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.
11
GIFT
Charlotte
The next morning, I take a bath, change quickly, and stop at a pet store on impulse to make a purchase. I don’t know why I want to make this particular purchase, but my mother has always been the sort of woman to have sweet little surprises for my dad. I don’t know if it’s her way of saying thank you for something nice that he did or just the way he made her feel. I want to get something for Matt, but I know that it wouldn’t be proper. But when the urge to get Jack a little something hits me, I decide not to even fight it.
Once I get to the campaign headquarters, I step off the elevator and I see Matt in the hall. Immediately my body responds: pulse skipping, nipples tightening, pussy clenching.
He’s in dark jeans and a soft-looking taupe cashmere sweater that contrasts strikingly with his dark hair. He’s talking to his campaign web manager when he spots me. He pauses mid-sentence, and my heart stutters when he smiles at me.
His eyes look warm and there’s something else in his gaze, almost like protectiveness.
He continues talking with the guy—positively oozing that confidence that seems to cling to him like a second skin—and I head to my chair. I exhale and glance around my desktop, telling myself I have to catch up.
Everyone here is smart, lightning fast, and eager to work, most of them confident. A little more experienced than me, too.
I’ve seen them effortlessly answer phone call after phone call, letter after letter, email after email. I get sentimental about these things. I’ve found myself needing a box of Kleenex or to cover my response when I read the letters.
After a whole day back, I still don’t know how to answer this little boy’s letter.
I’ve dealt with women in my mom’s foundation, but never anyone younger than eighteen. There’s something about someone younger having a hard time that gets to me doubly hard.
“Read this letter,” I tell Mark, whose desk is a few feet away from mine.
“What about it?”
“I’d like to ask Matt if he could squeeze in a visit—”
“What? No way. He’s got four hundred speaking engagement requests this week. He doesn’t have time for everything and everyone. We have thousands of letters just like it in these piles. Just answer and go to the next.”
I walk to my desk, unhappy about Mark’s suggestion.
He leans back in his chair and peers into my cubicle for a moment, and I’m sure he was trying to catch a glimpse of my boobs as I bent to take my chair. “What does it matter asking him? It’s just one among thousands,” he then asks me, rolling his eyes.
I wave the letter in the air. “It matters to this one.”
Back to the letters on my desk, I set it aside and duck my head to continue answering in longhand.
Dear Kim,
Matt is very moved by your letter and he would like you to receive his best wishes on your upcoming graduation. Please receive this set of bookmarks with both Matt and his campaign team’s most heartfelt congratulations. I’m sure we can expect great things from you in the future.
Kindest regards, Charlotte Wells, campaign aide
A few hours later, Carlisle summons us for a meeting. I grab a yellow notepad and stand to follow my coworkers toward the conference room.
Matt is watching every step I take into the room while we’re briefed on the new campaign strategy. When everyone leaves, nerves eat at the walls of my stomach as I go to my desk, get my purchase from this morning, and head to the corner nook of the building where Matt has taken up office.
He’s already behind his desk when I step inside.
“I got you a present.”
He leans back in his chair and our eyes hold, and the mere way he looks at me makes my stomach grip and my sex clench.
“It’s not for you, it’s for Jack,” I stumble to explain.
He peers into the box, looks at the collar with the metal symbol attached, and lifts it in one hand. “A flea collar.” He knocks the flea charm with one finger. “Funny.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
“How are you this morning?” He drags the flea charm to the side of his desk, where he has a picture of his father, his mother, and himself.
“I’m absolutely fabulous, Mr. Hamilton,” I effuse, pressing the folders to my chest.
“Matt.” He enunciates every letter clearly.
“Matt,” I say.
His grin reaches all the way to his eyes. “Good girl, you get an A today.”
“You get a bully badge. Matt.”
I turn away, and when I glance past my shoulder, he’s reaching out for a pair of reading glasses and glancing over Carlisle’s proposal.
He looks smart and quiet and intellectual as he reads with his glasses on, absently running his fingers over the top of his head. That’s when I see him lift his head and eye the charm I bought for his dog, his lips twitching.
Just the tiniest bit.
I’ve seen Matt at campaign headquarters every day. At first he’d be smiling and looking directly at me, but lately I have seemed invisible to him. He looks past my shoulder when I ask him anything, answering curtly with comments like, “Good, appreciate 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.
11
GIFT
Charlotte
The next morning, I take a bath, change quickly, and stop at a pet store on impulse to make a purchase. I don’t know why I want to make this particular purchase, but my mother has always been the sort of woman to have sweet little surprises for my dad. I don’t know if it’s her way of saying thank you for something nice that he did or just the way he made her feel. I want to get something for Matt, but I know that it wouldn’t be proper. But when the urge to get Jack a little something hits me, I decide not to even fight it.
Once I get to the campaign headquarters, I step off the elevator and I see Matt in the hall. Immediately my body responds: pulse skipping, nipples tightening, pussy clenching.
He’s in dark jeans and a soft-looking taupe cashmere sweater that contrasts strikingly with his dark hair. He’s talking to his campaign web manager when he spots me. He pauses mid-sentence, and my heart stutters when he smiles at me.
His eyes look warm and there’s something else in his gaze, almost like protectiveness.
He continues talking with the guy—positively oozing that confidence that seems to cling to him like a second skin—and I head to my chair. I exhale and glance around my desktop, telling myself I have to catch up.
Everyone here is smart, lightning fast, and eager to work, most of them confident. A little more experienced than me, too.
I’ve seen them effortlessly answer phone call after phone call, letter after letter, email after email. I get sentimental about these things. I’ve found myself needing a box of Kleenex or to cover my response when I read the letters.
After a whole day back, I still don’t know how to answer this little boy’s letter.
I’ve dealt with women in my mom’s foundation, but never anyone younger than eighteen. There’s something about someone younger having a hard time that gets to me doubly hard.
“Read this letter,” I tell Mark, whose desk is a few feet away from mine.
“What about it?”
“I’d like to ask Matt if he could squeeze in a visit—”
“What? No way. He’s got four hundred speaking engagement requests this week. He doesn’t have time for everything and everyone. We have thousands of letters just like it in these piles. Just answer and go to the next.”
I walk to my desk, unhappy about Mark’s suggestion.
He leans back in his chair and peers into my cubicle for a moment, and I’m sure he was trying to catch a glimpse of my boobs as I bent to take my chair. “What does it matter asking him? It’s just one among thousands,” he then asks me, rolling his eyes.
I wave the letter in the air. “It matters to this one.”
Back to the letters on my desk, I set it aside and duck my head to continue answering in longhand.
Dear Kim,
Matt is very moved by your letter and he would like you to receive his best wishes on your upcoming graduation. Please receive this set of bookmarks with both Matt and his campaign team’s most heartfelt congratulations. I’m sure we can expect great things from you in the future.
Kindest regards, Charlotte Wells, campaign aide
A few hours later, Carlisle summons us for a meeting. I grab a yellow notepad and stand to follow my coworkers toward the conference room.
Matt is watching every step I take into the room while we’re briefed on the new campaign strategy. When everyone leaves, nerves eat at the walls of my stomach as I go to my desk, get my purchase from this morning, and head to the corner nook of the building where Matt has taken up office.
He’s already behind his desk when I step inside.
“I got you a present.”
He leans back in his chair and our eyes hold, and the mere way he looks at me makes my stomach grip and my sex clench.
“It’s not for you, it’s for Jack,” I stumble to explain.
He peers into the box, looks at the collar with the metal symbol attached, and lifts it in one hand. “A flea collar.” He knocks the flea charm with one finger. “Funny.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
“How are you this morning?” He drags the flea charm to the side of his desk, where he has a picture of his father, his mother, and himself.
“I’m absolutely fabulous, Mr. Hamilton,” I effuse, pressing the folders to my chest.
“Matt.” He enunciates every letter clearly.
“Matt,” I say.
His grin reaches all the way to his eyes. “Good girl, you get an A today.”
“You get a bully badge. Matt.”
I turn away, and when I glance past my shoulder, he’s reaching out for a pair of reading glasses and glancing over Carlisle’s proposal.
He looks smart and quiet and intellectual as he reads with his glasses on, absently running his fingers over the top of his head. That’s when I see him lift his head and eye the charm I bought for his dog, his lips twitching.
Just the tiniest bit.
I’ve seen Matt at campaign headquarters every day. At first he’d be smiling and looking directly at me, but lately I have seemed invisible to him. He looks past my shoulder when I ask him anything, answering curtly with comments like, “Good, appreciate it.”
