PRESS CONFERENCE
Charlotte
There’s excitement in the air of the White House press room as Matt addresses the reporters. Several dozen flashes snap as he stands at the podium.
“I realize this is a little unorthodox. Usually the president of the United States is married, which I’m not, or has a close family member acting as first lady; in my case that also won’t be the case. I’ve asked a woman whom I’ve come to deeply respect and admire for many reasons—among them, her passion for this country that equals mine, and a heart as big as that smile she’s now wearing. Ladies and gentlemen, may I present the Acting First Lady of the United States of America, Charlotte Wells.”
Breathe, breathe, breathe.
Matt motions me to the podium.
Cameras keep snapping. I marvel that I can walk—with Matt’s direct gaze on me, with the whole room’s eyes on me. I marvel how I can act composed. How I can manage to open my mouth and say what I rehearsed with Lola, the press secretary, just an hour ago.
“Thank you, Mr. President.” I inhale his scent as he passes me, and I cling to it for strength. I make eye contact with as many sitting reporters as possible even though it makes me doubly nervous. “I’m honored to be standing here. I’m not ashamed to admit when Matt—the president—asked me to take on this task, I didn’t think I could possibly say yes. Turns out it’s not easy to decline the president, especially this one . . .”
I shoot him a look, and when he raises one eyebrow, there’s laughter, and my nerves start easing.
“And although I still feel completely undeserving to be standing here, I will do my best and more than that to represent our country as best I can and do justice to President Hamilton’s presidency. Thank you.”
Applause. “Miss Wells—!”
“Miss Wells, could you give us any specifics on the kind of relationship you and the president—”
Lola takes my place behind the podium and murmurs, “No questions at this time, thank you.”
And with that, she wraps up the press conference and I follow Matt out of the room.
“That went well, Miss Wells! Now if you’ll review the schedule—Oh! Mr. President.”
My chief of staff steps back when she realizes Matt is still there, and we walk together down the hall, his gaze on his chief of staff, who seems to be waiting for him at the end.
“You looked great out there.” His eyes slide to mine.
The impact of feeling his eyes on me never seems to diminish.
“Probably because I was standing next to you.”
“Trust me, I had nothing to do with it.” His eyes start twinkling.
“I expected a little booing, really. But they love you so much that anything you do, they’d agree with.”
“No, they wouldn’t.” His eyes rove over my features. “But whoever said Americans don’t have exquisite taste was very, very wrong.” He raises both his brows meaningfully, and even that maddening smile he wears, just a little arrogant, is sexy beyond belief.
There’s so much intimacy in his gaze, I’m transported to our nights together—his kisses, his words.
I want him to touch me. I want to touch him. But something as simple as a touch would cause an uproar and a scandal—that’s not what we want his first months in the White House to be about.
He leaves me with a smile and heads off, his chief of staff already listing a thousand things on his plate, and I sort of have trouble moving my eyes away from his retreating back—and how well he looks in that suit—to the woman before me.
“So if you’d like to review your duties as first lady,” she’s saying as she leads me to my wing, “it’s really up to you how much you want to get involved, but if you’d like to be very active, there’s always the menus to look at, the social events to plan and host . . .”
Waiting naked in the president’s bedroom, I think to myself, aware of a warmth flooding my cheeks as I do. No. That can come later. We need to be sure about what we’re doing first.
I don’t want to fail this country, or my parents, or myself. Or Matt.
* * *
I sleep alone in the Queens’ Bedroom. So aware of Matt—the president—just across the hall. I hear him walk into his room late at night. I tiptoe to my door, sort of listening as I decide whether I should go see him.
Touch him. Kiss him.
I’m pressing my ear to the door when I hear footsteps approach.
My breath catches, and I quickly hurry back to my bed and slip under the covers as the door opens. Matt looms in my doorway. I hear the door click shut and his figure walking in the shadows.
I prop myself up on my arms, alarmed. “You can’t spend the night—the staff will talk, and it’s too soon to give the media the gossip-fest they’ll get with this.”
He lowers himself into a chair by the window, feet away from the bed.
I frown. “What are you doing?”
“Looking at you.”