Really, it can be as simple as that.
I toss aside the newspaper Lola dumped on my desk, then glance at my watch to check for my next meeting just when Portia announces, “Mr. President, Mr. Cox from the Federal Bureau of Investigation here to see you.”
I stand and button my jacket as Cox strides inside, extending his hand in greeting over my desk. “Cox,” I say, reciprocating. We both take a seat.
“We followed through, checked the scarf for fingerprints and traced the prints to a store in the D.C. area. The owner confirmed that the president’s wife was a customer of their store and that President Law frequently ordered them to choose his gifts for her.”
“He had this to give to my mother. Jesus.” I scrape a hand over my jaw as frustration gnaws me raw.
“We’re following every thread no matter how minor,” Cox assures me.
I level him a look. “Do that.”
18
WAKE UP THE PRESIDENT
Charlotte
After THE kiss of the decade, we’re watching TV the following evening as Matt steps out of the shower, a towel draped over his hips. He looks like God embodied in a damn dark-haired, espresso-eyed, edible human candy bar. I cannot believe he kissed me. With tongue. In front of hundreds of people and, it seems, the whole wide world.
“. . . stunned when President Hamilton kissed the first lady on the dance floor. White House press has been asking the question on everyone’s mind during this morning’s press conference. Is President Hamilton dating Miss Charlotte Wells? The official stance of the White House is yes.”
It’s all over. I got a hundred calls today. Alan called too, his disappointment evident in his voice, considering he once maybe wanted to be the one dating me.
“You’re dating the president of the United States?”
Kayla: “I could have died when I saw the photo! I’m missing out on so much that’s happening! Charlotte! Tell me everything!”
And my mother: “I don’t know what to say. Your father and I . . .” She sounded teary. “You love him?”
“You know the answer to that, Mom. Why else would I be here? I wouldn’t ever have dreamed of finding the courage to try on a role this big if it weren’t attached to Matthew.”
“Then that’s all that matters.”
They can’t get enough of it. Not the public, not our friends and family. Matt says Beckett called and simply said, “You go, sir!”
They absolutely cannot get enough of the story.
Matthew turns off the TV as he hits the bed, where I lie in wait—so ready, so anxious, gravitating toward him as he reaches out with one powerful arm.
I can feel it—the electricity between us, the connection too strong to deny, always there, crackling, whipping around us, tugging us closer and closer yet never close enough.
We make fierce love. He tells me how beautiful I am, how special, how much he wants me. We’re sweaty and sated, my body buzzing in the aftermath, when there’s a knock on the door.
Matt leaps out of bed and slips into his slacks.
“Mr. President.” It’s Dale Coin’s voice.
Matt swings the door open and I pull the sheets up, mortified and scared to see the grim look on Dale’s face.
“There’s been a situation. Six of our crew members have been taken hostage in Syria.”
From lowered lids, Matt shoots a commanding look at me. “I’ll be back.”
“Matthew . . .” I begin, just not knowing what to say.
His eyes meet mine harshly as he slips on his shirt.
A knife of pain and concern for our people gets trapped in my throat. Matt charges down the hall, and I get dressed quickly and head to my own bedroom, where I pace, pace, pace—and pray.
I see it on the news.
The harsh reality of every catastrophe that happens to the United States of America too close now. So close. So real.
These are our people. My country attacked. My guy.
This being first lady isn’t just the interviews, the pretty dresses. It’s everything else.
I’m not sure I’m prepared. That the little bubble of a perfect life my parents created for their only daughter prepared me for this—to live this so closely.
It’s hard to keep my hope alive when I see the burning American flag on television that the rebel forces in Syria have lit.
The exploded armament trucks that had carried our troops.
I break down and cry, and I eventually fall asleep, only to wake up to my bedroom door being opened.
Matthew’s silhouette fills the doorway.
Whatever he’s ordered done—is done. I can see it in his eyes.
And a part of me doesn’t want to know if it will take more casualties, what the exact situation is.
I’m scared. I’m hurting for our country. I’m hurting for my president.
He starts walking forward, and I stand on wobbly legs, the urge to embrace him and have him embrace me too strong—but the pain feels just as strong.
He tugs on the flimsy ribbon holding my nightgown closed. “Are you okay?” I whisper.
His hand pauses; he looks at me.
“Do you want to talk?” I ask.