keep my parents from noticing.

Matt is wearing a black sweater and black pants, his hair wet from the rain outside, and he’s never looked so hot. So sexy. So in control.

His eyes meet mine, and after a brief crackling stare, he slides them over to my parents. “Senator Wells,” he says.

My father’s chair screeches as he stands. “A pleasure to have you in our home, Matt.”

He greets my mother, and she embraces him fondly. “You’re just in time for tea or coffee,” she says. “Would you like some?”

“Thanks. I’m actually here for Charlotte.” His eyes are hooded mysteriously, to the point where I can’t read what he’s thinking.

“That’s what we assumed,” my father says with a nod. “Thank you, Matt, for the opportunity you gave her, campaigning for you; we’ve never seen her dive into anything with so much passion.”

“It’s her I came to thank for her support,” Matt says. His eyes slide in my direction and he drinks me up as if the mere sight of me provides a shot of vitamins to his soul.

I blush crimson at the thought as my parents’ footsteps trail up the stairs. I drop down on the couch, and Matt takes a seat across from me. My parents’ house seems smaller with him inside. As small as it felt when his father and the Secret Service were here, except now it’s just him.

Matt.

Doodles is swishing her tail, eyeing us. “What’s her name?” Matt stretches out his hand, palm up, and Doodles goes to him, just like that.

“Doodles.”

He lifts his brow and smiles, scoops her up, and sets her on his lap.

I feel nearly devastated by the want to go replace Doodles on his lap and kiss him, but the noise coming from the upstairs bedroom reminds me of where we are, of my parents in the house.

And suddenly I miss Jack as much as I miss Matt and his touch. I miss touching him when I can’t touch Matt, curling my hand into the fur of his head and feeling his big ol’ dog weight on my lap, so trusting, like there’s nothing I could ever do wrong in his eyes.

Apparently he shares that with his master.

Oh, god. Matt. Why is he looking at me like that?

Why is he here? “You shouldn’t be here,” I say breathlessly. “You know you shouldn’t be here.”

“But I am.” He sets Doodles at his feet and leans forward, a gleam of determination in his eyes.

I have to battle for restraint to keep from heading straight to him and saying . . .

Saying what?

“How did the thinking go?” I ask in a quiet voice.

I don’t want my parents to hear us. I don’t want anyone to hear us. It seems that my times with Matt are always stolen, and very few of those times do I have him alone like this.

I treasure our times alone.

“I went to see my father.” There’s a trace of sadness in his eyes. “I always pay him a visit at Arlington National Cemetery when I need to feel grounded.” He’s stroking my cat with his big hand but his eyes don’t leave me, not for a second as he talks. “Then I went to our house in Carmel. Just to be alone for a while.”