I pause, meeting reporters eye to eye.
“If I don’t build a better tomorrow for this family I love so much—for this country I love so much—then who will? If I don’t ensure and fight for their safety, their rights, who will? If I deny my citizens my every effort, I deny my family, too. I do not want to fail any of you. This tough job has taught me how to be tougher, how to be smarter, and how to be a diplomat, but it never becomes easier. Then again, I wouldn’t want easy. Where’s the fun in that?”
This is met with laughs.
“Thank you for these four years. For your belief in me. If you will allow it, and the citizenship wishes it—let’s make it eight. I am formally announcing my intention”—my eyes meet Charlotte’s, and I fucking want to kiss the smile she wears right now—“to run for reelection, and continue to be honored as the president of the United States of America.”
43
CAMPAIGNING
Matt
The crowd is chanting my name as we drive into the first rally in Philadelphia.
“You get the best crowds I’ve ever fucking seen,” Carlisle says. I scan the crowd, wishing she could see it. That always got her excited. Charlotte stayed back at the hotel with Matthew Jr., both of them sleeping in this morning.
“Here we are, sixty percent female, forty percent male. The majority here to see your pretty face. Even married, you have a way with the ladies,” Wilson taunts.
My lips twist into a wry smile. “A vote is a vote.”
He laughs. “Yeah, I know it bugs the hell out of you—no offense, Mr. President. And don’t worry, every president leaves looking haggard as fuck; your beauty will lessen with four more years. If you still draw crowds by now, then it means you did something good.”
“Wilson, I’m on a schedule here.” I point for him to stop the car.
“Right.”
“Hey, do me a favor,” I lean into the car as I get out, “check in on Charlotte later. Oh, and tell her Jack hasn’t been fed.”
“Go about your busy day. I got it.”
I step out with Carlisle and Hessler, the rest of the Secret Service piling up behind me as discreetly as possible—some of them disguised as civilians—as we head to the podium and the waiting crowd.
44
THANKS FOR CAMPAIGNING
Charlotte
I’m watching him speak at the rally for Florida small business owners, and for a second, he looks only at me.
“. . . because not only our aim, but our duty, is to strengthen our country for those who haven’t been born yet. And for those we love.”
My breath dies, and he slides his eyes away and looks at the members of his team with half a smirk and half a smile.
Nobody notices, though, the looks we share. They have no idea of the real connection we have—that this man is a part of me. Husband and wife, they know what we are, but I’m not sure anyone has a true idea of what he means to me, or what I know that I am to him.
The men are scribbling notes using pens with Matt’s campaign logo, and then they’re all standing as he rises to leave and starts shaking hands, thanking them. I’m surprised that so many of the male team members approach me to say goodbye as well.
Matt steps to my side as we head out of the room.
“I’d better give you the floor right now,” he says, reaching out and sliding his thumb down my jaw. I laugh as we exit the building, but his gaze is still with me as we ride back to the hotel.
We’re supposed to freshen up and attend a fundraiser later in the day, and I decide I’ll change my heels for flats because my feet are killing me, but I am not missing it for the world.
“My first lady is quite a crowd draw,” he says, lifting his hand to grab me by the back of the neck and kiss me. He eases back, leaving me breathless. My husband. He’s smiling. He’s teasing me, of course, but he has this proud look as if to say I knew I made the right choice.
“You, on the other hand, you were awful just now. I think your team wants to kick you off the campaign, Mr. President.” I shake my head teasingly. “You’re four years older, no longer the young, fresh bachelor you used to be.”
His eyes start dancing. “You’ve aged me, baby, what can I say.”
“I mean, at least you made the effort. I don’t think they went for it, though—you were far more charming when you were single.”
He’s looking at me with that strange tender look again, and I’m lying—he is hotter than ever. Nearing forty, so mature, so gorgeous, with no gray hairs yet, no matter how sexy I think he would look with a little gray on that gorgeous head or at the temples. He plucks off his glasses, tucks them into his pocket, and he sends me a warning look that I recognize—one that I suspect he will act on when we enter the suite and he pins me against the wall and kisses the shit out of me.
I’m getting flustered, getting weak-kneed, and I walk into the suite playing a little bit hard to get.
“Is there a reason why you put half the room between us, Charlotte?”
“No. Why? I just wanted to stretch my legs a little bit,” I say nonchalantly.
He lifts a brow, slowly coming to stand behind me. “You think I asked you up here to ravage you, wife?” he asks, slipping his hand down and cupping my ass.
“No,” I groan.
He ducks his head to nuzzle me and I seem to take one last breath.
His smile starts wavering as his eyes begin to darken, and then the smile completely leaves, replaced by a look of pure frustration and raw need. He is too close, so close, his expensive cologne in my nostrils and his eyes looking warmly down at me.
“Charlotte,” he says. “We don’t have time for this, baby.”
“I know. That’s why I was here and you were there. But now you’re here too, so what are we going to do?”
He reaches out and runs his thumb over my lip. Once. Twice. “I find that the older I get, the more I hate waiting,” he confesses, frowning.
I laugh, and walk to the sofa.
“My feet are killing me,” I say as I toss my shoes aside and relax for just a second before I need to hurry into the shower.
Campaigning is as exhausting as I remember, and I love it just as fiercely as I recall. Years ago, youth made us believe in the impossible, but it’s only those who believe in the impossible who can actually make it possible. And we have. For four years. We’ve tried, and succeeded, so many times.
Matt gives me a genuinely admiring stare. “I appreciate you being here.”
I smile wearily and get a bottle of cold water from the fridge, then come back to the living area to take a sip. “I’ve always found it inspiring. When I watch you move all those people.” I frown a little. “Makes me wonder half the time what’s real and what’s bullshit.”
“Charlotte,” he chides. “We don’t have a bull in the pen at the offices. None of it is bullshit.”
“All politicians bullshit.”
He lifts his brows. “I’m not a politician.”
“You are now.”
I laugh, and then watch him approach.
The air crackles with adrenaline. His satisfaction pulses off him in waves, and my own body responds in kind.
He takes a seat next to me as I lie curled on the side of the couch, leaning forward on his elbows and reaching out to pull my legs toward him. He’s close now. Our energies fuse, combine, and seem to multiply the thrill of a successful evening by a thousand.
“I was right.”
“Right about what?” I ask.
“Bringing you in that very first day.”
“Why did you? Old times’ sake? I dazzled you with my bad manners the night we met? Or my huge appetite for quinoa? Or with my letter?”
He just smiles and doesn’t answer.
He’s smiling as he takes my feet in his hand, tracing his thumb along the arches. For a moment I’m transfixed watching his thumb. The most delicious shiver runs down my spine, to my stomach and the tips of my breasts.
“I’m ticklish
.”
And breathless and excited and in love.
“I see that.”
He lifts his head, slowly cupping one foot by the heel and lifting it up, and up, and up. He opens his mouth, watching me as he nips the tip of my toe. He engulfs it, runs his tongue over the back, sucks gently as he starts running his other hand up my arm, to my face. He inserts his thumb into my mouth, slowly rubbing my thumb with his other hand.
“Matt,” I groan. I stop his hand, look down at our fingers. His hands obsess me. Why they obsess me, I don’t know, but they’re so big, look so powerful. He holds SO MUCH in those hands.
He grabs my shoes and looks at me as he slips and straps them back on, his fingers touching the same toes that are still tingling. Neither of us says a word once my shoes are on, and he keeps his hands on the top arch of my foot for several long, extra heartbeats.
“I love you,” he says simply, grabbing my face and pressing a kiss to my lips.
Exhaling, he stands up to get ready, and I glance at the clock and leap to my feet and follow him.
We are traveling extensively. Sometimes Matty travels with us, the times he doesn’t choose to remain in D.C. with my parents or Matt’s mother.
The crowds follow wherever President Hamilton goes. People want to see him, they want to see his first lady, they want to dote over his son, they want to pet Jack, and they want pictures—goodness, are the media covering us everywhere we go?
Matt is, as usual, a good sport with the press, but I get nervous when I’m walking with little Matty and reporters are snapping pictures and causing Stacey and the guys to work extra to push them all back.
Still, I love being out in the country, seeing the changing scenery. Deserts to forests, cities to small towns, farms and pasture to stoplights and highways. And the people—different and unique, everyone hoping for the glory to keep shining on the United States. Everyone trusting Matthew Hamilton to keep bringing it.
Today we’re in Philadelphia, and I get to introduce him to the people.
“Well, it really is such a pleasure to be here,” I say, breathless. “What an amazing crowd!” They all clap and cheer. “I know why you’re all here. It’s because my husband is quite charming and gives quite a good speech.” They laugh. “And also, because I know you know that Matthew Hamilton genuinely cares about you, about this country, about what’s right. I have witnessed firsthand his dedication, his effort, his complete devotion to this country, and if I weren’t already hopelessly in love with him, that would be enough to seal the deal for me right now.” More laughter. “The changes he’s put into effect these past few years . . . Millions of new jobs. Better education for our children, a more comprehensive healthcare plan, a thriving economy, and our outstanding free trade, which enables you, as Americans, to have any product for the best price available at your fingertip . . . this is only the beginning of the more extensive changes he’s been working to address . . . and I definitely hope you sit tight and listen to him share them with you tonight. So without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I present my husband, Matthew Hamilton, the President of the United States!”
He takes the stage, leans into the microphone. “She’s better at this than I am.” He smirks, winking at me as I take a spot on the sidelines, and I laugh at the same time the crowd does.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton,” he tells me with a nod as he takes in his doting crowd. “She’s right. It’s a great crowd today . . .”
“HAMMY! GO GET IT, HAMMY!” someone shouts.
“I will,” he promises, grinning, then falling sober.
“Today, I want to discuss something with you. Last night, I got word that I’m to be a father again. The first lady is expecting.” The smile on his face is absolutely dazzling, and so contagious there’s not a sad face in the house.
I feel giddy remembering when I told him—how he plucked his glasses off, then just grabbed me to him and swept me clean off the ground. “You make me so happy, so fucking happy,” and the rest was smothered with his kiss.
“So it’s something I want to talk to you about. Our children,” he continues—and pauses. “It is with our children that our greatest potential as a country lies. We are raising world-changers, leaders, girls and boys who can make a real difference. And it all begins with you. With me. With us.”
I feel Matty’s hand slip into mine, and he’s frowning—not too happy he’ll be dethroned soon. “You’ll still love me best?”
“I’ll love you as my best firstborn, yes,” I promise, and he nods and starts to get restless. “Sit here with me. Watch Dad,” I whisper, hushing him, clinging to Matt’s every word.
I just love for people to see him as I do, to know the real man, the one behind the façade, the name, and the presidency.
The Matt Hamilton we all love.
I watch out the windows of Air Force One, the clouds beneath me looking like a carpet of cotton candy.
I lay my hand over my belly and think of Matt.
I’m so in love with him and I can’t believe I’m four months pregnant with our second child.
The debates are over, the campaigning has been exhaustive but inspiring, and now we’re heading back home.
Our little family of three, soon to be four.
I know from looking at my parents that no matter how strong the love, relationships are always tested. Boundaries are pushed, some promises broken, and disappointments happen. That’s just life. No road is ever perfectly smooth or straight.
But I also know from looking at my parents that love is a choice. Sometimes the hardest choice of all. And I know as I turn to look at Matthew, his profile showcasing perfect masculine beauty, his lips pursed thoughtfully as he looks quizzically at a stack of manila folders in front of him with his glasses perched on his nose, that I will always choose him.
A realization that comforts me.
I chose him over a normal life. I chose him over privacy. I chose him over insecurity about whether or not I would ever be enough, as a wife, as a mother, as a first lady. I chose him over fear. I chose him over everything . . .
Love can be passionate, wild, consuming, mesmerizing. It catches you in the wake of what seems to be an ordinary life and it turns it upside down until you are fully living with every cell, every pore, every atom in your body. It makes you live life to its fullest potential. Love heightens all your emotions, until your past life looks like you were living on mute, like you were living with senses that were partly numbed.
This awakening to experiencing everything to its fullest potential is what makes life the most joyful and blissful experience, and also the most painful one. Looking down at the clouds beneath me and the blue sky stretching out before me, I simply let myself embrace it all, whatever comes.
I see myself with Matt. I see myself having kids with him. I see myself stretched out between his legs, reclining on him, while holding hot cocoa in my hands, hearing the crackling of a fireplace.
I see myself holding his face to my chest, quietly soothing him after a hard day. After having to make some tough decisions.
I see him climbing into bed beside me and nuzzling my neck, telling me how much he loves me, how I am his angel.
I see him holding our daughter’s hand (yes, it’s a girl—we got confirmation just last week!), her red hair in two little pigtails as she skips besides her father, looking up at him with all the love and awe in the world, and him looking down at her as if she were the greatest treasure.
I see myself thirty years from now, sitting next to an old and still ruggedly handsome Matt, talking about how we met, how he won the presidency, how he proposed, the life we’ve had.
Because even if he wins, four more years as president is not much compared to the years he will be an ex-president, and I his wife. The term is not the only thing that counts. What really lasts is what you did, your legacy for all time.
It’s a simple choice, really. I choose him. Always.
And despite his own fears and concerns,
disappointments and ideas about his ability to be both president and husband, president and father, president and man . . . he chose me.
Whatever happens, we chose each other.
It’s cold outside, but that’s where Matt and I spend the November evening of Election Day. I bring out a small speaker and I play some music, settling for a song Hozier played on our wedding, “Better Love.” And we dance, like we sometimes do. I sway in his arms while our team watches television in one of the White House rooms, and Matt Jr. sleeps, and the country waits with bated breath, and I just dance with Matt.
And that’s how Carlisle finds us, when he steps outside.
“Well, Mr. President,” he says, smiling wryly as he spots us. “Looks like you’re up for a second term.”
I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. Matt’s hands tighten on me, his jaw clenching, his eyes flashing with happiness—with gratefulness.
He frames my face and plants a firm, fierce kiss on my forehead, then he steps up to shake Carlisle’s hand. “I couldn’t have wanted to hear anything else.”
They shake hands, and Carlisle slaps his back. “You do me proud, Matt.”
“Where’s Matt Junior?” he immediately asks me.
“In bed. Matt, you cannot seriously wake him—”
“Oh yes I can,” he says, already striding inside. I follow him to the bedroom, where he slowly opens the door and steps into the room to find our son’s sleeping form.
Matt sits on the edge of the bed and leans down to whisper, “Hey, bedbug,” waiting for Matty to stir awake.
“Dad,” he just says, grinning a toothy grin.
Matt strokes one hand over his head. “We’re staying.”
Matty’s eyes widen. He’d been worried. No matter how much I assured him that we’d find another home, that his dad has a lot of homes we could move into, he’d argued that none of the staffers he’d come to love would be there, nor the swans in the fountain.