Matt helps me stand, then flips me around and lifts my skirt over my ass, kicking my legs apart.
I swallow back a moan when I feel him drive inside. He leans over me, nipping the back of my neck. “God, you’re heaven,” he says, hands on my hips as he drives into me from behind. I do moan this time; he reaches out and covers my mouth. I lick his palm, and he thrusts inside me again.
I mewl into his palm again. He pounds me as hard as he needs. As hard as I crave. He drowns my cry of release with his palm and buries his own growl in the top of my head.
We don’t speak of it when we’re done. I just laugh nervously, and he smiles and pats my back, righting himself until he looks as perfect as ever.
“Charlotte,” he says before I leave.
“Yes?”
“If I win, I want you in the White House. Working there.” He drops behind his chair. “I’m on my best game when you’re around—let’s just put it that way.”
“Are you blackmailing me? Emotionally?”
“I’m asking you.”
“You’re asking me with that demanding look that means you’re demanding.”
“Then I’m demanding-slash-asking you.”
I frown.
He stares at me, shifting to prop his elbows on the desk. “If I’m elected, I’m going to do everything I promised those people out there I’d do. I need the best team possible; a president can only accomplish what his support system allows. I want you in the White House.”
“I’ve never had ambitions to work in the White House,” I say. “It’s not a place that I want to have a career. It’s more like the kind of place I found exciting to visit and loved worshipping from afar.”
And I don’t think I could bear how hard it would be to see you every day and remember . . .
His eyes look frustrated. I’m sort of afraid he’s going to push it—I don’t want him to. He’s too tempting to me. Being with him is too addictive. I want to be mature and realistic about this. About us.
So before Matt can insist, I steal out and get back to work, bringing my attention to our end goal: giving our country the chance to join the strong, charismatic leader we’ve been waiting for.
29
MORE
Charlotte
We’re in San Francisco now.
It’s noon as we all gather in our makeshift local campaign offices when Carlisle drops a newspaper on Matt’s desk. On the bottom of the front page are two pictures—of Matt smiling down at me and helping me out of the car to our hotel.
The caption beneath them both reads, Is Love in the Air for Matthew Hamilton?
He doesn’t read the article. Instead he’s got his cell phone out, putting it on speaker and speed-dialing as he skims the rest of the news. A male voice picks up, stating his name and the name of the newspaper that happened to have posted that picture. Matt greets him and immediately gets to the point.
“Who took those pictures?”
“Not me, Matt, honest to god.”
Matt runs his hand over the back of his neck and sighs, frowning at the phone.
“We’re running a campaign here, not a season of The Bachelor. Let’s keep our eye on what’s important, all right?”
“Sure thing, Matt. And hey, thanks for the book you sent last Christmas. My wife keeps it on the mantel as display.”
“I’m glad, Tom. And thanks for the coverage.”
He hangs up and looks up at me, then at Carlisle, then he resumes reading the news, calmly sipping his coffee while I struggle to look inconspicuous.
We have a meeting with two dozen of our campaign team members next.
For the entire two and a half hours, the team is scribbling notes with pens inscribed 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 many of the male team members approach me to say goodbye as well.
Matt falls in beside me as we exit the conference room.
We leave the building and walk two blocks to our hotel. Usually there are other team members trailing behind, but today we seem to be headed toward the hotel on our own. My heartbeat picks up.
Matt is supposed to shower and have a quick lunch before he accompanies Carlisle to meet Senator Lewis, who has a large amount of delegates and support in this state. I’m hoping to take a shower as well and maybe a nap; the previous long night is weighing a little on me. It amazes me that it didn’t seem to weigh on Matt one bit. He looks better than ever, though the truth is that he is always active, buzzing with calm, steady energy.
Silence engulfs the elevator as we ride to our floor. Matt shoves his hands into his pants pockets and looks at me.
The fact that we were kissing heatedly recently in public, in New York City, is suddenly the only thing I can think of.
He asks me if I’d like to go up to the top terrace of the building for ten minutes.
I nod. It’s nearly sunset when we step outside. The large terrace has beautiful views of the city, especially the horizon, orange with the fading sun’s glow.
We stand there and take in the scenery for a moment.
We’re quiet for a while, the kind of quiet where you don’t really need to say anything, where just being in that place at that time is enough.
“We’re on the home stretch now.” He smirks, then glances meaningfully at the elevator behind us and shakes his head. “This little escape is enjoyable but not private enough to suit me. I mean to keep seeing you as much as I can. Alone, Charlotte.”
My cheeks warm at his words. I grab my hair as it flies with the wind.
“I’m pretty sure as we head to election our moments will become more and more fleeting,” I admit, laughing.
“I won’t allow that to happen.” He plunges his hands into his pockets. “I want to spend my every free moment with you—and I want you to spend yours with me.”
I feel shy all of a sudden. “You need your sleep,” I whisper, shooting him a chiding look.
Lightly smiling, he reaches out to brush the back of his thumb along mine. “I’ve got news for you, Miss Wells—my off-schedule hours are mine to do with as I please. And I intend to do you every one of them.”
Oh god, my sex just sort of gripped really tight.
He’s so sexy when he talks like this to me.
I’m flushed, uncertain about continuing to play this game, especially when it’s getting close to voting day, when the camera eye will keep zooming more and more on him as he continues making news and racking up voters.
“I’d like that. But I don’t know if it’s a good idea to keep taking risks . . . We’re ending this soon.” I chance a shy glance at him. “Aren’t we?”
He drops his hand, his jaw tightening. “I watched my mother take a backseat to the country. I can’t allow you to do that too,” he says.
“Maybe I don’t mind taking a backseat to the president . . .” I trail off, suddenly realizing what’s coming out of my mouth.
“That’s not happening. Ever.” His eyes flash, and I’m taken aback by the steely determination in his words and voice.
I quickly try to explain. “Look, the needs of one woman shouldn’t come before a whole country. I wouldn’t expect—”
“You don’t need to be anyone’s afterthought. Not even the country’s. I’m not doing that to you—don’t even ask me to. Not me, not anyone.” He looks at me, then rakes his hand through his hair. “God. You’ve still got so much ahead of you, you’ve got so much to offer, you don’t deserve eight years—four at least—” He trails off, his eyes dark, as if he hates remembering.
“It wouldn’t be hell to me if I spent it with you,” I whisper.
We’re interrupted when one of our team members appears on the terrace. We step back a little from each other when we hear the elevator ting and then Hessler comes over, instantly charging forward to talk business with Matt.
Matt’s smile fades, and he pops open a button on the sleeve of his shirt and folds hi
s cuff as he listens. Getting down to the dirty job.
I spend more time listening than the five minutes we spent alone together just now, and then I quickly excuse myself.
I notice the steely frustration in his gaze as I leave, the way his jaw clenches as if he’s keeping himself from saying something.
30
NEWS
Charlotte
I hardly slept. I kept wanting to go to him, I kept sort of hurting, remembering how Matt got ticked off just thinking of me in the same situation his mother once endured. I kept thinking of him wanting to spend more time with me, and I kept checking my calendar, crossing another X on another day with him that I won’t ever recover.
I also got a call from my mother, and if I hadn’t already had enough on my mind, that phone call also had me tossing and turning all night.
She’s concerned about the rumors and concerned I might be harming this campaign more than doing it any good.
“Half of the press is speculating about you two,” she warns. “Are you sure you don’t want to consider quitting while you’re ahead and Matt is the country’s favorite, and come back to Women of the World?” she asked.
“I’m sure,” I told her, but last night, as sleep eluded me, the kernel of doubt she planted sat like a ton of bricks in my gut.
This morning I’m rushing to get ready. The TV is set on the local news, and I’m half listening—when I hear my own name being said.
I freeze in the bathroom, where I was applying makeup.
Disbelieving, I walk out to the bedroom and stare at my face on the TV screen—a picture of me from a high school yearbook, another of me standing discreetly behind Matt at one of the events.
A big red circle is around Matt and me in that picture. Next flashes an image of me from my social media that the campaign staff had actually asked me to take down; I’m in a bikini, pictured with Kayla, Sam, and Alan. Did the press gain access to it through other posts on my friends’ sites?
It’s a shock to see my image on the TV. My personal images out there. True, social media is public. But on TV?
I set the lipstick aside on the nightstand, my eyes widening as I listen.
They’re now speculating about me? Just me?
“Think there’ll be a romance . . .?”
“Maybe, Carl. Her Georgetown colleagues describe her as being a sweet, hardworking girl who always did the right thing.”
“President Lawrence—or as they called him, ‘Law’—Hamilton and Senator Wells had a friendship dating back to their years in the army, so maybe it really is just a friendship between Matt Hamilton and Charlotte Wells. Time will tell.”
I flash back to the last night I spent in Matt’s arms. The hotel room becomes tiny, claustrophobic. I’m reeling like a drunk, and the kernel of fear my mother planted seems to grow a thousand and one limbs.
Really, there are other news stories to be told.
I skim the channels. On another station, they’re talking about Gordon having a deal to funnel supporters from the Republican candidates who lost their bid for the presidency.
Another has a story about President Jacobs and his latest executive order.
I flip to another channel, which is showing Matt speaking during one of his engagements. “Our country is on the brink of transformation.” And the crowd, drunk on him, is swept up in the moment.
I frown, march into the hotel closet to search through the clothes I packed, and pull out my most powerful power suit that says I mean business—and that’s all I mean.
I’m grateful the rest of the day focuses on what matters. The campaign.
Even more grateful to find that Matt had decided to cut the speculators’ wings, flat out.
Matt’s comment on the issue of our relationship on TV that evening: “Miss Wells is an old family friend, and more important, she’s perfect at her job. Thank you.” And with a nod and a grin, he leaves them all whispering and tittering.
Feeding them crumbs . . . but for how long will it be enough to satiate their appetites?
31
DEBATE
Charlotte
I ride to the first debate with Hessler and Alison, and arrive at the event just in time to watch Matt get out of the car right in front of us, the cameras swarming him like bees to honey. I know that physicality is important in debates and speaking engagements. Matt doesn’t have any problem with that. He walks straight in, his jacket in his hand, a trail of us behind him.
“What did you do to prepare for this this morning?”
“What's your plan—how are you going to win the debate tonight?”
“No preparing. I was born for this.” His lips curl wickedly and he then nods formally at the reporter.
We head into the debate hall for the walk-through, preparing, seeing the stage and taking in his position to the right of the center, where President Jacobs will be.
There’s excitement in the air, the vibration so charged, you can feel the anticipation. Matt looks calm, but he’s got his game face on.
I know that this is not a moment to change plans or rethink strategies; it’s a moment to feel confident, calm, and steady.
Carlisle, too, looks relaxed. He knows Matt does well in this kind of setting. He has an innate strength for connecting with audiences and voters, even reporters.
Before the debate even starts, Alison is taking pictures as if it’s her last camera.
I watch him stand there, composed and powerful, his every word measured and smooth. I know he’s improvising it all; his speeches are very conversational, frequently making people smile even when he’s not trying to be funny. He’s simply natural and charming when he meets people, treating them as equals—something many politicians pretend to do but actually don’t. Matt doesn’t have a politician’s bone in his body.
And maybe that will be what ends up making us lose this race. He doesn’t want to do things Carlisle assures us had worked for his father’s campaign, such as exchange support for future positions in the government. Matt won’t sell out. He wants people to work in high positions because of their merit, not because he needs their backing.
He’s the only candidate fully funding his own campaign. All the money from fundraisers has gone to support some of the causes he holds important—I was surprised when I got a phone call from my mother, thanking him for his donation to Women of the World.
The heat is on. Sweat beads along my brow as the candidates take their positions.
Matt is speaking about women’s rights, and looks at me briefly before the topic veers to equal rights for all. I can’t believe how turned on I get watching him talk about his vision, his plans. It stimulates me in every way—mentally, emotionally, and physically. He speaks of what I hope my country’s future will be like.
Gordon goes on and on, blaming the Democrats for our problems, blaming everyone but not really providing solutions. He talks tough, but his body language says otherwise; he keeps his shoulders to his ears and speaks in a bit of a supplicating tone.
The moderator keeps coming back to Matt.
He’s got a more confident and assertive body language, his voice firm. The alpha stance is appealing, and Matt is a very likable candidate, his voice steadier and more forceful. People want someone who takes charge, who’s going to fight for what they believe in. They also want someone who can keep his cool—someone authentic when he speaks, as if he didn’t memorize the speech.
He looks with respect at the other candidates, listening to what they argue about without rolling his eyes or sneering—like Gordon does.
Gordon listens with disdain to what Matt and President Jacobs say, openly showing his hatred. Matt doesn’t interrupt his opponents; he’s silent, eyes focused and intent as he listens, a presidential air already about him. I love how he keeps pushing back at Gordon’s sexist comments.
“How can Matt Hamilton here,” President Jacobs scoffs at the name, “be commander in chief when he never served in the military for a day, while I se
rved four years?”
“Matt?” the moderator asks. “Would you care to respond to President Jacobs?”
Matt smiles at the president as if he hadn’t just been insulted, then he looks at the public and speaks squarely to them. “Anyone who knows me knows this is one of my biggest frustrations. My wish was to enlist in the navy, and it was my father’s request that I do so after I got a law school degree. The summer after I graduated, my father was shot, and I chose to remain here to support my mother, who feared losing me next.”
There’s complete silence.
“If you’re questioning my ability to make a hard call when it’s needed or command our military properly, I must remind you, it’s you who have had ample opportunity to retaliate against terrorist attacks and have balked—”
“Are you suggesting the United States go to war?”
“War, no. I don’t believe in an entire race paying for the wrongdoings of a few. But I do believe we have more muscles to wield than what we’ve wielded so far.”
They speak about immigration, taxes, and then, of course, the issue of Matt’s lack of a First Lady is addressed.
“You’re breaking with tradition! The White House dignitaries need a hostess,” President Jacobs rants.
“Who will I be to deny them?” Matt grins, and the audience laughs. Once the laughter subsides, Matt sobers up and he leans into the microphone. “Throughout our presidencies, there have been a number of formidable women who have served as First Lady without being married to the president. Harriet Lane acted as First Lady during the presidency of her uncle, James Buchanan, and there have been at least twelve others who have served in a similar fashion. In that capacity, I have incredible women on my team, ladies with class and passion and more humanity than many of us put together.”