Tonight’s gala seems to be the grandest and busiest of all the galas we’ve held. We’re at the grand ballroom of The Jefferson Hotel.
The White House is so close, you can practically feel its power churning and surging, surrounding you. I glanced at its white columns as I arrived, and not for the first time I wondered what Matt’s life was like there. If there was any normalcy at all.
The ballroom is glittering tonight, everyone who is anyone is attending—from huge industrialists to prominent artists, musicians, doctors, and teachers—and yet my attention is focused on spotting only one person. The one.
I’m in a white dress and my eyes drink in the luxurious decorations surrounding me in my search of the one thing I most want to see.
The figure of the man that has my heart pounding like this.
“Charlotte!” Alison launches herself and hugs me. “A vision in white—I approve!” she happily says, then leans back and lifts her camera. Click.
“Alison, come on!” I groan, and she tugs me into the crowd, where I say hello to my team colleagues. No one even hints at noticing or knowing that I’d left, and I’m sure it’s due to Carlisle’s expert hand at damage control.
I keep searching for Matt across the room with a pounding in my heart and a knot of nervous anticipation in my stomach. It feels like forever until my eyes snag on the tall, dark figure of a man—and they stay there, absorbing everything that is Matt Hamilton
Dressed in a pitch-black suit and black tie, his hands—long-fingered and tan—keep shaking those of the people who walk up to greet him. The outlines of his shoulders strain against his suit jacket. He stands among the crowd, wickedly handsome, his face animated as he speaks to them about something he’s clearly impassioned about.
Our country, I know . . .
And then his eyes lift and he spots me across a sea of heads. The touches of humor around his mouth and eyes fade as our eyes lock.
The intensity of his gaze hits me like a punch. His stare is so galvanizing, it sends a tremor through me. The harder I try to hide the way I feel about him, the harder it hits me. I glance away, anywhere, really.
That’s when my eyes fall on a couple wading into the ballroom. My parents.
My eyes widen in surprise.
My mother spots me and gives a light queen-like wave in my direction. My father’s eyes are on something—someone—else.
I’m so surprised my father agreed to attend, it takes me a few blinks to make sure he’s really here. Being a Democratic senator, it’s a huge testament to his support of Matt. Huge.
As I approach to greet them, I see Matt do the same. His walk is all confidence and vitality. “Senator Wells,” he says, as he greets my father. His handshake is firm and swift, full of grace and virility.
God, his voice. How can you even miss someone’s voice?
A warmth fills my stomach when I see the genuine respect in both men’s eyes as they greet each other.
I thought perhaps my dad being here meant he was supporting me as I venture into the world of politics, where my parents had always wanted to see me. But as I watch them, I know my dad is not only supporting me—he wants Matt to win.
To realize my father finally supports Matt—to know that Matt, his campaign, his touch with the people, has won him over like his own father did all those years ago—makes my admiration and awe of Matt grow.
I’m dying to talk to him, but it’s impossible with him being the center of attention. The center of everything. I step in to greet my parents as well, and I feel Matt’s eyes on me as I do.
For some reason, he shifts his stance to stand closer to me as he’s greeted by the mayor of D.C. and his wife, and instinctively I remain where I am and let him introduce me too.
Conversation swirls around us, and all this time, I’m only aware of the low, dull throb inside me. Matt stands casually beside me, an almost imperceptible tension emanating from his body.
He takes advantage the moment he’s free from the attention of others to look at me.
“That’s quite a dress.”
The room blurs around me as I lose myself in those espresso eyes.
I want to flat out go up on my toes and kiss him, do what a girl does with a guy she loves, tell him I missed him, want him, thought of him. I want to put his hand on my body. That’s all I want. Just his hand on my body, even if it’s just a light touch.
He reaches out to press his fingers into the small of my back to guide me away from someone who wants to pass. The move puts us in view of a group of chatting men, and one of them calls out happily, “Matt!” and walks over immediately.