THAT DOG OF YOURS NEEDED A LEASH
Charlotte
The next morning, my alarm goes off at five o’clock. Before joining Matt Hamilton’s campaign, I’d exercise at seven and be at work by nine. Now I need to be at work by seven thirty, and because I want a head start, I rise early, wash my face, get on my jogging pants and long-sleeved T-shirt, grab my phone, earbuds, and jacket, and head out.
The sun peers through a couple of gray clouds as I follow my favorite running trail—one that passes the Washington monuments. The day is too gloomy to admire the view, and I almost wish I’d stayed in bed.
I see a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye and from around a corner in the distance emerges a dog, happily trotting my way. He barks at me, then sits before me, all at attention and excited. Being a cat person, my relationship with dogs has been nonexistent, so I don’t know what to do with the creature except try to get him to settle down. As I grab the end of his leash, something dark catches my attention, and I lift my head.
I stand in the middle of the trail, blinking my eyelashes, struggling with the shock of seeing Matt Hamilton walking toward me in a red running shirt and navy-blue shorts.
His face shows a combination of a frown and a smile. He looks both surprised and amused to see me, and I’m shocked.
His shirt molds to his skin, revealing the lovely definition of his chest. He’s so rugged and at the same time so elegant, it’s hard to think straight.
My heart beats a thousand beats a second. “Fancy seeing you here,” he says.
“Fancy that.” I smile, my throat dry as he stops before me.
And then we start walking, together, and he’s eyeing my profile as the sun kisses every inch of his face.
His dog happily trails beside him, and I find it amusing to see the way he looks up devotedly at Matt. Matt turns toward me. “I see you’ve met Jack.”
“Jack,” I repeat, smiling at the dog.
“He has the bad habit of saying hello to anyone we meet at the park.”
“I bet those people end up terribly excited when they find out who the dog’s owner is.”
His brows fly up. I can’t freaking believe I said that out loud. I start to laugh and quickly say, “I have a cat. Doodles. She’s not like Jack; she hates strangers. I hope she won’t consider me one too one day—she’s staying with my mother because I’m hardly home.”
We continue walking in comfortable silence—well, not that comfortable, I suppose. I’m too aware of him. How tall he is compared to me.
“So what made you go to Georgetown? And become an advocate for women?” he asks me.
I’m surprised by how genuinely interested he sounds. By the attentive way he looks at me as he waits.
“I want to make sure women’s rights are known.” I shrug. “What about you? I know you went to law school to run your empire.”
“Really. Where did you hear that?”
“The press.”
He gives me a smirk, then chuckles and shakes his head in reprimand. “I think you know better than to listen to them.” His smile fades, and he falls sober and adds, “No, really. I admire the fact that you went into public service. What inspired you to change the world?”
“I don’t know,” I begin, thoughtful. “Every summer during college, I went on mission trips. I loved getting to know all these people and I loved helping. Especially women: it’s hard to imagine when you live in a first-world country the kinds of things women across the world are still subjected to. It made me want to do something for others. And you, Mr. Hamilton? What gives you inspiration?” I return.
“Walking next to you watching you speak.”
My breath catches, and I notice that his eyes are shining like beautiful dark satin, and I realize he’s flirting with me—and I’m a ball of fireworks on the inside. “So tell me about C,” he says.
I’m confused. “Culture?”
“Charlotte. Come on.”
I laugh as he just smiles his most minuscule smile and I feel my cheeks pinken. “Well, I went to Georgetown, but then you already know that.” I shoot him a pointed look. “My parents loved me going to Georgetown. The moment I graduated they said, you should go into politics now. But they knew my goal was to work for public service, so that’s where I went . . .” I keep on thinking to see what else I could share.
I still can’t believe he put my name on the letter C . . .
“Everybody thinks I’m a good girl. I’ve never done anything wrong; I just never wanted to embarrass my parents.”
I send him a shy look that says your turn.
“Law student. As you know.” He shoots me a sly look. “I’m the bad boy, but I’m not really that bad. Everything’s always exponential when the media picks it up. Growing up, there were actually very few people in my life that I could be certain wouldn’t run to the media with the story a night later.”
I’m surprised by this, kind of blown away by the realization of how difficult it must be to live your life always under scrutiny. I don’t know that I could ever do it. “I was so nervous when we met. For years I had a picture of you on my wall.”
“You did, did you?” he croons, chuckling a low, rumbling sound.
I laugh. “My mom let me keep it just because it probably helped keep me away from the boys and, well, I’m an only daughter. I really always tried to be good.”
“My dad was a senator before he became president. I grew up an only son, so I know exactly what it feels like to be the apple of your parents’ eye.”
I smile. “Except you’re also an ex-president’s son now. Which must be doubly hard because you’re the apple of the public eye, too.”
“Not really.” He frowns as he thinks about that.
“I’ve been very amused by your fan letters. I enjoy even the crazy ones. Did you know you got several proposals for marriage in the past forty-eight hours?”
He pretends to look surprised and crosses his arms as if super interested. “I hope I declined.”
“Of course. Throughout the campaign and presidency, you’ll be hopelessly single. Carlisle briefed us all.”
He just gives me a glimpse of the merest sexy twitch of his lips and then stares ahead, thoughtful.
“I wouldn’t be the first bachelor president, you know,” he says as he glances at me again with a casual hike of his shoulder. “James Buchanan already filled that role.” His brow creases. “Not a very good president. But a bachelor to the end.” His lips quirk.
My curiosity is piqued. “What did he do?” I ask.
“More like didn’t do.” His frown deepens. “His inability to take a firm stand on slavery and stop the secession led us right into the Civil War.”
We keep watching each other with an intensity that nearly curls my toes.
There’s a soft breeze and I realize my shirt is plastered to my skin, and his presence has my breasts feeling heavy.
I look down and my eyes widen when I realize my nipples are totally showing—harder than little rubies.
I cross my arms, and Matt smiles. “I made your nipples hard that day at the campaign kickoff too.”
“Oh, wow. Well, my nipples weren’t the only things getting hard that day, I’d say.”
“You don’t know the half of it.”
I groan and roll my eyes, laughing inwardly but hating how much my nipples have popped now.
I’m so nervous that I trip. He catches me, his reflexes lightning fast as his hand curls around my elbow to keep me on my feet, and suddenly I can’t breathe. I’m amazed by how much we have in common, and by the way he reels me back to find my balance and then, somehow, reels me still a little more—a little closer to him.
He lifts his other hand and brushes a tendril of hair behind my forehead, his eyes as dark as ever.
Desire floods me as our bodies connect, my front against his front, and I can feel him. I can feel how big he is, how thick and hard, pulsing against my abdomen.
And in this moment Matt Hamilton, my crush of all ages, the sexiest man alive, the hottest candidate in U.S. history, becomes so real to me. So very real. I can feel the warmth of his body through the wet fabric of our shirts. I can smell him, a scent of soap and rain, and I can see him as a guy, a very hot guy with an extraordinary destiny to fulfill.
I feel something leap up to lick my cheek and I jerk and step back, startled by the dog’s kiss.
“Shit,” I breathe, laughing.
“Jack!” A harsh curse follows, and I feel Matt straighten me and then put distance between us. “Sorry. You all right?” he asks. He brushes my hair back as if on impulse before we begin walking again, and electricity tingles down my body. I nod quickly. I’m so, so nervous. “Yes. I’m sorry I said shit.”
“Why?” His lips quirk. “Don’t be.”
I laugh, not believing I was forgetting who he was, caught up in the moment of his nearness, how much I want him—realizing that, whether he wants to or not, his body responds to me as well.
“I’d better get away before I’m late. I wouldn’t want the boss to be mad at me.”
“The boss could never be mad at you.”
His tone is sober, but his eyes twinkle, and my whole body feels flushed under his regard. “’Bye, Matt,” I say, lifting my hand a little awkwardly in a wave before I cut a path through the grass and head to the sidewalk.
* * *
That night, my parents invite me to dinner, and I can’t stop thinking about Matt and his energetic Jack and the conversations we had about his childhood and mine. Then I think back to the day we met, and the president, and his death.
I ask my dad why he thinks there wasn’t any conclusive information on President Hamilton’s assassination.
“Killer was never caught.” He shrugs. “One theory is it was a terrorist act because of President Hamilton’s liberal views; others say it was a conspiracy among the parties.”
I frown worriedly.
“You’re concerned Matthew will be in danger?” he asks me.
I can’t help but look at him with a concerned expression.
He sighs. “He’ll be fine as long as he doesn’t open that can of worms.”
I frown even more. “Matt doesn’t strike me as a man who won’t open a can of worms, especially if he feels strongly about it.”
He shakes his head. “Don’t worry about things you can’t control. Do your best and keep your head down—that’s the only way to get ahead in politics. Otherwise, anybody who’s anybody is going to see your head poking up and push it back down.”
“But I don’t want to be in politics.”
He laughs. “You’re in it now.”
“I’m only there because—”
“You have a soft spot for the Hamiltons, I know. People in the news are surprised you’re participating. Good ol’ Charlotte, you did charm Matthew that night, didn’t you? Even President Hamilton. They have a soft spot for us too.” He smiles wistfully, his eyes sad with memories.
“You know what else Matt has a soft spot for? Aside from the country? His dog,” I say, remembering this morning as I pick up Doodles from my feet, set her on my lap, and stroke her forehead, hearing her purr happily.