White House: Commander In Chief Part 2

Charlotte "Ladies and gentlemen, the President of the United States!!"

I almost spill my drink when the announcement echoes across the ballroom.

I stand with Alison, who's thrilled to be one of the White House photographers. While she was snapping pictures of the partygoers, I was mingling by her side, a drink in hand, when those words rang out.

And if someone had just grabbed a bat and smashed the air out of my lungs, I would absolutely believe it.

This is the smallest ball among all five being held tonight. Everyone expected the president to make it to the other grand b.a.l.l.s first. I was barely prepared to see him-I'd only drunk one gla.s.s of wine so far!-and now he's here.

Oh G.o.d.

I'm ten times more nervous than all the women in the room. Hundreds of them, all important, highly intelligent or highly beautiful women, all t.i.ttering excitedly as Matt Hamilton, my Matt Hamilton, walks into the room.

Um. No. He's not yours, Charlotte, so you'd better stop feeling possessive over the man.

But I can't help it.

The sight of him makes me yearn to be walking by his side, with my arm hooked into his, no matter how ludicrous the idea is. It was one thing looking at him at a podium. Farther away.

But it's another thing being in the room he's now occupying.

In a tux.

A hot black tux.

So much closer to me than he's been in two months.

I can almost smell him, expensive and clean and male.

Alison is snapping pictures at my side.

Snap, snap, snap.

Matt takes over the room with his long, confident walk, briskly greeting those who greet him. Is he taller today? He really is towering over everyone. And are his shoulders broader? He looks so much larger than life. His very posture and stride that of a man who knows the whole world revolves around him. Which wouldn't be entirely false.

"You know what I like about Matt? That he actually backs up the hotness with brains," she says, making an O with her mouth and exhaling, then licking her lips with a mischievous sparkle in her eye. "Yum."

Before I realize what I'm doing, I'm licking my lips too. I really need to never do that again.

Alison shifts positions to capture a dozen different shots-not only of Matt but of people's awed and ecstatic reactions to him.

His eyes are sparkling as he greets one person after the next. They crinkle at the corners when he smiles, and I remember that crinkle. I remember the feel of the stubble on his jaw in the mornings even though his jaw is smooth and perfectly clean-shaven now, his lips curved upward.

His hair is combed back, his features chiseled and beautiful. My whole body spasms uncontrollably. It's as if every pore and every inch of me remembers him. Still wants him.

I lift my fingers to stroke the place where I used to wear his father's commemorative pin-but all I touch is my bare skin, revealed by the long, strapless gown I'm wearing.

My heart thuds crazily as he continues greeting the people he pa.s.ses, approaching where I stand with my drink frozen in my hand. He looks so happy. My stomach clutches with a mix of emotions. Happiness, yes. But his presence is also a reminder of what I'd lost.

Did I lose him?

He was never really mine.

But I was all his. His to take. Body and soul. And I would have done anything he wanted me to. But I've tried to regain my sense of self. While traveling through Europe, I've tried to see the reasons why it could never have worked, among them that I'm inexperienced and young and not the kind of woman a president needs. I am not ready for what he is. No matter how much I wish I were older, more experienced, more fit to be by his side.

Not that he wanted me there.

I am torn when the crowd keeps parting and he keeps advancing.

"I'm going to the restroom," I breathe, and I head off, wondering why I came here. Why I said yes. It was his important day. I didn't want to miss it. But it hurts anew, as if today were the day he was elected, the day I walked away from him-booked a flight to Europe and spent two months there with Kayla, freezing our a.s.ses off, drinking hot chocolate. I came back in time for his inauguration-I could not miss it.

But landing in the USA felt bittersweet-it's the home I love, where I was born and want to die, and fell in love, but also the country that's led by the man I love and am trying desperately to get over.

So I steal into the ladies' room to find it vacant. And I just look at myself in the mirror-and whisper, "Breathe." I shut my eyes, lean forward, and breathe again. Then I open my eyes. "Now get out there, and say h.e.l.lo to him, and smile."

It's the hardest thing I've ever told myself to do.

But I exit the room, and watch him with every step I take as I head back to the crowd-everyone waiting to greet him. To be greeted. Acknowledged.

Alison spots me and snaps my picture. "You've got it bad. Can't say I blame you," she says.

"I don't want to," I whisper.

She smiles and continues snapping pictures.

I drink him up like a starved woman, six feet plus of pure fantasy, all packaged in a real man-beautiful beyond belief. So beautiful, I can't believe beauty like that exists.

And then he's three steps closer, his voice so near. "Thanks for coming."

Two steps. "Good to see you."

One step.

I try to smile when he stops before me, towering over me, dark and gorgeous. Everyone is holding their breath. A silence settles over the room. I blink in disbelief.

Matt Hamilton.

G.o.d. He looks hot as sin, his eyebrows slanted as he looks piercingly into my eyes, a half smile playing on his beautiful lips-lips that are full and lush, and very, very wicked.

There's a catch in my breath, and so much pride welling in my chest as I duck my head in a slight nod.

"Mr. President."

He reaches out to take my hand in his grasp, his fingers sliding over mine.

"It's good to see you." His voice is especially low.

I remember him telling me he'd get hard when I called him Mr. President, and now I can't stop blushing. But it's not like I'm going to bring it up now.

His fingers are warm and strong. His grip just right.

His hand so right.

We're not even shaking hands. He's practically holding my hand. And every part of me remembers this hand. This touch on me.

When he lowers my hand to my side, he slips something into my palm and ducks to murmur in my ear, "Be discreet," and I grip what feels like a small piece of paper in my fist as he proceeds to greet the other guests.

Slack-jawed, I watch him retreat, then I discreetly open the paper. It reads: 10 minutes South exit up the elevator take the double doors down the hall.

He's expecting me.

I count the minutes as the live performance by Alicia Keys begins, and Matt opens up the dance floor with his mother.

The most handsome president I've ever beheld.

Where did he learn how to dance like that?

I'm holding a gla.s.s of wine as I watch him twirl her on the dance floor. She's laughing, looking younger than her years, though the pain in her eyes never really fades. Matt is grinning down at her, trying his d.a.m.nedest to relieve that pain.

I love this stupid man so much I want to punch something.

When the dance ends, other couples join, and I see Matt-who's still causing t.i.tters in the room-excuse himself from his mother and head out a different exit than the one he indicated for me.

He's tugging on his cufflinks as he crosses the room, his agents already moving at the sides of the room, toward the same exit, and I set my wine aside. I'm telling myself it's no good-that if I go there, it'll just be to get my heart broken a thousand times again. But a part of me . . . just doesn't care.

This is Matt.

I crossed an ocean to forget him, but I'd swim across thousands for this man.

My heart will always beat for him.

The heart that had to put a whole ocean between us for fear of seeking him out.

The heart that beats like a mad thing in my chest as I go meet him.

I follow instructions to the T. I spot Wilson outside the room, along with an army of other agents of the Secret Service.

Wilson whispers something into his receiver as he nods at me and reaches for the doork.n.o.b.

"Hi, Wilson."

"Miss Wells." He nods briefly as he opens the door. "The president is inside."

"Thank you."

I suppose my heart is whacking so loudly because I'm seeing him again, and also because I don't know what to expect.

I walk into the room, the door shutting with a soft click behind me.

The air is sucked out of me as if by a vacuum.

A Hamilton vacuum.

It feels as if the whole room is just a backdrop for him. He's so . . . imposing. Electrifying. I have eyes only for the tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered man at its center. His stance confident but easy, one hand inside the pocket of his slacks. The bow tie he wears is perfect. Even his hair is perfect, not a strand out of place, and I ache to run my fingers through it.

But inside his eyes there is a whole universe, dark and endless, an intensity in his gaze that pulls at every fiber of my being as he slowly drinks me in-every inch of me in this dress, from my eyes, to my nose, to my lips, my throat, my shoulders, my chest, my abdomen, down my legs.

It's hard to speak. The way he's looking at me is thawing my resolve to be strong, and I need to pull his attention away from stripping me naked with his eyes. "Being president looks good on you," I can't help but say, because as he undresses me with his eyes, I sort of get an eyeful of him too. His athletic, muscular frame and how the tux hugs his shoulders.

At my words, Matthew's eyes leisurely trek back to my face to lock on mine again. He responds simply, his voice as deep as I remember, the tone firm and completely unapologetic. "You're beautiful."

I inhale sharply, his words like a punch at the very core of my being. Warmth blooms in my cheeks. It's as if he's lit me up, this man. And nothing I do can dampen the fire he ignites in me. "I didn't go into this for a happily ever after," I whisper.

"But you deserve a happily ever after."

Matt is not smiling. His eyes are dark and somber as he continues to stare at me intently. "I've stayed away from you," he says, taking a step, withdrawing his hand from his pocket.

"I've noticed." My voice sounds raw, and I'm so overcome with his presence as he prowls around the room that I drop my eyes, my emotions all over the place. I raise them after a second and meet his unflinching gaze-which he hasn't removed from me. Not for a second. "Is it getting easier for you?" I ask.

"f.u.c.k no. It's taking everything in me not to touch you right now."

He drags a restless hand over his face, a tinge of regret in his voice as he stops a few feet away. "Being with me could hurt you-you know that's why you wanted me to stay away. You know that if I'm with you, I'm going to hurt you even when that won't be my intention. Not at all. I know that wasn't my father's intention when he hurt my mother for years."

"Seeing you is hurting me now."

He clamps his jaw, then reaches out to tilt my head back. "Look at me," he says, his voice gruff and low, his dark gaze carving into me. "I can't give you what you deserve. I can't give you a house and I can't even take you out on a normal date. But I want you. I f.u.c.king need you in my life, Charlotte."

His touch is making my knees quake. I breathe, "I've accepted that I can't have more and that's okay with me. It's not worth it. You're doing more important things than being with me."

He frowns thoughtfully as he curls his hand and drags his knuckles down my cheek, grazing my skin. "The bigger risk is you getting hurt because I can't give you what you need. But I want to. I want to give you everything."

I battle a tremor, lick my lips nervously, craving more of his touch, more words, more Matt. "That's not why I came here. I want you to have the best presidency, and I wanted you to know I'm okay that this is over between us."

"I don't want this to be over." His eyes glimmer mercilessly as he drops his hand and just looks down at me. "I'm f.u.c.king selfish. I want you all to myself. Jesus! Every day, I wonder what you're doing, who you're talking to, who you're smiling at, and I want it to be me."

"I don't want this to be over either. But it has to, Matt."

He shakes his head, smiling ruefully. "It doesn't have to. f.u.c.k trying to stay away from you. That's not what I want. What do you want from me? Do you want this?"

"What's 'this'?" I ask uncertainly.

"Everything."

My stomach feels as if I'm riding a roller coaster, so many dips and tugs I can't stand still as Matt waits for my answer.

I've never been able to lie to him, and I don't think I ever will be. "I don't want you to stay away from me."

"I asked you a question. Do you want everything I can give you?"