Commander in Chief

  “You are the man of my dreams, Matthew Hamilton,” I blurt out, still sort of reeling. A tear escapes.

  “No more tears, not for me.”

  “I’m just happy. I’m so happy. Did you mean it when you said everyone was waiting?”

  “Everyone. It’s probably on TV by now.”

  “What?” I turn on the TV.

  “Our President Hamilton is proposing to the first lady and we’re waiting with bated breath to hear!”

  Placards say I’LL MARRY YOU, HAMMY!

  Others plead SAY YES!

  I start to cry. All this time, I worried that I might not be good enough for him, that the public might not like the idea of me—and Matt just put all that to rest. Matt made them want me by his side merely because he told them truthfully that he wanted me there.

  I cry because of the way they love him, because he has never really feared being himself with them, letting them see all of him, that he is not just the president but also human and a man, and I’m inspired again, and so in love I cannot stand it.

  “Don’t just stand here! Don’t leave them all like that! They’re practically not breathing.”

  “Baby, I’m practically not breathing.”

  I look at him. “Summon Lola and tell her—do something—tell her to tell the press corps I said YES! How can I not say yes? Are you crazy?”

  “I think we’ve already established that I am.”

  Alison and Lola appear at the door. Suddenly everyone’s eyes are on me. I’m especially aware of Matt watching me, as if my reaction is crucial to solving some worldly problem.

  I’m perplexed, once again wishing I knew what he was thinking as he turns back to Lola and Alison and smiles. “Look at the ring on Charlotte’s finger.”

  Lola’s eyes widen in excitement.

  Matt grins. “Take a shot, spread it out wide. It’ll speak more than a thousand words.”

  “Charlotte!” Alison cries, and I walk over and we hug each other.

  “Okay. Picture.” Alison realizes Matt—President Hamilton—is waiting and quickly steps back and takes an engagement shot of the two of us.

  “Lola is going to be so busy,” I tell Matt, canting my head to meet his gaze.

  “She’s always busy.”

  “And you?” I can only imagine how hounded he’s going to be after this.

  “I know someone who’s going to be even busier.” He flashes his wickedest smile at me as he crosses the room and lifts the phone. “Portia. Get the team ready. We have a wedding to plan.”

  I duck my head as I try to wipe the lingering tears from the corners of my eyes. For sure my makeup is ruined. For sure you can even tell in the picture Alison took. But . . .

  I wanted to make a difference, to find out my calling, to have a man to love. This is it. Unbelievably, this is it. A normal girl, with the most extraordinary love from the most extraordinary man.

  I call my parents first. My mother is sort of speechless, and my dad takes the phone from her and tells me he’d talked to Matt before he proposed, but he hadn’t told my mother, that she’s shocked but they’re thrilled with the news and that they look forward to the wedding.

  Then I call Kayla.

  “I’ve been trying to contact you!”

  “I was on the line with my mom and dad.”

  “Charlotte, oh my god!” she says.

  “I know, I know!” I say, giddy, looking at my engagement ring. It’s a pear-shaped diamond, with two trapezoid emeralds flanking its sides, and it’s so stunning I can barely look at it without feeling myself go breathless.

  “You’re marrying the president of the United States,” she declares.

  “Yes,” I say.

  “You’re marrying the fucking president of the United States,” she repeats, disbelieving.

  “I’m already his first lady; don’t act so shocked,” I say, laughing.

  “He’s like . . . the most coveted bachelor in the land! Hammy! Hammy is marrying you, and you’re marrying Hammy!”

  “Kayla,” I groan. “Make sense for a minute. You can’t be all awestruck when you stand by me at the altar as my maid of honor.”

  “Your what?”

  “You heard me.” I laugh. “It’s going to be a speedy wedding. When Matt told reporters he wanted to marry me ‘today’ he wasn’t exactly joking.”

  “So when is it?”

  “As soon as we can. It’ll take me at least a month to get everything ready, but—”

  “A month. Oh my god!” she cries. “I’m in.” Her voice breaks. “Charlotte, I’m so happy for you. I always thought Sam would propose first and that you’d be sort of heartbroken because you still hadn’t found a guy of your own. Now look at you!”

  We laugh, and we reminisce about the days when we were younger, and both promised that we’d always be friends, even if one of us got married and moved across the continent, or became a philanthropist recluse.

  After we hang up, I take calls from Alan and Mark, both of whom sound sort of mind-blown and a little sore about it, and then from twelve more friends, a mix of ex-coworkers from Women of the World and old Georgetown friends.

  The news travels fast—especially considering it’s on every website. Clarissa shows me a few of the headlines, sounding as ecstatic as the rest of the White House is, and I’ve been hugging the staff members—many who have become warm, gentle presences in my life.

  Wedding at the White House!

  Say Hello to the First Family

  While America continues rising as the undisputed superpower of the world, President Hamilton falls (in love, that is)

  Hammy finally to get wed—to his FLOTUS!

  Condolences to the women out there: The most coveted bachelor in the world, our very own President Hamilton, is to be a bachelor no more.

  In the meantime, Lola is busy fielding the White House press corps, all of whom want to know more details about the wedding.

  Within a matter of hours, the excitement in D.C. is palpable in the air, as palpable as the incoming spring. After Grover Cleveland’s long-ago White House wedding in 1886, there’s finally another presidential wedding taking place—and even the international press is reporting on the news.

  We’ve been receiving calls nonstop.

  “Vogue wants to feature you and the president on the cover of their April issue.”

  “Vera Wang wants to design your wedding dress.”

  “The designer of the yellow outfit you wore on the Today Show? He called to say he sold out of the outfit and got orders from Bergdorf and Neiman Marcus. He wants to send more designs and is sending a huge congratulations on the wedding.”

  “That’s great!” I say.

  “Charlotte, the chef wants to know if you’d like a tasting menu prepared this Sunday so you and the president can start looking at dishes—”

  Matt

  I’m a happy man when I walk into the Oval Office to find one of the White House staffers leaving a pile of letters on my desk. “Oh, I’m sorry, Mr. President,” she says, about to leave. She pauses. “I’m one of those who read the letters and help select the ones we will place on your desk.”

  I absently nod. “Thank you.”

  “Sir, I also read some of the letters for your father. I’ve been working here for a long time.”

  I skim through the envelopes.

  “You get some hate mail,” she says.

  I keep flipping through the envelopes as I laugh. “Yeah, I don’t doubt it.”

  “He got more. Sometimes from the same guy.”

  I frown. Raise my head. “And you know this how …?”

  “Just the postage, the way the letters were made. Looked like the same guy. He sent you one. It’s not hate mail, just a magazine cut-out of an eye.”

  “Where does all the correspondence go?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Do me a favor. Talk to Cox at the FBI about this. I’ll have him contact you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

>   Dale Coin walks in as she heads out. “A bit like a needle in a haystack, no?”

  “Yeah, well, haystack’s all we’ve got now.”

  23

  PLANNING

  Charlotte

  Work doesn’t stop. In the midst of the wedding preparations, little Matt is coming to the White House.

  I’ve been excited about his visit. You just never know when you will meet someone who’s going to touch your life. In ways you’ll never forget, I suppose sometimes good, and sometimes bad. Even the most fleeting encounter can leave the most lasting mark. And since that day Matthew visited Children’s National on Michigan Northwest, where the boy was being treated, and met with young Matt Brems, the seven-year-old boy has held a special place in my heart. Not only because he’s the son of one of the women that I worked with at Women of the World. The boy is simply a fighter, living with an aggressive type of leukemia that he’s fighting to conquer, his dream of visiting the White House becoming a reality today.

  “Matt Brems is here, Mr. President.”

  “MATT!” the boy cries from the door of the Oval Office.

  “Mr. President!” his mother chides the boy, horrified. “Mr. President, thank you for having us.”

  “Hey, tiger.” Matt approaches and lifts his hand for a high-five.

  I greet the boy’s father and hug his mother, Catherine. “How is he doing?”

  “He’s a fighter.”

  The boy looks around, smoothing a hand over his tie, his awe of the Oval etched on his face. “I want to be president one day.”

  Matt motions for his chair.

  The boy approaches with mounting disbelief.

  Matt sits him down. Our eyes connect over his parents’ heads—and I know what he’s thinking. That we may have one of these, one day.

  “Are you getting married?” the boy asks, surprising us.

  “Yes.” I add, “Do you want to come to the wedding?”

  “YES!” He giggles happily. “But Sara will be mad she couldn’t come too.”

  “Who is Sara?”

  “A girl at the hospital.”

  “I suppose we should invite all of the children—they’ll be our special guests.”

  I glance at Matt, and he stares back at me with this half smile that makes me blush and a look in his eyes that says go for it, baby; it’s your only wedding.

  I’m grateful when Matt turns to the boy, giving me a moment to recapture my first lady role.

  “Do you think your friends would want to come?” Matt asks the boy.

  “Definitely!”

  “Can we count on you to deliver the good news?”

  “Yes!”

  The boy hops off the chair and walks with his chest expanded, as if he just grew a couple of sizes because of the task ahead.

  Before they leave, Matt sits across the coffee table from his parents and tells them, “I want you to check all options. I would like to personally support his treatment. I’ll also be starting a special fund in his name.”

  “Thank you.” His mother starts crying.

  When they leave, my eyes sting too. “Here we are with so much power but no ability to help him.”

  A melancholy frown flits across his features. “We do what we can.”

  Our eyes connect once again, and my heart somersaults in my chest. The vitality he radiates pulls at me, but the way his steady gaze bores into mine with silent expectation holds me in place.

  “Were you thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask.

  “We will have one of these in the White House.”

  I nod.

  Standing less than a foot away, he glances down at me, his gaze admiring as a corner of his lips hikes up. “You’ll make a great mother.”

  “You’ll be the best dad.”

  He runs his knuckles down my cheek, and sparks ignite all over my body. “I look forward to making you my wife soon.”

  During the day, I don’t see Matt much. He’s been working nonstop and traveling occasionally too. He wants us to escape to Camp David for a few days after the wedding—a place where there will be no press, just us, and I’m looking forward to the peace and quiet.

  Thoughts of our nights together keep filtering into my mind as I plan the wedding and make tour stops around D.C. and Virginia, visiting children and speaking to them about their futures—and how our future as a nation depends on them.

  We’ve been running together on the White House grounds every morning when he’s in D.C., though. Having dinner together, then spending the night closeted in his room.

  Every time I see him step across the threshold of his bedroom, my heart grows giddy and I’m breathing faster. I know it’s because we’re in love, but it’s also from the fact that we have never been openly dating each other until now, and I cannot get enough of him.

  He cannot seem to get enough of me either.

  It’s as if his masculinity has grown tenfold, his testosterone at an all-time high. We have sex multiple times a night. Shower sex, sleepy sex, morning sex. I sometimes watch him get dressed with a look of disbelief, wondering if he’s truly my fiancé. Sometimes, when I’m the one in a hurry to get dressed, I catch him standing in his towel, watching me dress with the look of a man who admires his woman, who wants his woman, who plans to keep enjoying his woman anytime he wants.

  Most especially, with the look of a man who respects his woman.

  I could not be any luckier.

  He leaves for Africa for five days, and I take advantage of those days to plan something special for him. I’ve been trying to think of something to give him as a wedding gift. But what can you give the man who has it all?

  “Alison, I want to get something special for the groom, a wedding present. He once told me he wanted a portrait of me. Would you photograph me? I want it to be a small picture, maybe five by eight, and I want to wear my hair down, my shoulders bare, and maybe just something sleek and a little sheer around my torso. And I want to be wearing his father’s pin.”

  Alison’s eyes grow wide at my description. “I just fanned myself on his behalf. Whoa.”

  I laugh. “I want it to look intimate. This isn’t for display; it’s only for him to have.”

  “I’m your girl then. Where do you want to do the shoot?”

  “I was thinking at my apartment. It’s leased for another month. I want it to be in simple surroundings—because I’ll always be the girl he met.”

  Alison is thrilled at the prospect, so a day before he’s scheduled to arrive, after the Secret Service give us the green light, we head to my old apartment. I pull up a chair to the small window. There’s hardly a view outside, but I like the window in the background, with a regular view . . . of a regular life.

  I know Matt has always craved normalcy, regardless of the fact that he’s the least normal man of all. Maybe that’s why he craves it.

  I wear my hair down, keep my shoulders bare, and wrap a gauzy shawl around my front, secured by his father’s pin, making sure the fabric covers the dusky pink of my nipples.

  “Perfect—now look at me as if I were him,” Alison says.

  My mind instantly gets transported to Matt—his arms, his voice when he’s holding me, Matt asking me to be his wife—when there’s a knock on the door, and Stacey peers inside.

  “Charlotte. The president is on his way up.”

  “What?” My eyes widen, and Stacey nods.

  “He must have finished early,” I breathe, hurrying to remove the shawl and slipping back into the elegant day dress I was wearing while Alison hides her stuff.

  “Did you get the shot?”

  “I got like four great ones,” she says, tucking everything into her duffel just in time for there to be a knock on the door.

  Alison slings the bag over her shoulder and shoots me a look. “Enjoy, First Lady.”

  “Oh, I will,” I assure her.

  I hear her greet, “Mr. President.”

  “Alison.” His tone sounds amused.

 
When he steps inside and looks at me, I want to cry because I missed him so much.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Heard you were here—decided to stop by.”

  “How was Africa?”

  “Eye-opening.” He looks at me like a thirsty man in need of water.

  Matt looks gorgeous even after a full day of travel as he drapes his jacket over the back of a chair, removes his tie, and opens the top two buttons of his white dress shirt, his eyes fixed ravenously on me as he does.

  My body responds to his presence instantly. I want to give him something. I want to give this man everything.

  “Come here,” I whisper, but instead of waiting for him to move, I cover the distance between us.

  I lower myself to my knees and reach up to his belt. I unbuckle him, hear the rasping sound of his zipper as I lower it. All the while my head is angled back so that my eyes can remain on his beautiful espresso ones.

  I drop my gaze and pull him out, his erection thick already, a pulse beating there. Feeling a hot clench between my legs, I lean my head forward and kiss the crown. He groans and curls his hands around the back of my head, holding me there with a little pressure, silently asking me to take in more. I do.

  I curl my fingers tight around the base. It throbs against my palm, hard and thick, velvety. My lashes flutter upward and I meet his gaze as I use both hands and my mouth to pull him inside my mouth. Matt watches me, jaw flexing, a glitter of pure lust and hunger in his eyes.

  I draw his cock deep between my lips, and he thrusts. In. I groan, and the salty drop of liquid on his cock makes me want more. I want everything from this man.

  With a low, sexy groan, he pulls out, holding my hair, his voice causing ripples down my body. “Look at me.”

  I raise my eyes again and suck him back in, twirling my tongue around the head and his length, admiring the hard muscles of his abdomen and chest, the fierce angle of his jaw.

  I pull him deeper into my mouth, licking him slowly, and never once do I stop looking into his gorgeous face as I do this. It’s the best part.