Commander in Chief

I head back to my apartment to shower and blow-dry my hair and prep for tonight.

  I spent the last two months in Europe. It was freezing cold and we spent more time at the hotel than touring, but it didn’t matter. I wasn’t in the United States, the country I love, close to the man I love, simply because I needed to heal.

  I didn’t want to be tempted to call. I was afraid if I stayed, I’d see him in every headline; that the very air in D.C. would smell of him. That I’d bump into him or simply have too many memories everywhere I went to be able to breathe right. Europe was good. It centered me, and yet I was anxious to come back home. I couldn’t bring myself not to be home by the time Matt had his Inauguration Day.

  I told Kayla I fell in love with him while campaigning. I didn’t give her more details. She pressed, but I didn’t budge. I understand now that when you’re as high-profile a person as Matt is, you cannot trust even those you’re supposed to trust. Not with everything. I’m afraid one drunken night she’d spill the beans of the affair. So I kept it to myself and nursed it quietly in my heart, even as Kayla kept telling me that it was a crush and I’d get over it in Paris, the city of love.

  I didn’t.

  My heart hurts right now no matter how much I will it to stay strong.

  God.

  How will I bear to look him in the eye tonight?

  He will see right through me.

  I’m hoping that with the several balls going on, his visit to the one I’m attending will be brief. That we’ll just say a quick hello and he’ll have to continue down the line of people eager to greet their new president.

  Still, I dress with the same care that a bride might on her wedding day.

  I’m seeing the man I love, and it might be the last time, and the girl inside me wants him to remember me looking as stunning as I can possibly look.

  As desirable as he previously found me to be.

  I brush my red hair and let it fall down my shoulders. I go for a strapless blue dress that matches my eyes. I paint my lips a deep shade of red, and I ask my mother if I can borrow my grandmother’s fur coat. I’ve never bought a single fur thing in my life due to animal cruelty—but that coat has sentimental value to me, and it’s freezing outside.

  My parents are attending a different ball than I am. “You really should consider coming with us,” my mother said this morning.

  “I’m going with Alison—she’s the new White House photographer and she’s got to be at this event to capture the moment.”

  “Oh, all right. Charlotte?”

  “Yes?”

  “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  I knew what she was asking. She knows that there was something between Matthew and me, though I never gave her details. She knows I fell in love—and having a daughter in love with the hot, young president is enough to make any concerned mother worry.

  Emotion makes it difficult to speak, but I nod, then I realize my mother cannot see me. “Yes.”

  I know it won’t be easy. But I need to see him today.

  I want to congratulate him. I want him to know that I’m okay, that I’m proud of him, that I’m going to move forward, and that I want him to do the same.

  2

  INAUGURAL BALL

  Matt

  “President Hamilton. Mr. President.”

  I pull my gaze to the man drawing my attention. I’m at the luncheon, and my damn mind keeps wandering to tonight.

  “I apologize; it’s been a long day already.” I grin and run my hand restlessly along the back of my hair, leaning to speak to the Senate majority leader.

  It’s incredible how we never rest. Even at social events, we’re discussing policy.

  I try to pick the brains of most men there; it’s in my and the country’s best interest that my ideas for change are aligned with those of Congress and the Senate. Whether they’ll be easy to align remains to be seen.

  “I asked if the first bill on your agenda will be the clean energy bill?”

  “It’s one of my priorities, but not necessarily at the top,” is all I give him for now.

  All in due time, old man. All in due time.

  I’m relieved when we get ready for the parade down Pennsylvania Avenue. We walk surrounded by black presidential state cars. I’m flanked by my grandfather and my mother as we head to the most famous address in the country. Hundreds of thousands of people line the streets to watch the parade. U.S. flags flap in the wind.

  It’s an honor to be the one heading to 1600 Penn.

  Grandfather is marching like a proud king, grinning from ear to ear. “I’m proud of you, son. Now you need to get in line with the parties or you won’t do shit.”

  My grandfather isn’t necessarily my hero, but I know when to listen. And when to brush him aside. “The parties will get in line with me.” I wave at the crowd.

  To my right, my mother is silent.

  “You have a room in the White House,” I tell her, reaching out and squeezing her hand.

  “Oh no.” She laughs, looking like a young girl for that fleeting moment of happiness. “Seven years was enough.”

  I release her hand so we can greet the crowd again. I know she’s remembering a day like this a decade ago. Not only the day she rode the motorcade parade for the first time with my dad. But the day he died . . . and the motorcade that carried his coffin.

  “Besides, I have a feeling it’ll soon be occupied,” she adds.

  It takes me a moment to realize she’s referring to her room in the White House.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because I know you. You won’t let that girl go. You haven’t. I’ve never seen you . . . look sadder, Matt. Even after you won.”

  I’m so blown away by how well she knows me, I can’t think of a reply. That she knows it’s taken every ounce of my restraint not to call Charlotte. That for months I’ve told myself it’s for the best, that I can’t do it all, that I will fail if I try. But I don’t buy it. I want my girl, and I will have her.

  “She’s the light. Walks on water,” I tell my mother.

  We reach 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

  The gates open, the red carpet is rolled out. From within the house, my dog Jack, who was transported from Blair House earlier today, bounds down the steps to greet us.

  My mother is dressed to impress. You’d think she was thrilled that I’m back in the White House. Maybe a part of her is. I know that another part is full of fear that I’ll meet the same end my father did.

  We walk up the red-carpeted steps of the North Portico entrance.

  “Mr. President,” the chief usher greets me. I shake his hand. “Welcome to your new home,” he says.

  “Thank you, Tom. I’d like to meet the staff tomorrow. Help me arrange that.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. President.”

  “Tom,” I hear my mother say, pulling him into a hug.

  Jack is leading the way as we step through the wide-open front doors.

  “Mr. President, sir,” one of the ushers announces. “There’s a buffet set up for you and your guests in the Old Family Dining Room while you prepare for the balls tonight.”

  “Thank you. Nice to meet you . . .?”

  “Charles.”

  “A pleasure, Charles.” I shake the man’s hand, then head to the West Wing. I find Portia, my assistant, already organizing her desk outside the Oval Office.

  “How’s it going, Portia?”

  “Uff,” she huffs. “It’s going. This house is immense. Your chief of staff, Dale Coin, told me I could call the ushers’ office if anything seemed out of reach.”

  “Good. Do that.”

  I walk into the Oval, Jack trailing behind me.

  I had my father’s desk returned—it had been in storage. I walk to it now, glancing down at the presidential seal on the rug beneath my feet. I run my fingers over the wood. The U.S. flag behind me. The presidential seal flag beside it. Then I rap the desk and take my chair and go through the documents readied for me. Jack
is sniffing every nook and cranny of the room as I flip the pages.

  Today I’ve become privy to confidential information—deals with other countries, high-security risks, things our CIA and FBI are engaged in that will proceed as usual unless I indicate otherwise. Intel on the situation with China. Russia’s playing with fire. Cyberterrorism on the rise.

  So fucking much to do and I’m ready to get started.

  I set the files aside an hour later, but instead of heading back to the buffet, I proceed to the residence to get ready for the inaugural balls.

  The White House is never truly quiet, but this evening the top floors are quieter than I remember. No sound of my father or mother, just me. In the place of forty-five men before me.

  Jack is sniffing around like there’s no tomorrow as I head to the Lincoln Bedroom, the room I’ve chosen to stay in. “Welcome to the White House, buddy. Like Truman said, the great white jail.”

  Crossing the room, I stare out the window at the acres of land surrounding the White House, the District still foggy and cold outside.

  Ready to go see her, I shower and change for tonight’s inaugural balls. My hands easily working on my cufflinks as I think about finally, finally looking into her beautiful blue eyes again.

  “You miss her?”

  Jack raises his head from where he was watching me from the foot of the bed. As if there is only one her in the whole goddamn world.

  I smile, then I reach down and I stroke the top of his head while I reach for the tuxedo jacket. “I miss her too.” I shove my arms into the sleeves, then glance down at him. “We won’t have to miss her for long.”

  Charlotte

  “Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!!”

  I almost spill my drink when the announcement echoes across the ballroom.

  I stand with Alison, who’s thrilled to be one of the White House photographers. While she was snapping pictures of the partygoers, I was mingling by her side, a drink in hand, when those words rang out.

  And if someone had just grabbed a bat and smashed the air out of my lungs, I would absolutely believe it.

  This is the smallest ball among all five being held tonight. Everyone expected the president to make it to the other grand balls first. I was barely prepared to see him—I’d only drunk one glass of wine so far!—and now he’s here.

  Oh god.

  I’m ten times more nervous than all the women in the room. Hundreds of them, all important, highly intelligent or highly beautiful women, all tittering excitedly as Matt Hamilton, my Matt Hamilton, walks into the room.

  Um. No. He’s not yours, Charlotte, so you’d better stop feeling possessive over the man.

  But I can’t help it.

  The sight of him makes me yearn to be walking by his side, with my arm hooked into his, no matter how ludicrous the idea is. It was one thing looking at him at a podium. Farther away.

  But it’s another thing being in the room he’s now occupying.

  In a tux.

  A hot black tux.

  So much closer to me than he’s been in two months.

  I can almost smell him, expensive and clean and male.

  Alison is snapping pictures at my side.

  Snap, snap, snap.

  Matt takes over the room with his long, confident walk, briskly greeting those who greet him. Is he taller today? He really is towering over everyone. And are his shoulders broader? He looks so much larger than life. His very posture and stride that of a man who knows the whole world revolves around him. Which wouldn’t be entirely false.

  “You know what I like about Matt? That he actually backs up the hotness with brains,” she says, making an O with her mouth and exhaling, then licking her lips with a mischievous sparkle in her eye. “Yum.”

  Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m licking my lips too. I really need to never do that again.

  Alison shifts positions to capture a dozen different shots—not only of Matt but of people’s awed and ecstatic reactions to him.

  His eyes are sparkling as he greets one person after the next. They crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and I remember that crinkle. I remember the feel of the stubble on his jaw in the mornings even though his jaw is smooth and perfectly clean-shaven now, his lips curved upward.

  His hair is combed back, his features chiseled and beautiful. My whole body spasms uncontrollably. It’s as if every pore and every inch of me remembers him. Still wants him.

  I lift my fingers to stroke the place where I used to wear his father’s commemorative pin—but all I touch is my bare skin, revealed by the long, strapless gown I’m wearing.

  My heart thuds crazily as he continues greeting the people he passes, approaching where I stand with my drink frozen in my hand. He looks so happy. My stomach clutches with a mix of emotions. Happiness, yes. But his presence is also a reminder of what I’d lost.

  Did I lose him?

  He was never really mine.

  But I was all his. His to take. Body and soul. And I would have done anything he wanted me to. But I’ve tried to regain my sense of self. While traveling through Europe, I’ve tried to see the reasons why it could never have worked, among them that I’m inexperienced and young and not the kind of woman a president needs. I am not ready for what he is. No matter how much I wish I were older, more experienced, more fit to be by his side.

  Not that he wanted me there.

  I am torn when the crowd keeps parting and he keeps advancing.

  “I’m going to the restroom,” I breathe, and I head off, wondering why I came here. Why I said yes. It was his important day. I didn’t want to miss it. But it hurts anew, as if today were the day he was elected, the day I walked away from him—booked a flight to Europe and spent two months there with Kayla, freezing our asses off, drinking hot chocolate. I came back in time for his inauguration—I could not miss it.

  But landing in the USA felt bittersweet—it’s the home I love, where I was born and want to die, and fell in love, but also the country that’s led by the man I love and am trying desperately to get over.

  So I steal into the ladies’ room to find it vacant. And I just look at myself in the mirror—and whisper, “Breathe.” I shut my eyes, lean forward, and breathe again. Then I open my eyes. “Now get out there, and say hello to him, and smile.”

  It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever told myself to do.

  But I exit the room, and watch him with every step I take as I head back to the crowd—everyone waiting to greet him. To be greeted. Acknowledged.

  Alison spots me and snaps my picture. “You’ve got it bad. Can’t say I blame you,” she says.

  “I don’t want to,” I whisper.

  She smiles and continues snapping pictures.

  I drink him up like a starved woman, six feet plus of pure fantasy, all packaged in a real man—beautiful beyond belief. So beautiful, I can’t believe beauty like that exists.

  And then he’s three steps closer, his voice so near. “Thanks for coming.”

  Two steps. “Good to see you.”

  One step.

  I try to smile when he stops before me, towering over me, dark and gorgeous. Everyone is holding their breath. A silence settles over the room. I blink in disbelief.

  Matt Hamilton.

  God. He looks hot as sin, his eyebrows slanted as he looks piercingly into my eyes, a half smile playing on his beautiful lips—lips that are full and lush, and very, very wicked.

  There’s a catch in my breath, and so much pride welling in my chest as I duck my head in a slight nod.

  “Mr. President.”

  He reaches out to take my hand in his grasp, his fingers sliding over mine.

  “It’s good to see you.” His voice is especially low.

  I remember him telling me he’d get hard when I called him Mr. President, and now I can’t stop blushing. But it’s not like I’m going to bring it up now.

  His fingers are warm and strong. His grip just right.

&
nbsp; His hand so right.

  We’re not even shaking hands. He’s practically holding my hand. And every part of me remembers this hand. This touch on me.

  When he lowers my hand to my side, he slips something into my palm and ducks to murmur in my ear, “Be discreet,” and I grip what feels like a small piece of paper in my fist as he proceeds to greet the other guests.

  Slack-jawed, I watch him retreat, then I discreetly open the paper. It reads:

  10 minutes

  South exit

  up the elevator

  take the double doors down the hall.

  He’s expecting me.

  I count the minutes as the live performance by Alicia Keys begins, and Matt opens up the dance floor with his mother.

  The most handsome president I’ve ever beheld.

  Where did he learn how to dance like that?

  I’m holding a glass of wine as I watch him twirl her on the dance floor. She’s laughing, looking younger than her years, though the pain in her eyes never really fades. Matt is grinning down at her, trying his damnedest to relieve that pain.

  I love this stupid man so much I want to punch something.

  When the dance ends, other couples join, and I see Matt—who’s still causing titters in the room—excuse himself from his mother and head out a different exit than the one he indicated for me.

  He’s tugging on his cufflinks as he crosses the room, his agents already moving at the sides of the room, toward the same exit, and I set my wine aside. I’m telling myself it’s no good—that if I go there, it’ll just be to get my heart broken a thousand times again. But a part of me . . . just doesn’t care.

  This is Matt.

  I crossed an ocean to forget him, but I’d swim across thousands for this man.

  My heart will always beat for him.

  The heart that had to put a whole ocean between us for fear of seeking him out.

  The heart that beats like a mad thing in my chest as I go meet him.

  I follow instructions to the T. I spot Wilson outside the room, along with an army of other agents of the Secret Service.

  Wilson whispers something into his receiver as he nods at me and reaches for the doorknob.