Mr. President (White House #1)(8)

My nervousness increases. There are already too many people around him, waiting for an introduction. I watch him shake hands, the firmness of his grip, the way he makes eye contact. So … direct.

The knot in my stomach keeps tightening.

“I think I’ll just take a seat over there,” I whisper to my mother and point to a sitting area with the least number of people milling about.

“Oh, Charlotte,” I hear her say.

“I’ve already met him, let the others have their chance!”

I don’t let her protest anymore and instantly cut to my secluded spot. From there, I scan the crowd.

It’s so easy for me to strike up conversation with people at work, but this crowd would intimidate anyone. I spot J. Lo in a designer white dress at the corner of the room. I look down at my yellow-gold dress and wonder why I chose such a stand-out color when it would be better to blend in. Maybe I thought “fake it till you make it” would work. That I would look as sophisticated as everybody else here and soon feel that way.

I move my gaze back to the cause of all the buzz today.

Everyone wants to greet the Hamilton prince and I can see it is going to take a while for my mother to succeed, especially when men keep trying to pull him away from the line.

I scan the ballroom for the restrooms and spot them at the far end. Easing to my feet, I keep my gaze straight ahead as I walk past the line, past the gorgeous Matt among a group of politicians, and toward the ladies’, where I slip inside and check my makeup and freshen up.

Three women are gushing as they primp in front of the mirrors.

“I want to wear him like a fur,” the cougar woman purrs.

I laugh inwardly and yet pretend I’m not amused by their fawning—especially when they’re old enough to be his mother.

Once I exit, I’m headed straight down the hall, toward my table, when I step on the hem of my dress as I enter the carpeted ballroom area. I glance down at my shoes and lift my dress up an inch, never slowing my stride, when I bump into a large figure.

An arm flies out to steady me by the waist.

My breath catches and I freeze, registering the hand on my waist, the side of my breast pressing into a bulging forearm. And I look up, up at a flat, flat chest, the length of a platinum tie, up a tanned throat, and stare straight into Matt Hamilton’s dark eyes.

I gasp. “Mr. Hamilton!—I’m sorry. I didn’t see you, I was . . .” His grip is warm, and noticing that he’s slowly releasing me as he realizes I’ve got my balance makes me stutter. “I was having dress trouble,” I rush out. “I shouldn’t have worn this dress.”

I’m completely overwhelmed by his presence. Lean and athletic. Larger than life. Face so chiseled and beautiful. All of him so hot my eyes hurt.

I hate that my toes are curling under his stare. “I truly didn’t see you. For the record, I’m not some crazed fangirl. This isn’t an attempt to get your attention, not at all.”

“And yet you most definitely have it.” His voice is rich and deep, but his tone is playful and his eyes are twinkling.

It’s hard to swallow all of a sudden.

His lips start curving and they are gorgeous and plush.

Lips to kiss.

To swoon over and fantasize about.

Gosh, his smile is lovely.

Even if it lasts only a second.

“Again, forgive me.” I shake my head, exhaling nervously. “I’m Charl—”

“I know who you are.”

Although his lips aren’t curved into a smile anymore, his eyes are sparkling even brighter—if that’s possible. I can hardly take this exchange. This guy is the closest thing to a god in our country. “I’m pretty certain I still have your letter somewhere,” he says, low.

Matt Hamilton knows who I am.

Matt Hamilton still has my letter.

He was in college then. Now the man before me is fully matured, seasoned to perfection. And goodness, I can’t believe I wrote him a letter.

“Now I’m doubly embarrassed,” I whisper, ducking my head.

When I raise my eyes, Matt just keeps looking at me with a direct gaze I’m sure hugely impacts everyone it ever lands on. “You said you’d help me if I ever ran.”

I shake my head in consternation, laughing lightly at the idea. “I was eleven. I was just a girl.”

“Are you still that girl?”

“Matt.” Some guy taps his shoulder and calls him over.

He nods at the man, then simply looks at me as I stand here, puzzled over his question.

“You’re busy. I’ll just go . . .” I say, and I dip away, taking a few steps before I glance past my shoulder.

He’s watching me walk away.

He looks at me as if he’s a little bit intrigued and a little bit laughing inside, or maybe I just made it up? Because the next instant he turns around, his broad back tapering down to a small waist providing a gorgeous visual as he heads back to greet his excited supporters.

“I cannot believe you were able to say hello before I did—that line is a killer.” My mother is suddenly at my side. “The big rollers keep pulling him aside. I’ll be back.”

She heads back to the line while I take my seat at the table once more, chatting for a while with one of the couples there.

I’m still reeling from the encounter.