Hessler, a man with even less sense of humor than Carlisle, seems to have cracked his first smile in all the months that I’ve known him as he skims the most recent poll results. “Polls are giving you the lead.”
“No time to sit back and sing a victory song just yet,” Matt says, his Starbucks in hand.
I’ve already finished my coffee.
When coffee fails to do the trick to keep you awake, it’s really time to switch to Red Bull.
I’m barely awake right now.
I’m sitting on the couch, and my head is leaning on my hand as I try to keep my eyes open. I don’t want to miss a single word from the anchors on TV, and at the same time, hearing the men’s conversation swirling around me lulls me to sleep. Since we’ve started, it’s been so many months of extensive traveling and nights like this.
Brainstorming, planning, thinking, and, for me, wanting. Wanting him . . . so much.
I thought that with time, it would get easier. His proximity.
And instead it’s grown harder.
We still have a few months of campaigning left. Odd how I yearn for it to be over so I can get over him, and at the same time, I’m so alive—I feel like I’m participating in something historical, something that will define our collective futures—I just don’t want it to end.
“Charlotte, go get some sleep,” Matt says.
I try to shake myself awake when I hear the command nearby.
God. I was snoozing on the couch?
I crack my eyes open and Matt is leaning over me, his shadow covering my whole body.
His eyes are a swirl of bronze, and I wonder if they see right through me. His hand is a brand of its own kind, one that penetrates my skin. Like the touch of a live wire, his grip on my shoulder shoots sparks through my body. How I can possibly sit here and remain still while all this happens inside me is a mystery.
“I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” I say, smiling halfheartedly.
A brief smile touches his lips.
It’s his amused smile, the one that makes his eyes a shade lighter.
I sit upright, glad that the campaign managers are busy taking notes. Matt hands me a cup of coffee, and I know it’s his because I was the one who brought them and marked each with a felt-tip pen. His has the word Matt inscribed in my own handwriting.
I lift his cup, and it’s still warm. He takes a seat beside me and my tiredness fades a bit.
It’s hard not to feel the things I do for this man when we’ve traveled together for months. When I’ve seen him holding babies, dancing with old ladies; when I’ve seen him stir the crowds into a roar; and especially when I’ve seen him with his hair rumpled and a pair of reading glasses on as he skims the morning newspapers, tactically gauging the effects of the campaign we’re waging against the Republicans and the Democrats.
Jack bounds up onto the couch between us so part of his head is on Matt and his body is fully on me.
It’s amazing how much I’ve grown to love his dog, considering the way we met was less than stellar. Now I crave his fuzzy warmth, the lick of his warm, wet tongue on my cheeks. As I sip my coffee, Matt reaches down to pet him at the same time I do.
Matt’s thumb traces the back of one of his dog’s ears, stroking slow and long, as I stroke the other, both of us looking down at Jack as we pet him.
I steal a look at Matt’s profile and he looks thoughtful, a muscle working in the back of his jaw.
I’m remembering our last time alone, a fifteen-minute tryst where he followed me to the women’s bathroom, locked us in, and kissed me like crazy as he eased his fingers into my panties. He licked his fingers afterward, and I spent all day swooning whenever he met my gaze, brought the tip of his finger to his lips, and then brought out his tongue to lick it.
His smile after he licked it?
His smile was sexiest of all.
I’m thinking of all this, when his thumb moves from the back of his dog’s ear to brush over mine.
I lift my eyes, and he smiles at me, a smile I feel everywhere, and I smile back, petting Jack more vigorously, electrified every time Matt purposely passes his hand over mine as he does the same.
“You’re a good dog, aren’t you? Very sporty with your flea necklace,” I tell Jack, and I look up at Matt.
The smile on his face is amused. Tender. I start flushing, and his smile starts to fade, and his gaze becomes a little dark and a whole lot intimate.
Of course he knows his effect on me. He knows his effect on every woman, and though I know he dislikes his physical beauty to detract from the issues he wants to discuss, it doesn’t seem to bother him one bit that it has this effect on me.
Worst of all, it’s not just his beauty. It’s his mind, his passion, his dedication, and the way he makes me feel alive, ambitious, hopeful, vital.
I duck and focus back on Jack.
Soon, the team starts shuffling out. I keep playing with Jack, loath to leave until I hear the last of the team head out the door and Matt speaks to Wilson, who’s just outside, standing guard.
“Wilson, will you come in for a moment?”
I stand to leave as Matt leads Wilson inside.
“Stay, Charlotte.”
I turn to him, and Matt cups my face as he looks into my eyes. “It’s been two weeks. I need to see you. I need to touch you.”