“Come on, guys.” He sighs. “Is this really all we have?”
Papers shuffle and I can hear an awkward cough or sigh every now and then. We all look at each other, silently pleading with our eyes for someone, anyone, to speak up.
I feel myself itching to dare and pitch my idea, but Carlisle beats me to it, and I feel my heart sink in my chest.
Carlisle suggests that Matt market his campaign as the “next step” or “continuation” of his father’s presidential plan. Calling it a Hamilton 2.0 of sorts, the new-and-improved Hamilton plan.
Matt immediately shoots it down. “I want the people to know that I will continue my father’s legacy, but that I also have ideas of my own.”
Carlisle sighs and exasperatedly raises his hands in defeat. “Does anyone else have any ideas?”
Matt looks at us all and his piercing gaze settles on me. I feel my breath catch in my chest. He quirks an eyebrow at me, silently beckoning me to speak up. To take a risk and speak my mind.
Unable to take his unsettling gaze anymore, I clear my throat, and immediately everyone looks at me.
“What do you guys think of something that brings home the fact that we are working on everything—down to the fundamentals?” I nervously begin. “We can call it the alphabet campaign. We’re fixing, working, and improving everything from A to Z in this country. Arts. Bureaucracy. Culture. Debt. Education. Foreign relation policies . . .”
The table is quiet. I turn to Matt and I see his eyes shimmering in approval.
Carlisle is the first to speak up, cracking a smile and turning to Matt. “That’s actually really good.”
Matt doesn’t turn to look at him, just keeps his gaze on me. “It is,” he says simply. He nods and stands, buttoning his jacket. “We’re doing that. I want to have a full alphabet of campaign issues tomorrow first thing,” he announces as he keeps walking. Immediately, everyone leaves the table, relieved to have something to do now that Matt chose an idea.
An idea that just so happened to be mine.
I turn to join them, a deep sense of pride bubbling up inside me and warming my chest. I keep walking but before I get to my cubicle, Matt speaks again.
“Charlotte, come to my office, please.”
I swallow the lump in my throat and manage a “Sure” before following Matt there.
He sits down and gestures for me to take the seat across from him.
I sit down and start to twist the rings on my fingers.
“You did well in there, Charlotte,” he says, looking at me with warm eyes. I can’t tell if he wants to pat me on the back and tell me “good game” or kiss the hell out of me and tell me “come for me.”
I shake my head, because that thought brought warmth between my legs.
“Thank you.” I smile.
He smiles back and rubs the stubble on his jaw, saying more to himself than me, “I knew I brought you on this campaign for a reason . . .”
I cock my eyebrow at him. “And what reason would that be?” I ask.
He looks me up and down, a devilish smile on his face. “Your looks, of course.”
I laugh, and he laughs with me, but his laughter fades. “I brought you on because something told me you are just as passionate about this country and about real change as I am.”
I feel myself blush. And he eyes me curiously.
“I didn’t think you would say yes, you know,” he confesses to me, and then prods, “Why did you?”
“Why did I what?” I ask, lost by the look in his eyes, and how I feel like the only woman in the world when they are looking at me so intently.
“Say yes.”
I pause and think about his question. Actually think about it for a moment.
Why did I say yes to him?
I feel my mental wheels turning and before I know it, I’m answering him confidently. “I couldn’t let my chance to do something great pass me up.”
He stares at me. I stare back.
And in that moment, I feel the air shift. I feel like I just earned something Matthew Hamilton does not give out easily or frequently: admiration.
“If you don’t need my help anymore—I should get to work myself,” I say.
He nods.
Nervous about the connection I feel, I hurry off and get back to my desk. The phones haven’t stopped ringing, the piles of letters distributed on my and Mark’s (another aide’s) table mounting by the second.
10
THAT DOG OF YOURS NEEDS A LEASH
Charlotte
The next morning, my alarm goes off at five o’clock. Before joining Matt Hamilton’s campaign, I’d exercise at seven and be at work by nine. Now I need to be at work by seven thirty, and because I want a head start, I rise early, wash my face, get on my jogging pants and long-sleeved T-shirt, grab my phone, earbuds, and jacket, and head out.
The sun peers through a couple of gray clouds as I follow my favorite running trail—one that passes the Washington monuments. The day is too gloomy to admire the view, and I almost wish I’d stayed in bed.
I see a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye and from around a corner in the distance emerges a dog, happily trotting my way. He barks at me, then sits before me, all at attention and excited. Being a cat person, my relationship with dogs has been nonexistent, so I don’t know what to do with the creature except try to get him to settle down. As I grab the end of his leash, something dark catches my attention, and I lift my head.
I stand in the middle of the trail, blinking my eyelashes, struggling with the shock of seeing Matt Hamilton walking toward me in a red running shirt and navy-blue shorts.
His face shows a combination of a frown and a smile. He looks both surprised and amused to see me, and I’m shocked.
His shirt molds to his skin, revealing the lovely definition of his chest. He’s so rugged and at the same time so elegant, it’s hard to think straight.
My heart beats a thousand beats a second. “Fancy seeing you here,” he says.
“Fancy that.” I smile, my throat dry as he stops before me.
And then we start walking, together, and he’s eyeing my profile as the sun kisses every inch of his face.
His dog happily trails beside him, and I find it amusing to see the way he looks up devotedly at Matt. Matt turns toward me. “I see you’ve met Jack.”
“Jack,” I repeat, smiling at the dog.
“He has the bad habit of saying hello to anyone we meet at the park.”
“I bet those people end up terribly excited when they find out who the dog’s owner is.”
His brows fly up. I can’t freaking believe I said that out loud. I start to laugh and quickly say, “I have a cat. Doodles. She’s not like Jack; she hates strangers. I hope she won’t consider me one too one day—she’s staying with my mother because I’m hardly home.”
We continue walking in comfortable silence—well, not that comfortable, I suppose. I’m too aware of him. How tall he is compared to me.
“So what made you go to Georgetown? And become an advocate for women?” he asks me.
I’m surprised by how genuinely interested he sounds. By the attentive way he looks at me as he waits.
“I want to make sure women’s rights are known.” I shrug. “What about you? I know you went to law school to run your empire.”
“Really. Where did you hear that?”
“The press.”
He gives me a smirk, then chuckles and shakes his head in reprimand. “I think you know better than to listen to them.” His smile fades, and he falls sober and adds, “No, really. I admire the fact that you went into public service. What inspired you to change the world?”
“I don’t know,” I begin, thoughtful. “Every summer during college, I went on mission trips. I loved getting to know all these people and I loved helping. Especially women: it’s hard to imagine when you live in a first-world country the kinds of things women across the world are still subjected to. It made me want to do something for ot
hers. And you, Mr. Hamilton? What gives you inspiration?” I return.
“Walking next to you watching you speak.”
My breath catches, and I notice that his eyes are shining like beautiful dark satin, and I realize he’s flirting with me—and I’m a ball of fireworks on the inside. “So tell me about C,” he says.
I’m confused. “Culture?”
“Charlotte. Come on.”
I laugh as he just smiles his most minuscule smile and I feel my cheeks pinken. “Well, I went to Georgetown, but then you already know that.” I shoot him a pointed look. “My parents loved me going to Georgetown. The moment I graduated they said, you should go into politics now. But they knew my goal was to work for public service, so that’s where I went . . .” I keep on thinking to see what else I could share.
I still can’t believe he put my name on the letter C . . .
“Everybody thinks I’m a good girl. I’ve never done anything wrong; I just never wanted to embarrass my parents.”
I send him a shy look that says your turn.
“Law student. As you know.” He shoots me a sly look. “I’m the bad boy, but I’m not really that bad. Everything’s always exponential when the media picks it up. Growing up, there were actually very few people in my life that I could be certain wouldn’t run to the media with the story a night later.”
I’m surprised by this, kind of blown away by the realization of how difficult it must be to live your life always under scrutiny. I don’t know that I could ever do it. “I was so nervous when we met. For years I had a picture of you on my wall.”
“You did, did you?” he croons, chuckling a low, rumbling sound.
I laugh. “My mom let me keep it just because it probably helped keep me away from the boys and, well, I’m an only daughter. I really always tried to be good.”
“My dad was a senator before he became president. I grew up an only son, so I know exactly what it feels like to be the apple of your parents’ eye.”
I smile. “Except you’re also an ex-president’s son now. Which must be doubly hard because you’re the apple of the public eye, too.”
“Not really.” He frowns as he thinks about that.
“I’ve been very amused by your fan letters. I enjoy even the crazy ones. Did you know you got several proposals for marriage in the past forty-eight hours?”
He pretends to look surprised and crosses his arms as if super interested. “I hope I declined.”
“Of course. Throughout the campaign and presidency, you’ll be hopelessly single. Carlisle briefed us all.”
He just gives me a glimpse of the merest sexy twitch of his lips and then stares ahead, thoughtful.
“I wouldn’t be the first bachelor president, you know,” he says as he glances at me again with a casual hike of his shoulder. “James Buchanan already filled that role.” His brow creases. “Not a very good president. But a bachelor to the end.” His lips quirk.
My curiosity is piqued. “What did he do?” I ask.
“More like didn’t do.” His frown deepens. “His inability to take a firm stand on slavery and stop the secession led us right into the Civil War.”
We keep watching each other with an intensity that nearly curls my toes.
There’s a soft breeze and I realize my shirt is plastered to my skin, and his presence has my breasts feeling heavy.
I look down and my eyes widen when I realize my nipples are totally showing—harder than little rubies.
I cross my arms, and Matt smiles. “I made your nipples hard that day at the campaign kickoff too.”
“Oh, wow. Well, my nipples weren’t the only things getting hard that day, I’d say.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
I groan and roll my eyes, laughing inwardly but hating how much my nipples have popped now.
I’m so nervous that I trip. He catches me, his reflexes lightning fast as his hand curls around my elbow to keep me on my feet, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I’m amazed by how much we have in common, and by the way he reels me back to find my balance and then, somehow, reels me still a little more—a little closer to him.
He lifts his other hand and brushes a tendril of hair behind my forehead, his eyes as dark as ever.
Desire floods me as our bodies connect, my front against his front, and I can feel him. I can feel how big he is, how thick and hard, pulsing against my abdomen.
And in this moment Matt Hamilton, my crush of all ages, the sexiest man alive, the hottest candidate in U.S. history, becomes so real to me. So very real. I can feel the warmth of his body through the wet fabric of our shirts. I can smell him, a scent of soap and rain, and I can see him as a guy, a very hot guy with an extraordinary destiny to fulfill.
I feel something leap up to lick my cheek and I jerk and step back, startled by the dog’s kiss.
“Shit,” I breathe, laughing.
“Jack!” A harsh curse follows, and I feel Matt straighten me and then put distance between us. “Sorry. You all right?” he asks. He brushes my hair back as if on impulse before we begin walking again, and electricity tingles down my body. I nod quickly. I’m so, so nervous. “Yes. I’m sorry I said shit.”
“Why?” His lips quirk. “Don’t be.”
I laugh, not believing I was forgetting who he was, caught up in the moment of his nearness, how much I want him—realizing that, whether he wants to or not, his body responds to me as well.
“I’d better get away before I’m late. I wouldn’t want the boss to be mad at me.”
“The boss could never be mad at you.”
His tone is sober, but his eyes twinkle, and my whole body feels flushed under his regard. “’Bye, Matt,” I say, lifting my hand a little awkwardly in a wave before I cut a path through the grass and head to the sidewalk.
That night, my parents invite me to dinner, and I can’t stop thinking about Matt and his energetic Jack and the conversations we had about his childhood and mine. Then I think back to the day we met, and the president, and his death.
I ask my dad why he thinks there wasn’t any conclusive information on President Hamilton’s assassination.
“Killer was never caught.” He shrugs. “One theory is it was a terrorist act because of President Hamilton’s liberal views; others say it was a conspiracy among the parties.”
I frown worriedly.
“You’re concerned Matthew will be in danger?” he asks me.
I can’t help but look at him with a concerned expression.
He sighs. “He’ll be fine as long as he doesn’t open that can of worms.”
I frown even more. “Matt doesn’t strike me as a man who won’t open a can of worms, especially if he feels strongly about it.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about things you can’t control. Do your best and keep your head down—that’s the only way to get ahead in politics. Otherwise, anybody who’s anybody is going to see your head poking up and push it back down.”
“But I don’t want to be in politics.”
He laughs. “You’re in it now.”
“I’m only there because—”
“You have a soft spot for the Hamiltons, I know. People in the news are surprised you’re participating. Good ol’ Charlotte, you did charm Matthew that night, didn’t you? Even President Hamilton. They have a soft spot for us too.” He smiles wistfully, his eyes sad with memories.
“You know what else Matt has a soft spot for? Aside from the country? His dog,” I say, remembering this morning as I pick up Doodles from my feet, set her on my lap, and stroke her forehead, hearing her purr happily.
11
GIFT
Charlotte
The next morning, I take a bath, change quickly, and stop at a pet store on impulse to make a purchase. I don’t know why I want to make this particular purchase, but my mother has always been the sort of woman to have sweet little surprises for my dad. I don’t know if it’s her way of saying thank you for something nice that he did
or just the way he made her feel. I want to get something for Matt, but I know that it wouldn’t be proper. But when the urge to get Jack a little something hits me, I decide not to even fight it.
Once I get to the campaign headquarters, I step off the elevator and I see Matt in the hall. Immediately my body responds: pulse skipping, nipples tightening, pussy clenching.
He’s in dark jeans and a soft-looking taupe cashmere sweater that contrasts strikingly with his dark hair. He’s talking to his campaign web manager when he spots me. He pauses mid-sentence, and my heart stutters when he smiles at me.
His eyes look warm and there’s something else in his gaze, almost like protectiveness.
He continues talking with the guy—positively oozing that confidence that seems to cling to him like a second skin—and I head to my chair. I exhale and glance around my desktop, telling myself I have to catch up.
Everyone here is smart, lightning fast, and eager to work, most of them confident. A little more experienced than me, too.
I’ve seen them effortlessly answer phone call after phone call, letter after letter, email after email. I get sentimental about these things. I’ve found myself needing a box of Kleenex or to cover my response when I read the letters.
After a whole day back, I still don’t know how to answer this little boy’s letter.
I’ve dealt with women in my mom’s foundation, but never anyone younger than eighteen. There’s something about someone younger having a hard time that gets to me doubly hard.
“Read this letter,” I tell Mark, whose desk is a few feet away from mine.
“What about it?”
“I’d like to ask Matt if he could squeeze in a visit—”
“What? No way. He’s got four hundred speaking engagement requests this week. He doesn’t have time for everything and everyone. We have thousands of letters just like it in these piles. Just answer and go to the next.”