Mr. President (White House #1)(21)

He’s already behind his desk when I step inside.

“I got you a present.”

He leans back in his chair and our eyes hold, and the mere way he looks at me makes my stomach grip and my sex clench.

“It’s not for you, it’s for Jack,” I stumble to explain.

He peers into the box, looks at the collar with the metal symbol attached, and lifts it in one hand. “A flea collar.” He knocks the flea charm with one finger. “Funny.”

I press my lips together to keep from laughing.

“How are you this morning?” He drags the flea charm to the side of his desk, where he has a picture of his father, his mother, and himself.

“I’m absolutely fabulous, Mr. Hamilton,” I effuse, pressing the folders to my chest.

“Matt.” He enunciates every letter clearly.

“Matt,” I say.

His grin reaches all the way to his eyes. “Good girl, you get an A today.”

“You get a bully badge. Matt.”

I turn away, and when I glance past my shoulder, he’s reaching out for a pair of reading glasses and glancing over Carlisle’s proposal.

He looks smart and quiet and intellectual as he reads with his glasses on, absently running his fingers over the top of his head. That’s when I see him lift his head and eye the charm I bought for his dog, his lips twitching.

Just the tiniest bit.



I’ve seen Matt at campaign headquarters every day. At first he’d be smiling and looking directly at me, but lately I have seemed invisible to him. He looks past my shoulder when I ask him anything, answering curtly with comments like, “Good, appreciate it.”

Yesterday, his gaze fell to a pin I was wearing that was released in commemoration of his father’s presidency, a gold circle with an eagle in it and a Latin motto engraved below. I bought it the moment it came out—and the limited edition sold out within hours. The darkening look in his eyes confused me. He looked displeased, or very close to it. He took the folder I handed him and walked away, flipping through it as he headed to his office.

Following that encounter, I go to the restroom. I check my clothes; they’re not wrinkled or stained. I run my hands down my slacks and shirt, touching the pin at the collar. Insecurity tugs at me. Maybe he thinks my face is unfortunate? Maybe the ghost of his father stood behind me? Maybe he’s unhappy about the bad press I’m getting?

When I walk out, he’s talking to Alison—and staring straight into her eyes—and I turn around and use the long way to my cubicle.

Back in my seat, my sleeping computer stares blankly at me.

I’ve been trying so hard to collaborate and be efficient, and I’m disappointed he’s clearly not happy with my job.

“Don’t mock me,” I say at the screen as I grab a stack of letters and keep on reading.

So many petitions. So many people hoping for change. So many people wanting a piece of Matt Hamilton.

My eyes are tired. I’ve had about five cups of coffee.

I hear noise, and I spot him in his office.

We’re the only ones in the building. Two lights inside. I see him scrape a hand over his face and lift his head, and I lower mine so he doesn’t notice I was looking at him.

My stomach twists as I hear footsteps.

Matt’s energy begins to envelop me, and I feel my heartbeat start picking up as I hear him grab the chair from Mark’s cubicle next to mine and drag it so he can sit beside me.

He sets his coffee next to mine, and a folder, and his reading glasses. “No coffee?” He lifts my empty cup.

“If I have one more I’ll never sleep again in my life,” I groan, and he laughs, such a pleasant laugh, and takes my cup and goes to refill it.

He sets it down in the exact same spot it occupied before. Next to his.

Then he takes the seat beside me, and I can’t concentrate for a moment. I’m hyperaware of him, of nobody else in the building but us.

Matt has a way of occupying more space than his body does. He shifts to prop his elbows on his knees, and my heart trips at his nearness. “Hey. Why are you still here, Charlotte?”

“It’s my cubicle.”

He smiles sardonically and just eyes me for my sass.

I’m too aware of him sitting there, with the rich outlines of his shoulders pressing into the black, soft-looking fabric of his shirt.

I try not to notice. “I was trying to finish this pile of letters,” I finally answer, grabbing the pen as I pretend to get back to work.

I can’t.

He’s staring at me.

“I’m pretty sure you didn’t agree to help me so you could spend all night answering letters,” he says.

“Maybe I did. But why did you ask me?” I narrow my eyes.

“When you get a letter from a girl you just met, you know she means business.”

“I perfumed the stationery—of course I meant business,” I say slyly. “Though it seems you didn’t mean it when you said you didn’t want to run when we first met.”

“Yeah, well.” A chuckle rises up his chest, and he drags a hand over his hair.

“You changed your mind,” I say.

“You could say I matured into the idea. Takes time to gather the courage to believe you can do it. Then it takes another to believe you can do it better than anyone else.”