TRAVELING
Charlotte
We’re traveling on a twin-engine plane for the campaign. Our first stop is Dallas, and I’m the only woman flying among a group of four men and a dog. Matt’s junior campaign manager, Hessler, his intimidating grandfather Patrick, Carlisle, Jack, and his hot owner, Matt
Heavenly Kisser
Hamilton.
I’m nervous about the news. Those kisses we shared were so dangerous. I had no idea that I could be so reckless and impulsive until that night.
Matt smiles at me ruefully when he greets me—and I swear every single existing butterfly in my stomach takes flight because he looks genuinely happy to see me. Like he regrets almost getting caught, but he doesn’t regret the kisses one bit.
God. His kisses.
I try not to remember the launch of heat they caused inside me as I greet the men by the plane steps. Carlisle, judging by the tension in his shoulders when he looks at me, seems pretty unhappy about the news.
And the first clue I get that implies I shouldn’t even be traveling with Matt comes from his grandfather. He sees me and asks, “Who is she?”
“My scheduler. She’s Senator Wells’s daughter and an old family friend.” Matt introduces us. “Charlotte, Patrick Hamilton, my grandfather.”
“I know who she is—why is she here?” his grandfather huffs, turning around and boarding the plane.
Wow.
The man hates me.
Matt shoots me an ignore him look and puts his hand protectively on the back of my neck as he urges me up the plane steps. A frisson shoots down my spine and though the touch lasted only a second, the feel of his touch lasts for much longer. Matt settles his big body on the chair facing the cockpit. I take the seat behind his.
I have never before been more grateful that Matt brought Jack. He lets him out of his crate after takeoff and Jack immediately comes over to sniff me and lick my hands. He’s keeping his eyes on Matt while I plug in my earbuds to give the men some privacy while they talk.
Still, I overhear them discussing various subjects—the stabilization of the economy, Matt running as an Independent.
“You’re a Harvard graduate, like your father . . . You’ve lived abroad; you know what’s out there,” his grandfather passionately argues. “Your father was too young the first time he wanted to run and was told to wait and he did. You take the cake of it all, Matthew, really you do.”
“People are loyal to him, Patrick,” Carlisle appeases. “No one sniped about Lawrence after his death. There were no unauthorized leaks of information regarding his presidency. The people are insanely loyal to the Hamiltons.”
“But they’re loyal to their parties, too,” Patrick counters with a meaningful look in Carlisle’s direction.
“What did you want me to be, a senator?” Matt asks in a steely voice that silences everyone.
Even his grandfather finally seems to shut up.
I’m aware of his grandfather constantly glancing in my direction during the flight. He doesn’t even try to lower his voice when he says, “You keep your hands off her. You belong to the country now.”
Dead silence falls.
Jack’s ears perk up as if he senses something. And though the air is thick with tension, Matt leans back in a lounging pose as he eyes his grandfather. “Yeah, Granddad. I appreciate you being here . . . but I know what I’m doing.”
Leaping off the seat next to me, Jack bounds up the aisle and sits at Matt’s feet, nudging Matt’s thigh with his nose.
Matt keeps his intimidating stare on his grandfather as he absently strokes a hand atop Jack’s head and glances at me. He’s got the sleeves of his shirt rolled to his elbows and he’s so muscular that veins pop out on his arms.
I remember our conversation and my mother’s words, not completely dissimilar to his grandfather’s, and I quickly break gazes—too sucked in by the dark, proprietary flash in his eyes—and get myself busy once again, going over all the names of the local aides we will be meeting and greeting at the Dallas headquarters today.
* * *
We check into the hotel and head to our local office, and for the next week, the marathon of media and crowds begins all over the Southern states.
Wherever we land, there’s always a receiving committee of people waving placards and chanting.
“HAMILTON FOR THE COUNTRY.”
“BORN FOR THIS!”
I’m so proud of stupid wonderful Matt and how he’s impacting people.
His easy charisma simply wins over the people instantly. For years he protected his privacy, while giving off the air of a handsome, cultured rake with unlimited money and unquenched appetites. He looks like the bad boy of politics at the same time as he looks like the man you want to entrust yourself and your children to.
He already has international respect. His father has a whole library in his name, as many ex-presidents do, and a history of preserving relics, and now it seems like the media has been waiting decades to lie down before the powerful Hamilton legacy again.
He knows just how to greet the reporters; he even knows the names of most. Bulbs flash as we land in Miami and step out of the jet toward a silver SUV.
“How do you do that?” I glance at Matt, who’s dressed in jeans and a white button-down shirt, emitting more heat than the Florida sun up above.
He shoots me a questioning sideways glance. “What?” he asks with a grin, the wind playing with his hair. Damn wind. My fingers are jealous.
“Know exactly how to treat them,” I add.
He shrugs, as if getting along with the press is simply second nature to him.
“The thing with the press is,” he says, “you need to keep them fed so they don’t steal into your home and have a picnic at your expense. Keep them sated with just the right amount of info so they’re not hungry enough to try to rummage through the entire contents of your kitchen.”
I smile. “You’re cunning.”
“Cautious,” he easily contradicts.
“Calculating.”
He continues to smile, silent, then he looks at my lips for a second—long enough to make my stomach clutch with wanting—and he quietly admits, “No contest.”
I laugh and try to shake off his effect on me as we climb into the SUV.
I’m nervous.
Tummy-clenching, butterflies-fluttering nervous.
Not because of traveling. But you know the flutters that are there even when your mind is somewhere else? I have them. I’ve had them for the past week. I can’t get rid of them.
My breath keeps catching when Matt’s and my gazes meet. I keep feeling my sex grip when he looks at my mouth, or asks me for something and seems to purposely drag his fingertip over my thumb when I hand it over.
We’re in the car now.
I’m sandwiched between him and his grandfather, and yet the car is all about Matt. Matt’s smell, the space Matt’s body takes.
This is the first guy I’ve ever fantasized about, and the young version of him was only an inkling of the man he is now.
The whole ride to our hotel, I’m aware of a low, dull hum in the pit of my stomach and the things his hands are doing as he fiddles with his phone and takes a call from someone named Beckett, who I’ve learned is one of his Harvard friends and who it seems will be catching up with us later.
Quietly I stare out the window at the scenery, and then I opt to review the week’s itinerary. When Matt ends his call, he leans over my shoulder. His jaw is about an inch from touching my shoulder.
And is it strange that my shoulder feels hot simply by that nearness of him?
Stomach clutching harder than before, I lift the schedule so Matt can look at it.
His beautiful lips curve, and he shakes his head, that adorable smile still on his lips. “Don’t show it to me. Difficulty reading small type. Remember?” he chides, but then he reaches for his reading glasses, slips them on, takes my copy—dragging his thumb over the back of mine as he does—and skims it.
My lungs feel like rocks; I can’t really say I’m breathing right.
But I don’t want to pass out here, in front of him and his grandpa!
I study the hard planes of his face as he reads, which soften as his hair falls on his forehead. He shuts the agenda and removes his glasses. “I’m going to be busy,” he says.
“I know you like busy. And at this point, you kind of don’t have any other choice.”
He frowns as if offended I even implied this. “I don’t want one.” Then a gleam of admiration settles in his eyes. He lowers his voice so that only I can hear him. “You’re doing a great job, Charlotte. You’re one of the most hardworking people I’ve ever met. I can tell you really believe in what you’re doing.”
His voice so close shoots a million and one sparks along my body. I keep my gaze on his.
I keep my voice low too. “I was born here. And I’m going to die here. And I want my children to live here. And my grandchildren. And I want it to be as wonderful as it was for me—even more wonderful than it is now.”
He looks intently into my eyes, and for a mere second, a smile appears. “Well, I’m not planning on children or grandchildren, but I’d like to make sure yours have it as wonderful as you’d want it to be.”
I didn’t expect that.
Hearing Matt—young, virile, every woman’s fantasy—say that confuses me.
“Why?”
There’s a silence.
“Why don’t you plan to have children?” I ask, this time being more specific. My voice still low.
I sound a little stunned and maybe a little regretful, but that’s because I think Matt would be a great father.
Matt Hamilton would be the hottest baby daddy in the continent.
In the world.
A smile tugs at one of the corners of his lips, and amusement lights up his eyes over my brazenness. “I don’t like doing things half-ass.”
As I register what he’s said, I glance down at my lap. Out of the corner of my eye, I’m aware of Matt’s grandfather staring at me with a scowl.
And then it hits me. His plan to be president will take precedence over everything else, even his personal plans.
I don’t even know what to say.
It hurts to know this, but beyond that . . .
I just didn’t think it was possible to admire him more than I already did.
* * *
“Charlotte!” Alison says beside me as we mingle with the crowd, her camera always at the ready for her to snap the next shot. We’re at a fundraiser consisting of mostly businessmen and women, and the room is packed to capacity, almost a thousand people here at the exclusive event, all craving to meet their candidate.
“You two are looking lovely tonight,” Mark says as he joins us to mingle.
We’re in Miami, and because the event fell on the weekend, Mark surprised us by joining us unexpectedly.
“Couldn’t miss the fun, Mark?” Alison teases.
There’s a silence between them and Alison giggles, and all the time, I keep stealing covert looks at Matt. One second, his eyes flick up from the crowd and in my direction as if he has an extra sense. I turn away and laugh with Mark.
“Uh, what’s so funny?”
“I’m sorry, I . . .” I shake my head and smile.
While Alison goes to take a good shot of Matt, Mark and I compare life stories, mine a bit sheltered, I suppose, and I learn that he married his childhood sweetheart and divorced at only thirty.
“Sounds hard,” I tell him.
“It is. Adult love is different, more . . . sacrificing than we thought. It sort of opened our eyes. We grew apart. But enough tear-jerking. I want to know about you.”
“Mark.”
He turns to one of our co-workers, a middle-aged man who’s in charge of web advertising. “When I come back,” Mark then finishes. He winks and leaves just as Alison returns.
“He’s nice and he’s into you, FYI,” she says.
“He’s nice and he’s not into me.”
I watch him leave and search myself for a tiny spark and nope, there is no spark. Alison starts circling the room, taking shots of other significant figures in attendance. I look at where Matt was and feel a kick of disappointment that he’s no longer there.
“He was thirsty.”
I swing around when I hear his voice behind me, and he shows me a glass of wine.
I frown. “I was looking for Mark,” I lie.
“Hmm.” His eyes twinkle, and he takes a sip. We stand side by side, his shoulder touching mine.
I glance at Carlisle across the room, whose expression is more than ecstatic—obviously the fundraising is going well, and the turnout was greater than we’d all anticipated. “You seem to have an innate ability to draw crowds,” I compliment.
Matt glances around the ballroom, and then back at me. With that mercurial face, he’d make any other president sweat during negotiations.
“You’re not drinking anything,” he finally says.
“I’m too lazy to go to the bar and I’d rather the waiters take care of the guests, but Mark offered.”
“Mark’s with Carlisle.” He waves at one of the waiters, who immediately comes forward. “The lady would like . . . what would you like, Charlotte?”
“Any white wine is fine.” Butterflies rush down my arms when he plucks a flute from the tray and hands it over.
He’s looking at me, watching me sip, when he’s approached by a group of newcomers, and I reluctantly duck away and start blending with the crowd again.
“Charlotte, ah, yes.”
Turning in surprise at the voice, I spot a young, tall African American. His face is vaguely familiar, but I can’t seem to place it. “Do I know you?”
He nods in the direction of our candidate. “I’m friends with Hamilton.”
“Ahhh.”
“College days,” he explains.
“Ahhhh!” I point at him cheekily. “I bet you know quite a few things.” I steal a look at Matt, but he’s in such a large group that I can’t spot him.
He lifts his fingers and invisibly zips up his lips. “Definitely won’t be telling.”
“Oh, come on.” I now realize why he seemed familiar. Clad in jeans and a preppy sweater, I realize Beckett is Matt’s best friend. He’s got a shaved head, pristine-smooth complexion, warm eyes and full lips, and teeth that flash white against his smile.
He grins and signals for me to take a seat at one of the nearby tables, joining me. “We used to try to lose the Secret Service—they tagged along everywhere he went. It annoyed Matt. He tried to lose them for life. And look at him now.”
I laugh. Somehow I can tell that he is protective of Matt.
We then talk about Matt’s dad and the golden era, and what got him killed.
We fall silent when we see Matt approach us.
“Beckett was telling me some stories . . .” I tell him.
He eyes his friend dubiously as if suddenly, he just doesn’t trust him.
“He said you’d do anything to get rid of your detail. That you learned to fly the Marine One helicopter as your eighteenth birthday present from your dad, and that your first dog in the White House was named Lucky but your mother called him Loki because he loved to tear up the tulip beds.”
“Did he tell you all that?” He lowers one brow a little farther than the other and gives him a you didn’t look, and Beckett laughs.
“I couldn’t resist.”
He slaps his back and as Beckett stands up to cede his seat next to me I swear he tells him, “I don’t blame you.”
Butterflies pop in my stomach, swift and violent. It’s not just the words but the tender tone that surprise me. I tear my eyes away and stare at the glass in my hand, suddenly very preoccupied with how much liquid is in there and the exact situation of the wine.
Matt simply says something to Beckett that I can’t hear, his hand resting on the back of the chair Beckett just vacated.
I sit here, struggling with all my emotions.
“If these are the crowds you draw as a candidate, I won’t want to know what kind of power you’ll hold as president,” I say as I glance around.
Matt watches me all this time. His sharp espresso eyes narrow a little. “What else did Beckett tell you?” he asks suspiciously.
I shrug mysteriously, and his lips quirk over my stubbornness when Carlisle comes and asks Matt to give a speech.
As Matt stands and crosses the room, the crowd breaks out in applause, and I get hit with a THIS IS WHO YOU ARE moment. THIS IS WHAT YOU’RE DOING.
I can’t stop smiling.
He’s quiet as he goes up on a small podium. Matt Hamilton. I want the warmth of the light that Matt Hamilton represents.
Matt waits for everyone to settle down and then everyone waits in silence, all eyes on him.
“I’d like to thank you all for coming tonight—nice to see so many familiar faces and so many new ones as well.” He nods at everyone. “I’m sure you’ve noticed we lack slogans in tonight’s decorations . . . I’d like to thank my team for their efforts—the truth of the matter is, nobody pays attention to slogans anymore.”
“They need to know what you bring to the table!” a very boisterous elderly man yells.
“I bring me.”
Silence.
He spreads his palms on the podium and leans forward. “For years the public has come to believe every promise made by every candidate has been a lie. Nobody believes in them anymore. Politics have been totally tainted by propaganda. I want it to be clear we’re running a very easy slogan campaign, and a no-slandering campaign. I serve my country. When asked how I plan to serve, my team,” he looks pointedly at me, “and I have to come to this.” He nods behind him to where Carlisle has turned on a visual. “We’re calling it the alphabet campaign. We’re fixing, reworking, and improving everything from A to Z in this country. It’s an ambitious goal and one I will work tirelessly to achieve. There are so many things right about this country, and so many things that can be better than right. We want to go back to the times—we want to even surpass the times—when they’ve been phenomenal.” He starts naming them. “Arts. Bureaucracy. Culture. Debt. Education. Foreign relations policies . . .”
There are titters of excitement rushing across the room.
I stand there, awed like the rest of the room, feeling a connection to him.
A kind of connection I’ve never in my life felt before.