by Katy Evans
The last time I saw Matt, it was two years and eight months after that dinner at my parents. I’m taller then, officially a woman, and like my mother, I’m wearing a black dress. He’s dressed in black as well, standing next to his mother, who looks tiny and beat up as he puts his arm around her.
He’s older, a little thicker, a lot more masculine, and his eyes don’t shine on me anymore when I follow my father and mother to give him my condolences. And then I sit in the back, trying to hold back my tears as I watch Matt bury his father.
His mother cried softly, delicately, and the country cried; he stood there, strong and proud, the boy his father raised, the one trained to weather catastrophe and go on.
White decorations peppered with silver and blue surround us.
I’m a little bit outside of my comfort zone when I follow my mother into the ballroom. Walking through the doors is like opening the pages of a living encyclopedia full of important names—politicians, philanthropists, heirs and heiresses, along with people in positions at the top of the country’s best schools, Duke, Princeton, Harvard.
And suddenly all the artists and writers and poets …
Pulitzer and Nobel prize winners and faces you see in the blockbuster films of the year …
They somehow disappear with Matt Hamilton sharing this same room.
He’s at the far end, tall and broad-shouldered, his hair dark and gleaming under the lights. He’s wearing a perfect black suit and a tie the color of platinum, his shirt crisp white and contrasting against the gold-kissed hue of his skin.
My mouth dries up and my body seems to start working a little harder to pump the blood through my system.
It’s not easy to lose track of Hamilton, he’s the darling of the media.
From the rebellious teenager, to the private college guy, to the man he’s become. The youngest contender in history, my mother says he represents the golden years his father gifted us with—growth, jobs, peace. I want that. Every one of the thousands of supporters here tonight wants that.
As we wade through the glittering crowd, the air scented with the most expensive perfumes, I greet some of my mother’s acquaintances, all dressed to impress. The famous always gravitated toward the Hamiltons, their presence silent endorsements. It’s been nine years since the last time I saw Matt, give or take. (I actually know the exact time, but I want to pretend I didn’t count so religiously.)
He’s taller than he even seemed on TV, looming over the others by a good few inches.
And god.
He’s all man.
Sable hair. Espresso eyes. A Greek god’s body.
Confidence streaks out of every pore.
Even the black suit he wears is perfect.
If there was ever a man with an air around him of privilege and success, Matthew Hamilton is it.
The Hamiltons have been influential since they were born. Bloodlines dating back to English lords and ladies. They called him prince when his father was alive, now he’s about to take the king’s throne.
When People magazine called him “the Sexiest Man Alive,” Forbes called him the “Most Successful Businessman.” He disappeared for a few years after law school—quietly building, expanding his family’s real estate empire. Judging by the amount of press vans outside the inaugural party ballroom, the world is being taken by storm with his return.
Every headline today had the name Hamilton on it.
I’ve never seen so many important people together in one place in my life.
I can’t believe all of them came out in support.
The enormity of Matt’s reach hits me, and I’m suddenly awed that I could even snag an invitation to his kickoff party in the first place.
In Women of the World, we assist women going through rough moments in their lives—divorce, health problems, and trauma. The spirit of the organization is helpful and humble. Here, it’s along the same lines—everyone united for a common cause—but the air here is extraordinarily powerful.
The people here are the movers and shakers of the world. And tonight, their world revolves around Matthew Hamilton.
Matt is suddenly enveloped by an actress. She’s doting on him and wearing the skimpiest dress to flash her toned muscles and perky ass and breasts.
My stomach twists around in part envy, part awe. I have no idea what I could talk to that woman about, but I’m star-struck all the same.
“He’s so handsome,” my mother whispers as we head his way.
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.
“Oh, Senator Wells’s daughter—a pleasure. I can’t say I know him, but he’s a good man. He voted against—”
“Hugh, really,” his wife interrupts, stopping the elderly senator. “Let’s go say hello to Lewis and Martha,” she says, coaxing him away.
I’m relieved when they head off, dreading to say anything to embarrass myself. I’m still reeling because of my encounter with Matt Hamilton and I can’t seem to focus on anything else.
I watch as my mother waits patiently as six people before her greet him, until finally she hugs him, and she looks tiny and feminine in his tall, muscled form. When they release their embrace, I’m shocked to notice her pointing in my direction.
My stomach caves in on itself when his gaze follows the direction of her finger.
Ohmigod, is my mother pointing at me?
Is Matt looking at me?
Our gazes meet—and for the flash of a second, there’s something in his eyes. He nods, as if he’s telling her he’s said hello already.
As they talk, his gaze stays on me.
I’m briefly aware of the curiosity of the room as they collectively wonder where their new candidate is looking, but I can’t pull my eyes away long enough to verify who exactly is staring.
God. He even stands like untitled American royalty.
He’s grown up to be the most delicious mix of polished and earthy, and somewhere beneath that focused gaze I can see a unique primitiveness that pulls at me.
A passing woman leans over to my ear. “He’s as hot, smooth, and rich as a lava cake. And he makes politics thrilling,” she says.
I glance at her, then move my gaze back to the smoldering Matt Hamilton as he continues greeting the line. He’s almost done, but I’m sure it won’t be for long. A shadow falls over half of his face, but I can see his attention is now focused on an elderly couple, his smile barely there, but still so sexy and gorgeous it makes my lungs work a little extra hard.
Once he finishes speaking to the couple and he’s able to pull free, he starts adjusting his cufflinks.
And starts heading in my direction.
He is heading in MY direction.
The hottest guy in the room is heading in my direction, and my heart just flipped over a thousand times in one second inside my chest.
I glance around the room in an attempt at la-dee-dah nonchalance, but I’m not that good an actress.
I’m afraid to look into his gorgeous face and know that he knows the effect he has on me. It takes a moment to gather my courage, wary to see the expression he’s wearing. Even warier to find him looking straight.
At.
Me.
He’s not looking at me.
Someone stopped him to chat.
I exhale.
But before I can release the tension in my shoulders, Matt pats the middle-aged man on the back, shakes his hand, and starts in my direction again.
I sit here, struggling with these feelings I can’t suppress.
I want to talk to him. I want to pick his brain. I’m curious and professionally thirsty, and maybe I want to accidentally press myself against him one more time.
So I can smell him.
No, definitely not that last.
Anyway, I’m certain that with a drink, I’ll be a little less nervous. But it’s too late for drinks now!
Before I can stand to greet him once more, Matt—Matt fucking Hamilton, the complete American candy bar—sinks into the seat behind me, eyes coming level with mine as he shifts forward. “For the record, I’m not some crazy stalker man just attempting to get your attention.” His voice is so close that it feels like he just ran a fingertip down my spine.
And the timbre is just like sex on silken sheets.
His scent is a prelude to sex.
Even his warm, dark espresso eyes seem an invitation for sex.
I laugh, flushing.
His lips twitch, and his smile? It is pure, wicked foreplay. The kind girls like me only watch on TV. The kind that sneaks in unnoticed until your panties are everywhere except where they belong.
Oh god. He is the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.
I’m struggling to suppress a little shiver from inside. “Don’t worry, I know who you are too.”
“That’s right. But I bet you don’t know how serious I am about getting an answer.”
“Excuse me?”
He just smiles and surveys my face, taking me in in silence. I can’t help but do the same. His features are even more chiseled now, one thousand and one percent male, and every visible inch of skin on his body seems to have been kissed recently by sunlight.
I notice the luster of his gorgeous hair and eyes and the way he smells like expensive cologne. The space his body occupies and the warmth emanating from every athletic inch of him makes me feel hot all over.
He’s really here. In front of me.
My stomach flips, and I laugh self-consciously and nervously run my hands down my dress. “At that time you were dead-set on not running. How was I supposed to know? I mean. Look at you now,” I say, signaling to him. To Matt freaking Hamilton sitting right next to me, obviously feeling vastly entertained by my nervousness.
“I know what you’re thinking,” he warns me, his expression sober but with a playful glint in his eyes.
That you’re gorgeous? I wonder.
That I don’t know how you have this effect on me and why I still after all these years want you?
“Trust me, you don’t,” I whisper, flushing.
He shifts forward and grabs a strand of my loose red hair, tugging it and watching me lick my lips in nervousness. “You’re wondering why I ran.”
“No! I’m . . .” wondering why you’re here talking to me. I don’t say that, I just trail off and watch him curl the strand of my red hair around the tip of his index finger, then slowly release it, watching me as he uncurls his finger very, very slowly and lets it fall.
“So how are you?” he asks, his voice deep.
“Good. Not as good as you seem to be,” I say. Gosh, am I flirting? Please don’t be flirting, Charlotte!
“I doubt that. I thoroughly doubt that,” Matt says, his voice s
till so deep and the smile still in his eyes—but not on his lips.
He seems so focused on me that it’s like he doesn’t realize everyone is glancing in his direction.
I’m nervous in his presence, but at the same time, I don’t want him to leave.
“You know, I’ve met you three times and realize I don’t know anything about you other than the occasional story I hear,” I blurt out. “They’re so contrary I don’t even know which to believe.”
“None of them.”
“Oh, come on, Matthew!” I laugh, then I realize I called him by his name. “I mean … Mr. Ham—”
“Matt. Charlotte. Unless you’d still like to go by Charlie.”
“God, no! Are you dead-set on embarrassing me today?”
“Not really. Though I can’t deny I find the pink on your cheeks quite charming.”
His lips curve sensually, and there’s a flutter in my stomach when he winks at me.
I shyly glance down, and I realize that the hard little points of my nipples are popping out against my dress.
Mortified, I lift my arms to fold them in front of me, but not before I catch his eyes noticing too. He slowly lifts his gaze to mine, his expression revealing nothing as he pulls his attention back to the crowded group.
“I should get going. But I won’t say goodbye.” He raises one sleek eyebrow in meaning. Pushing his chair back and standing to his full height.
His words leave me confused. I can’t manage to answer quickly enough, so he simply smiles at me and leaves me to ponder them the rest of the night.
I have no idea how long my mother and I stay there, really, but I know exactly three times that I glanced in Matt’s direction, he turned to meet my gaze—as if he has some sort of radar or simply sensed me watching him.
My stomach went crazy each of those times, and I jerked my eyes away.
When we’re ready to leave, my mother takes the time to say her goodbyes. I consider grabbing Matt’s attention to wish him good luck before heading out, I just really wish that we hadn’t been interrupted when we were and that we’d been able to talk some more. But he is busy when I search for him through the crowd, and I don’t want to interrupt. As I follow my mother to the door, one of her old congressman friends stops to say goodbye to us both. I smile and nod, and past his shoulder, I see Matt’s eyes meet mine and realize he’d been watching me leave.