by Katy Evans
“Fuck, Matt, really!” Grandfather rants.
His temper is formidable, and my mother quickly steps in with her usual soothing charm.
“Patrick, I appreciate you voicing your opinions to Matt, but I’m not happy with him even running. Matt”—she turns and looks at me beseechingly—“we gave this country all we had; we gave them your father. We don’t owe anyone anything anymore.”
“Not all we had. There’s still Matt,” Grandfather says. “This is what Lawrence wanted.”
I keep my attention on my mother. I know this is her worst nightmare. She doesn’t want me to run. “I’m finishing what Father started—this is our legacy. All right?” I nod firmly, quietly asking for her understanding.
She’s not over what happened to my father.
She shakes her head with her signature stubbornness. “You’re still so young, Matt—you’re only thirty-five.”
“Yeah, well, my thirty-five years count as double.” I smile wryly and lean back in my seat, glancing at my grandfather. “I was closer to my dad than the vice president for a term and a half. I’m doing this, and when I get to the top, my cabinet will be appointed on merit, not political favors we owe.”
“Goddamnit, boy, you have a will of your own, but you need to look at the big picture here. The parties’ resources cannot be denied.”
“I’m not denying them. I simply trust that I have resources of my own to combat them.”
Grandfather sighs. He stands and buttons his jacket, then kisses my mother on the cheek. “Thanks, Eleanor.” He looks at me as I come to full height too. “You’re making powerful enemies, Matt.”
“I’ll be an even more powerful one.”
He laughs and shakes his head in disbelief, then pats my back and says, “I’ll support you then.” Grudging and grumpy, he leaves, and my mother sighs.
I stare after him. His words hit a bull’s-eye, though not the target my grandfather had aimed for.
All of this effort, the dream I’m pursuing . . . I’ve been determined to do it alone. I saw what my father’s neglect did to my mother. I experienced firsthand what it did to me. I wouldn’t want to wish it on someone I cared for.
But a redheaded, blue-eyed scheduler with a gentle heart and true love for her country keeps hammering in my head. For the first time, I wonder what it would be like to reach the heights I aspire to with someone by my side.
“Matt.” My mother presses her lips together as she wages an inner battle, the mother’s battle between supporting her son and protecting him. “You want to use the White House to change the world, and I’ll support you.” She walks over to me and pulls me into her arms to speak in my ear. “But it changes you before you can change a centimeter of it,” she says sadly, kissing my cheek.
I drag my hand over my face in frustration as I watch her head upstairs. She’s a strong woman, but even strength breaks. When Father won, she went from private citizen to public and handled it with grace and style.
The country never saw her quiet suffering as she slowly lost my father to his job—and then to two bullets, one to his stomach and the other to his heart.
Yeah, the White House changed us all.
But what happens in the White House is reflected across the entire nation, and I’m determined to change things for the better.
I still have a busy day ahead when I step outside and climb aboard the black Lincoln that Wilson has parked by the front door.
I ride in silence toward my first speaking engagement of the day. In my mind, Charlotte is gasping as I slide my lips across her cheek and toward hers. She’s holding her breath as I press softly, testing her, nearly losing control when I realize she wants it.
She wants it as much as me.
I push the thought aside as the car stops, and I step out into the crowd.
“Matt!” I hear my name surround me, and I start shaking hands on both sides of the people flanking me, as many as possible on my path to the main building, thanking them for coming.
16
COFFEE
Charlotte
I’m nervous the next day after what happened in the car between Matt and me. I’m at the kitchenette, sort of wondering if I should go and take him coffee. Maybe because I want to talk about it, to know why he kissed me. Or maybe because I want to see him.
Before I can think better of it, I pour two cups—remembering the time he brought coffee to my desk the night we both stayed in late. I set mine on my desk on the same spot he did, then head to his office and peer past the opening.
“Can I come in?”
Matt was looking over some paperwork and when he lifts his eyes to look at me above the rims of his glasses, my heart trips a little. He nods permission, and I start when I spot Jack getting to his feet from where he was lying by Matt’s desk.
“Hi, Jack,” I say awkwardly. “I brought you coffee,” I then tell Matt as he comes to his feet.
As I hand him the warm cup, the dog races toward Matt and jumps up, desperately trying to lick the coffee mug, accidentally spilling its entire contents over Matt’s shirt.
“Jack, down!” The dog immediately sits, but the coffee is already soaking into the shirt. “Coffee’s his weakness.”
“That’s definitely something you can’t relate to. How does it feel to live a life without vices?” I ask.
He winks at me as he crosses the room to shut the door. As he passes, he gives me a heated once-over, and says, close to my ear, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”
My stomach feels like he just lit it on fire with the combination of his words and the look in his eyes as he raises his hands and starts unbuttoning his shirt.
Suddenly I’m staring at an expanse of bare chest.
He’s so hot I can barely breathe.
Though it’s a well-published fact that Matt Hamilton looks amazing in clothes, amazing cannot even capture the complete athletic perfection of his shape and form and muscles. Every single muscle of his chest is defined and flexed hard. He’s also got silky dark hairs on his chest—and I find this so hot that liquid heat seems to flood between my legs.
Something warm and female starts flickering in my tummy as I stare helplessly at him.
“Hand me that campaign T-shirt?” he asks.
I glance at the shelves behind me. I reach over for a white T-shirt with a purple Hamilton ’16 logo. It’s like a sports jersey.
I hand it over, trying hard not to notice how his slacks accentuate his lean hips, how his broad shoulders taper down inverted-pyramid style to a narrow waist, and how those freaking abs make me want to trace each square with my fingertips. And those incredible arms, the bulging biceps as he lifts the shirt over his head.
“I like it.” I point nervously at the T-shirt.
“I wanted someone to test it out. Guess I found him.”
He pulls it over his head, and I swallow. Oh god.
I can’t stop flushing.
He tosses the stained shirt aside and runs his fingers through his hair. Jack has stealthily gotten up from his ass and is licking the coffee at my feet.
“Oh no, Jack.” I kneel and try to stop him. Matt comes to grab him by the collar and leads him away.
“Well, I don’t think he’ll be getting any sleep,” I say, by way of apology.
“That makes two of us.”
I watch him smile down at his dog and run his hand over his head even as he frowns at him for being mischievous. “You never sleep, do you?” I blurt out.
He lifts his gaze. “Got a lot on my mind. I’m lucky if I grab a few straight hours.” I watch him grab his sodden shirt and drape it over the back of his chair.
“I could wash that for you, Matt,” I say. It just sort of slipped out, but I’m mortified a second after I hear myself say it.
Matt glances at the shirt.
“I mean . . . unless you have . . . you probably have someone to do your laundry.”
“Yeah. My dry cleaners.” He laughs. I feel stupid as he leans ove
r with the napkin I had brought to sop up the coffee, then balls it up and tosses it into the trash can. “But that’s the most titillating proposition I’ve ever received from a woman.”
“Really. It turns you on to get your clothes washed.”
“I’m as surprised as you are.”
I laugh, then I bite my lip and reach out for the shirt hanging on the back of his chair. His eyes are super hot. I steal out of the room with his shirt folded in my arm.
I don’t sleep more than four hours either that night.
I can’t stop thinking about him, and the fact that we were flirting and his eyes were hot and he is so very hot, and I’m not sure I like it.
I toss and turn, then leap out of bed early in the morning. I’m in the office before almost anyone. I set his clean shirt, perfectly folded, on his desk when he arrives—I know it’s perfect because I tried folding it a bazillion times.
“Good morning, Matt.”
I walk by, and he catches my fingers for a second as I pass. “Good morning, Charlotte.”
17
THE TIDAL BASIN
Charlotte
That day after lunch, Matt stops by my cubicle, where Alison is showing me some pictures of him at an event that are making my toes curl.
“How’s my month looking?” He looks at me, and somehow it feels as if “month” means a whole other thing, his gaze is that searing.
I swallow at the sight of him in a crisp business shirt and plain black pants. “Busy,” I hasten to say.
I don’t know how that tiny tilt of his lips can cause such a big tilt in my chest cavity. “Just the way I like it.” He smiles at me, nods at Alison, and Alison quickly tucks the pictures against her chest and leaves.
Matt stays by the entrance for a moment. The area feels a tad smaller as he comes over, walks around my desk, and leans over my shoulder to look at my draft. “When am I free tonight?” he asks.
A shiver runs down my spine, hearing his voice so close.
I try to stop the skip of my heart as I skim down the page and tap my finger to show him.
“Perfect.” He leans over a fraction more, to my ear. “I’ll pick you up at six.”
I don’t ask him where we’re going or why, I simply nod as he walks out.
I’m quaking with nervousness as I head home to change. I don’t even know what to wear but opt for a skirt and a silky top. For some reason I keep changing shoes from ballerina flats to pumps, and the instinctive female urge to look feminine and a little sexy wins out. I suppose I’m not proud of this, but there you go. High-heeled peep-toe pumps it is.
At 6 p.m., Matt is downstairs waiting inside a black Lincoln Town Car, his detail, Wilson, opening the door for me. I’m a nervous wreck. The memory of his whisper keeps tingling down my spine, warm and exciting.
I climb into the back of the car, surprised to notice Matt is wearing black sweatpants and a black T-shirt. And running shoes.
His hair is perfect. He looks like some athletic centerfold for Nike.
As Wilson pulls us into traffic, I study my own attire—skirt and a blouse and heels—and finally ask, “We’re running?”
Matt is staring at my shoes with a tilt to his lips, his eyes rising to mine. “More like some light hiking.”
“I . . .” Helplessly, I look at my three-inch heels. “These are going to be a problem,” I say.
He just smiles at me, but he doesn’t look especially heartbroken. “They are.”
We ride in the back of the town car in silence, and I frown at him, wondering why he doesn’t even seem concerned. Matt has never struck me as selfish.
“Wilson, stop to get Miss Wells a pair of running shoes.”
“Wait. Matt!” I protest.
He grabs a white Nike cap from the back of the car and slips on a pair of Ray-Bans. “Two minutes, we’re in and out,” he tells Wilson as he climbs out and peers back inside. One eyebrow goes up in question. “You coming?”
Two minutes inside the shopping center end up being twenty.
I try on a pair of white-and-pink Nikes that I’d always salivated over, and when they fit just right, Matt glances at Wilson, and Wilson takes the box and goes to pay while Matt and I wait outside the store. People are glancing in his direction as if speculating but unsure, and Matt keeps his eye on his phone to avoid getting their attention.
When we’re back in the car and he jerks off the cap and the sunglasses and sets them aside, I say, “I guess Hamiltons never get any privacy.”
He smiles at me, but with a haunted look in his eyes. “Never.”
We ride on.
He admits, “I’ve almost forgotten what it was like when it was simpler.”
Simpler.
Like . . . taking a hike with me, I realize. People are going to see.
I’m anxious now.
“Turn the car around.”
He swings his head, shocked. “Excuse me?”
“Turn the car around now, Matt.”
He chuckles and drags a hand over his face, as if I exasperate him.
“Really. This . . . can look a way that it’s not. Tell him to turn around.” I drag my eyes to Wilson, then look back at Matt.
“I can’t.” He shakes his head in bemusement.
“Why can’t you?” I’m getting testy, and so is he.
“It’s the only slot on my schedule open and my only chance to be alone with you for a while.” He looks up at Wilson through the rearview mirror when the car stops and tells him, “See you at Jefferson Memorial in a couple of hours.”
He opens the door for me, and I grab my notepad to keep it professional. His lips quirk when he sees that, but he says nothing as we start heading down the trail, which treks around a large body of blue water surrounded by a path that runs all around the basin’s circumference. From here you can see the Washington Monument, the tall columns and majestic white dome of the Jefferson Memorial, and right up ahead, the spot where the first cherry blossom trees were planted.
It’s spring, and the trees are fully bloomed, their long, slim limbs dotted with cherry blossoms.
It’s a chilly day, but the sun warms my face as we walk toward the nearest memorial, which is only a few years old.
“I’ve never taken this walk before,” I admit. I take in the huge marble carving of Martin Luther King Jr. “I’ve only been to this area once, really, when my father brought me to the paddle boats.”
“Robert in the paddle boats? That I’d like to have seen.” He seems amused at the thought as I absorb the thirty-foot-tall monument of a man whose favorite quote of mine is, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that.”
I realize Matt is watching me, as if he knows the site by memory—but not the sight of me. My cheeks warm as I start walking down the trail by his side.
He glances at our feet, stops walking, and drops to his haunches to lace up my running shoes.
I’m breathless as he stands to his full intimidating height and jerks his head toward the white dome across the water. “See that?”
I look around, thinking he spotted some reporters. Call it paranoia.
“I don’t see.” I’m trying to figure out if anyone is recognizing him—a six-feet-plus, gorgeous-looking man, who’s not looking? I quickly open my notepad and pretend to scribble something.
He laughs and turns my head to shift me around to face the water. The touch sends a frisson down my spine and I can’t see straight. “Seriously? You think that little notebook makes a difference? People will see what they want to see. This is no different than our morning runs. Now look.”
“At what?”
He laughs softly. “Stop talking and look.”
Matt turns my face an inch higher over the water, and I see. How the monuments reflect in the water, the water doubling the effect of their beauty.
I stare at the white classical building across the water. “Oh.”
And he’s looking at me, at
his finger on my chin.
“Take me,” I say, then clear my throat when I see the male laughter in his eyes as I point at the Jefferson Memorial. “I mean, take me there. I’ve never been inside.”
“That’s the plan.” He grins, obviously still just a guy with a guy’s mind underneath the famous name.
We start forward, my body acutely aware of his moving beside mine.
We pass a Japanese stone pagoda and other memorials, until we reach the Jefferson Memorial.
We take the steps, walk past the tall white columns, and walk into the cavernous building until we’re standing under a huge domed ceiling. Inscriptions cover the marble walls. Front and center, standing atop a large block of marble, is a massive nineteen-foot-tall monument to Jefferson, third president of the United States, one of our founding fathers.
We take a bench near one of the panels, one that quotes the Declaration of Independence.
I glance around the place. It’s one of those memorials that’s a little more difficult to access because there’s no parking space outside. It feels as if it stands on its own island . . . away from it all, but so close to the heart of the city at the same time.
“Do you always find far-off places to get away and think?” I ask Matt.
“I usually come alone.”
The dark flecks in his eyes look a little blacker as he takes me under the warm yellow lights above us. There’s a bright flame there, in his eyes.
“Except I find myself craving some alone time with you.” His lips tilt in mischief.
His smile soon fades and shadows enter his eyes.
“It would be easier had I not run. During my father’s terms at the White House, I used to dream about freedom. A thousand times, my father said I would be president. He told his friends, his friends’ friends, and he often told me. I’d laugh and shake it off.”
“He even told me,” I say good-naturedly, and the warmth of his smile sends shivers through me.
He makes no effort to hide the fact that he’s looking at me tenderly. “He did, didn’t he?”