I laugh inwardly and yet pretend I’m not amused by their fawning—especially when they’re old enough to be his mother.
Once I exit, I’m headed straight down the hall, toward my table, when I step on the hem of my dress as I enter the carpeted ballroom area. I glance down at my shoes and lift my dress up an inch, never slowing my stride, when I bump into a large figure.
An arm flies out to steady me by the waist.
My breath catches and I freeze, registering the hand on my waist, the side of my breast pressing into a bulging forearm. And I look up, up at a flat, flat chest, the length of a platinum tie, up a tanned throat, and stare straight into Matt Hamilton’s dark eyes.
I gasp. “Mr. Hamilton!—I’m sorry. I didn’t see you, I was . . .” His grip is warm, and noticing that he’s slowly releasing me as he realizes I’ve got my balance makes me stutter. “I was having dress trouble,” I rush out. “I shouldn’t have worn this dress.”
I’m completely overwhelmed by his presence. Lean and athletic. Larger than life. Face so chiseled and beautiful. All of him so hot my eyes hurt.
I hate that my toes are curling under his stare. “I truly didn’t see you. For the record, I’m not some crazed fangirl. This isn’t an attempt to get your attention, not at all.”
“And yet you most definitely have it.” His voice is rich and deep, but his tone is playful and his eyes are twinkling.
It’s hard to swallow all of a sudden.
His lips start curving and they are gorgeous and plush.
Lips to kiss.
To swoon over and fantasize about.
Gosh, his smile is lovely.
Even if it lasts only a second.
“Again, forgive me.” I shake my head, exhaling nervously. “I’m Charl—”
“I know who you are.”
Although his lips aren’t curved into a smile anymore, his eyes are sparkling even brighter—if that’s possible. I can hardly take this exchange. This guy is the closest thing to a god in our country. “I’m pretty certain I still have your letter somewhere,” he says, low.
Matt Hamilton knows who I am.
Matt Hamilton still has my letter.
He was in college then. Now the man before me is fully matured, seasoned to perfection. And goodness, I can’t believe I wrote him a letter.
“Now I’m doubly embarrassed,” I whisper, ducking my head.
When I raise my eyes, Matt just keeps looking at me with a direct gaze I’m sure hugely impacts everyone it ever lands on. “You said you’d help me if I ever ran.”
I shake my head in consternation, laughing lightly at the idea. “I was eleven. I was just a girl.”
“Are you still that girl?”
“Matt.” Some guy taps his shoulder and calls him over.
He nods at the man, then simply looks at me as I stand here, puzzled over his question.
“You’re busy. I’ll just go . . .” I say, and I dip away, taking a few steps before I glance past my shoulder.
He’s watching me walk away.
He looks at me as if he’s a little bit intrigued and a little bit laughing inside, or maybe I just made it up? Because the next instant he turns around, his broad back tapering down to a small waist providing a gorgeous visual as he heads back to greet his excited supporters.
“I cannot believe you were able to say hello before I did—that line is a killer.” My mother is suddenly at my side. “The big rollers keep pulling him aside. I’ll be back.”
She heads back to the line while I take my seat at the table once more, chatting for a while with one of the couples there.
I’m still reeling from the encounter.
“Oh, Senator Wells’s daughter—a pleasure. I can’t say I know him, but he’s a good man. He voted against—”
“Hugh, really,” his wife interrupts, stopping the elderly senator. “Let’s go say hello to Lewis and Martha,” she says, coaxing him away.
I’m relieved when they head off, dreading to say anything to embarrass myself. I’m still reeling because of my encounter with Matt Hamilton and I can’t seem to focus on anything else.
I watch as my mother waits patiently as six people before her greet him, until finally she hugs him, and she looks tiny and feminine in his tall, muscled form. When they release their embrace, I’m shocked to notice her pointing in my direction.
My stomach caves in on itself when his gaze follows the direction of her finger.
Ohmigod, is my mother pointing at me?
Is Matt looking at me?
Our gazes meet—and for the flash of a second, there’s something in his eyes. He nods, as if he’s telling her he’s said hello already.
As they talk, his gaze stays on me.
I’m briefly aware of the curiosity of the room as they collectively wonder where their new candidate is looking, but I can’t pull my eyes away long enough to verify who exactly is staring.
God. He even stands like untitled American royalty.
He’s grown up to be the most delicious mix of polished and earthy, and somewhere beneath that focused gaze I can see a unique primitiveness that pulls at me.