And in this moment Matt Hamilton, my crush of all ages, the sexiest man alive, the hottest candidate in U.S. history, becomes so real to me. So very real. I can feel the warmth of his body through the wet fabric of our shirts. I can smell him, a scent of soap and rain, and I can see him as a guy, a very hot guy with an extraordinary destiny to fulfill.
I feel something leap up to lick my cheek and I jerk and step back, startled by the dog’s kiss.
“Shit,” I breathe, laughing.
“Jack!” A harsh curse follows, and I feel Matt straighten me and then put distance between us. “Sorry. You all right?” he asks. He brushes my hair back as if on impulse before we begin walking again, and electricity tingles down my body. I nod quickly. I’m so, so nervous. “Yes. I’m sorry I said shit.”
“Why?” His lips quirk. “Don’t be.”
I laugh, not believing I was forgetting who he was, caught up in the moment of his nearness, how much I want him—realizing that, whether he wants to or not, his body responds to me as well.
“I’d better get away before I’m late. I wouldn’t want the boss to be mad at me.”
“The boss could never be mad at you.”
His tone is sober, but his eyes twinkle, and my whole body feels flushed under his regard. “’Bye, Matt,” I say, lifting my hand a little awkwardly in a wave before I cut a path through the grass and head to the sidewalk.
That night, my parents invite me to dinner, and I can’t stop thinking about Matt and his energetic Jack and the conversations we had about his childhood and mine. Then I think back to the day we met, and the president, and his death.
I ask my dad why he thinks there wasn’t any conclusive information on President Hamilton’s assassination.
“Killer was never caught.” He shrugs. “One theory is it was a terrorist act because of President Hamilton’s liberal views; others say it was a conspiracy among the parties.”
I frown worriedly.
“You’re concerned Matthew will be in danger?” he asks me.
I can’t help but look at him with a concerned expression.
He sighs. “He’ll be fine as long as he doesn’t open that can of worms.”
I frown even more. “Matt doesn’t strike me as a man who won’t open a can of worms, especially if he feels strongly about it.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about things you can’t control. Do your best and keep your head down—that’s the only way to get ahead in politics. Otherwise, anybody who’s anybody is going to see your head poking up and push it back down.”
“But I don’t want to be in politics.”
He laughs. “You’re in it now.”
“I’m only there because—”
“You have a soft spot for the Hamiltons, I know. People in the news are surprised you’re participating. Good ol’ Charlotte, you did charm Matthew that night, didn’t you? Even President Hamilton. They have a soft spot for us too.” He smiles wistfully, his eyes sad with memories.
“You know what else Matt has a soft spot for? Aside from the country? His dog,” I say, remembering this morning as I pick up Doodles from my feet, set her on my lap, and stroke her forehead, hearing her purr happily.
11
GIFT
Charlotte
The next morning, I take a bath, change quickly, and stop at a pet store on impulse to make a purchase. I don’t know why I want to make this particular purchase, but my mother has always been the sort of woman to have sweet little surprises for my dad. I don’t know if it’s her way of saying thank you for something nice that he did or just the way he made her feel. I want to get something for Matt, but I know that it wouldn’t be proper. But when the urge to get Jack a little something hits me, I decide not to even fight it.
Once I get to the campaign headquarters, I step off the elevator and I see Matt in the hall. Immediately my body responds: pulse skipping, nipples tightening, pussy clenching.
He’s in dark jeans and a soft-looking taupe cashmere sweater that contrasts strikingly with his dark hair. He’s talking to his campaign web manager when he spots me. He pauses mid-sentence, and my heart stutters when he smiles at me.
His eyes look warm and there’s something else in his gaze, almost like protectiveness.
He continues talking with the guy—positively oozing that confidence that seems to cling to him like a second skin—and I head to my chair. I exhale and glance around my desktop, telling myself I have to catch up.
Everyone here is smart, lightning fast, and eager to work, most of them confident. A little more experienced than me, too.
I’ve seen them effortlessly answer phone call after phone call, letter after letter, email after email. I get sentimental about these things. I’ve found myself needing a box of Kleenex or to cover my response when I read the letters.
After a whole day back, I still don’t know how to answer this little boy’s letter.
I’ve dealt with women in my mom’s foundation, but never anyone younger than eighteen. There’s something about someone younger having a hard time that gets to me doubly hard.
“Read this letter,” I tell Mark, whose desk is a few feet away from mine.
“What about it?”