He laughs, and I scowl, and then he reaches out. “I’ll take this”—he leans over and pecks my lips—“as a yes.” He sets his forehead on mine. “A team will stop by to get your belongings, set them all in your room in the White House, and your new detail will pick you up tomorrow and bring you here.”
“I can’t move, Matthew—”
“Listen, I know you don’t want a media circus outside your apartment building every day for four years. I want you to be safe, and you’re safer with me.”
“I . . .” I can’t even think of an argument, and I definitely don’t think my neighbors deserve a media circus and Secret Service around 24/7. “Well, see, that’s something I really don’t need, a detail—”
He interrupts me as he crosses the room to leave. “We can talk more tomorrow. Expect them early.”
I watch him step outside to a trail of Secret Service agents behind him. I stay back for bit until he disappears out the door—and, it seems, until that moment when I can finally breathe. When I start to follow, he suddenly fills the doorway again.
“I forgot something—wait a minute.”
He pulls me back into the room, and then his lips are pressing firmly down on mine. I gasp at the contact, having missed it too much. Him too much. His taste, the way his tongue massages mine. And it’s massaging mine so wickedly as I open up instinctively, a moan leaving me and muffled by him as our tongues rub, tangle, twirl. Taste. Taste. Oh god, his taste. It’s divine ecstasy when he kisses me. Impulsively. Ravenously.
Head slanting, going as deep as he can go in the precious minute the kiss lasts. He groans as he pulls back, my face engulfed by both his warm hands as he drops his forehead on mine, his tone fierce.
“This isn’t over yet.”
“Matt—”
“It’s not over.”
Trying to pretend that a thousand and one things didn’t just awaken in my stomach, I push at his chest, urging him out the door. He doesn’t budge.
He takes a long moment to look down at my kissed lips—at me. In the way only he sees me, as if he knows my every dream and fear and nightmare, and all I have been and will ever be.
As if he knows that I . . . was and am and will always be his.
He smiles, and after one last glance at my wet lips, he steps out and leaves me with knees that just turned to putty.
“Mr. President,” says Wilson as Matt buttons his jacket, which I seemed to cause to come loose.
Matthew just nods and strides confidently down the hall with the men after him.
“Jackie Kennedy, Princess Diana—all young and beautiful and loved.”
“I just cannot believe you’re comparing me to them,” I tell Kayla as she sits on my small couch that night.
“Why?”
“I don’t see myself like one of them. I don’t know the first thing about it. I’m not my mother—it’s easy for her, smooth-talking, cool, and collected. My palms sweat, thinking of all these important people looking for reasons why I don’t fit the part.”
“You are the part. The president has asked you. The people have been fascinated by you and Matt since the whole campaign began. You go out there and show them Matt was right in picking you. He’s an intelligent man; let them see what he sees.”
I exhale.
“You don’t need to do it all at once,” she says.
“Oh, I’m definitely not doing it all at once. Small steps. Jessa would tell me that when I was little. Small steps take you farther, and one at a time.”
She continues gaping across the room, clearly still mind-blown. “Wow. God, I still can’t believe it.”
“Don’t tell Sam, or Alan, anyone, until he makes the official announcement, please.”
“Of course.”
I stare out the window, as mind-blown as she. I wanted a man to love and to make a difference. Does this mean I can have both?
Why is it that when the opportunity finally comes, the fear is so great, you almost want to back down?
“Whenever you doubt whether you belong there, know that you do. Jackie and Di. Both very beloved. They brought something new, something you cannot buy with experience. Tell yourself, Charlotte, ‘I have been asked by the president to be his acting first lady. And I’ve accepted.’”
I swallow, nodding. I’ve missed him too much. I’d do anything to be close to him. Anything. They say to grow as a person you need to challenge yourself, go for something higher, something that you might fail at, even.
There is nothing higher or greater for me than this.
To try to be with the man I love, no matter how big he is, how grand, how larger than life. Try to make a difference, not a small one, but one that reaches across cities, states, continents.
Oh god.
I’m going to be Matthew Hamilton’s acting first lady.
I’m afraid of it, and at the same time, I’m scared of how much I want it. To be his true first lady. His only love. His girl, his wife, just . . . his. His in public, his at night, his every morning, his by right.
Is he thinking he wants something like that in the future? Everything … he said.
But I don’t want to ask what he meant yet. Because . . . baby steps. I cannot handle more right now.
I don’t sleep that night. I lie awake in bed in my small apartment, touching my lips. Squeezing my eyes shut as all the memories come washing down on me. As Matt’s eyes come back to haunt me. Matt telling me he wants me at the White House. Matt once telling me of the woman he’ll settle down with someday:
“One day I’ll do all the things I need to. And she’ll be mine. Mark my words.”
“Does she know this yet?” I ask, quietly.
“I just told her,” he says.
Warmth races through my bloodstream as I remember. I want to prove myself worthy. That I deserve to be there. That I deserve to be the woman by Matt Hamilton’s side.
I know it won’t be easy, winning the public. But I know that despite the fear, the uncertainty, the self-doubt, I am still that girl. The one who wants to make a difference. The one who offered to help him with his campaign. The one who fell irrevocably in love with him.
3
THE OVAL
Matt
If you want to make a difference, you need to start today.
Four years sounds like a lot, eight an eternity, but it’s really not. I learned that from my father. Things that were postponed never got done. Changes never set in motion remained stagnant, dead dreams never to be fulfilled, not with the new management and every president having his own agenda.
I tackle confidential information for the entire night, reading—sometimes filled with respect for my predecessors and the calls they made, sometimes with disgust. A lot of times, all I can really say is fuck.
I meet with my chief of staff, several issues on the board.
I meet with my press secretary, Lola Stevens, and strategize for a press conference tomorrow when I will introduce Charlotte to the world.
“I want the drafts for the Clean Energy bill. The Healthcare bill to fix what’s broken in our healthcare system. I want to look into a bill for equal pay and opportunity for working mothers,” I tell Dale as we head down the halls of the West Wing to the Cabinet Room—I walk inside, and everybody stands. “Good morning,” I tell my cabinet members.
“Mr. President.”
“Good morning, Mr. President,” Vice President Louis Frederickson greets me.
I chose him as my running mate because he’s honest, humble, no-nonsense, and a no-kiss-ass kind of man—exactly what we need to get real changes in our country.
I take my seat, then glance at the press corps standing behind the members of my cabinet.
“This meeting will be closed to all members of the press,” I say.
“A quick picture, Mr. President?” one coaxes.
“We have work to do here. But I’m aware, so do you. Make it fast, guys,” I say as I flip to the first page of the thick file before me, an identical one seated before each cabinet member.
Flashes erupt for the next ten seconds, and then Dale opens the door.
“That’s enough,” he says, waving them out.
The door shuts and I look at all the members of my cabinet, letting the taste of the silence sink in.