EYES
Charlotte
I called Children’s National and told Carlisle about Matt’s visit so he could alert the press coordinator and everyone who needed to be involved.
“You’re coming with me,” Matt says before he leaves.
“Me?”
“It was your idea.”
I groan inwardly. Spending more time with Matt is the last thing I need right now. But I do love seeing him in action, so I hurry to slip into my sweater and follow him outside. When we reach the hospital, there’s a small crowd, waving placards and chanting.
“Matt!” one of the younger female crowd members breathlessly gasps out his name.
“Matt Hamilton!” her friend calls, louder, cupping her hands around her mouth so that her voice carries over.
He thanks them, then waits for me to go in along with Wilson. Little Matt is wearing a Redskins T-shirt, a matching cap, and an IV.
The way his eyes light up when his hero enters the room makes my chest tighten. I turn away and try to regroup when I hear Matt’s voice.
“Heard there was a tiger in the building. I had to come see.”
“Where?!” the boy asks excitedly.
“I’m looking right at him.”
When I turn back around, Matt is chucking the boy’s cap, smiling down at him.
The boy grins. “Wow. You came.”
Matt pulls up a chair to sit next to him in bed. “Charlotte—the lady you see by the door—seems to be as big a fan of yours as you are of me.”
“Wow,” he says.
Soon they get a crowd. Little Matt tells Matt he wants to be a football player when he grows up. The parents approach me and begin telling me how grateful they are as Matt and little Matt chat.
“If you win you’ll invite me to the White House—” tiny Matt says.
“Not IF, WHEN . . . you’re coming to the White House,” Matt promises.
He plays chess with the bedridden boy. The nurses start to line up out in the hall, grinning and ogling.
It’s not the fact that he’s doing this, it’s the fact that you can tell he’s genuinely having fun that touches me. I believed in him: Hamilton and all that the name represents. But right now if I’d never seen him and had a stupid little crush on him, if he’d never been raised under the spotlight and with the fame of his name, it’s today that Matt—for all the flaws the media tries to exaggerate—wins my vote.
When we leave, Wilson picks us up at the curb.
Matt is quiet.
I am too.
“Thank you.” His voice is low and sounds achingly honest.
“Makes me sad.” My own voice cracks, so I stop talking.
I glance out the window and try to regroup. He seems to realize he’s out of his element with a nearly weeping female in the car. “Let’s go get you some food.”
“No.”
He frowns, then his eyes gleam in confusion and amusement. “You’re too warm for politics, Charlotte. We need to toughen you up.”
“Take me sword fighting, but not eating. I’m not hungry right now.” I sigh and shoot him a sidelong glance. “It’s your fault.”
“Pardon?”
“I wouldn’t be in politics if you hadn’t run.”
“Says the lady who offered to help me when she was what? Seven.”
I arch my brows. “Eleven.” I thrust my chin out. “I can still vote for Gordon.”
“God, no. No,” he says emphatically. He laughs and runs his hand in frustration over his hair.
“Well, someone needs to knock you down a peg. Gordon Thompson has my vote,” I declare.
“You wound me, Charlotte,” he says.
“Oh you look so wounded, haha.”
He looks deathly sober except for his eyes, laughing at me. “My wounds run deep.”
“How deep? This deep?” I hold my fingers a hair’s breadth apart. He frowns, then takes them to readjust them to a centimeter. “This deep.”
I should laugh.
It was funny up until he touched me.
Now it’s warm and gooey and he’s looking at me with a frozen smile and intent eyes.
I see a flash of yearning in his eyes—yearning as deep as I feel, truly deep, not measured in tiny fractions.
I laugh, finally, as I try to stifle the sensations shooting through me. “Wow.” I look at the centimeter. “A centimeter. That’s deep.”
I refer to the space between his fingers, but I don’t know what we’re talking about anymore.
“I told you.” He smirks. He lowers his hands, and I can’t help but notice how strong and long-fingered they are as he drops them to his side.
Every living woman in America has probably had fantasies about Matt.
And I have him close enough that my senses swirl.
I remain affected throughout our ride.
My mind rushes, wondering . . . simply wondering.
Matt checks some emails, his thigh touching mine.
He doesn’t move it away.
I wonder if I want to move it away.
No. I’m out of air and burning inside. And I don’t want to.
I have to remind myself that what I’m doing here is so much more valuable than a silly little crush. What I’m doing here transcends beyond me . . . beyond even Matt.
Not only has campaigning been exciting, but hearing about Matt’s views and ideas keeps renewing my hope.
I hadn’t fully realized how much we missed a strong leader, an inspiring leader, until every time I stare at the one I want.
He could make such a difference. A man like him could make such a difference.
So we ride like this, in silent tension, my mind full of Matt and my body empty.
His eyes meet mine, burning with importance. “I want you to be my eyes and my heart, to keep me in touch with the real people out there, the ones my whole life I’ve never gotten to meet.”
“Okay, Matt,” I say.
And then he leans over, and I catch my breath and close my eyes when his lips brush my cheek—and he kisses me there. It’s as brief a kiss as the one he gave me when I was eleven, but I’m a woman now, and he is all man, and suddenly, unexpectedly, his arm starts coming around my waist and he’s reeling me toward him, pressing me against his side.
Next thing, I feel his head dip down slowly toward me, his nose grazing my cheek. My breath catches in my throat, and I feel myself fighting the urge to turn my head just a fraction of an inch and kiss him flat on the mouth.
He smells like mint and a little bit of coffee mixed with his cologne. I inhale shakily and feel his lips touch the spot on my cheek where his nose had just been. His lips are warm, soft, yet firm.
His hand grips my hip, holding me close to him, as he tilts his head and places a kiss on my neck. I let my head fall back, and he chuckles darkly, rubbing his nose lightly against my neck, nuzzling me.
He uses his hand to turn my head to face him, and as I look into his eyes, I feel my world tilt on its axis and spin in all directions.
Everything else is drowned out as all of the thoughts in my head center around only him, and me.
All I’m thinking is what I’m feeling. How hard my heart is beating. How my breath is coming in faster intervals. How my skin is warm and tingling; how my whole body seems to be holding its breath in sweet anticipation for Matthew to move again, to touch me again, to kiss another part of me.
I whisper his name and he groans, “You feel incredible.”
He leans in and kisses my collarbone, running his nose along my neck and inhaling me.
“God, and you smell so good . . .” he brokenly whispers. His deep voice burning through me, consuming everything in its path and leaving only this deep, almost primal need to be as close to this man as possible.
When I feel his tongue between his lips tentatively touch the skin on my neck, I hear myself moan.
He holds me closer to him, until I’m almost sitting on his lap, his head buried in my neck, kissing and nuzzling, licking and tasting.
I start to get worried, wondering where we are and when we will get to the campaign headquarters. I know no one can see us, since his car has black-tinted windows and a partition separating us from his driver, but still, something about this feels dark and forbidden.
“I—”
“Shhh . . . just let me do this, Charlotte. Please,” he says as he lifts his head from my neck and holds my head between his hands, his eyes gazing into mine and then lowering to my lips, and then traveling back up to my eyes.
I feel him inch closer to me, and I slowly start to realize that he wants to kiss me. Right now. In this car.
Matthew Hamilton, possible future President of the United States and my first crush, wants to kiss me.
I reach out and hold his face in my hand too, and his eyes flare.
I don’t know whether I should do this or not, but right now all I hear my body say is that I need to touch this man.
I kiss his cheek, my lips lingering.
I feel him relax, but his grip on me tightens.
What are we doing?
“Sir, we’re here,” Matt’s detail’s mumbled voice sounds through the partition.
I think I hear Matt curse under his breath. I inch myself off his lap to sit back in my own seat, and inhale a shaky breath as Matt opens his own door and comes around the car to open mine.
The look we exchange when we lock eyes as I come out of the car I cannot possibly describe. It’s charged with need, lust, longing, curiosity, and something else . . .
I force myself to look away and walk toward the building, the feel of his lips still on my skin.