“I—”
“Shhh . . . just let me do this, Charlotte. Please,” he says as he lifts his head from my neck and holds my head between his hands, his eyes gazing into mine and then lowering to my lips, and then traveling back up to my eyes.
I feel him inch closer to me, and I slowly start to realize that he wants to kiss me. Right now. In this car.
Matthew Hamilton, possible future President of the United States and my first crush, wants to kiss me.
I reach out and hold his face in my hand too, and his eyes flare.
I don’t know whether I should do this or not, but right now all I hear my body say is that I need to touch this man.
I kiss his cheek, my lips lingering.
I feel him relax, but his grip on me tightens.
What are we doing?
“Sir, we’re here,” Matt’s detail’s mumbled voice sounds through the partition.
I think I hear Matt curse under his breath. I inch myself off his lap to sit back in my own seat, and inhale a shaky breath as Matt opens his own door and comes around the car to open mine.
The look we exchange when we lock eyes as I come out of the car I cannot possibly describe. It’s charged with need, lust, longing, curiosity, and something else . . .
I force myself to look away and walk toward the building, the feel of his lips still on my skin.
15
GETS LONELY AT THE TOP
Matt
That was me being a whole lot reckless and foolish.
I’ve been thinking of red hair, blue eyes, soft lips, and how much I wanted to dip in my tongue and taste her. I wanted to open her mouth and kiss her, slow and savoring, then fast and wild. At this point, only both can satiate me.
I thought that following that one impulse after the hospital would be enough to calm the fire burning me . . .
It’s not.
She’s been in my head for the past eighteen hours.
I’m running on no sleep. I need a good workout or my focus scatters, but my schedule couldn’t allow one today. My grandfather flew in from Virginia after the resounding success of our first two months of campaigning, and my mother—who’d opted to quietly ignore the fact that I’m running—had no other choice but to welcome us for breakfast this morning.
I’m aware of early campaign troubles. Among them, my grandfather.
My grandfather was the tireless political engine that drove my father to the army, to the Senate, and later, to the White House. He pulled strings left and right and put my dad on George Washington’s white horse, but it was my dad who rode the horse like he owned it. The one who’d won the reelection by the biggest margin in history, keeping almost 70 percent of the country happy when polled about his first term. My granddad got him there, but my dad stayed there.
I don’t want my grandfather’s political engine to back me now—it would require sacrificing merit for favors during the appointment of my cabinet. That’s a sure way to keep the country from growing and blazing brighter than ever, and that’s what has been keeping us from irrefutably being the most powerful force in the world.
Habits need to be put aside, new ideas proposed, new blood brought in to freshen up the antiquated outlook on how to run America.
The world is changing, and we need to be on the forefront of that change.
My grandfather has made it no secret that he wants me on the forefront . . . but of one of the parties. Who like to keep the status quo.
I’m the last to arrive at my mother’s brownstone.
My mother sits in a high chair, regal in pearls and a white designer skirt and jacket. She’s a modern Jackie Kennedy, sweet and composed, morally as strong as titanium. There are strong resemblances between our families, the Kennedys and Hamiltons. To the point where the media has speculated, after Father’s murder, on whether the Hamiltons also have a curse on their heads that won’t let them carry out their bright destinies.
Mother sits as far away from my grandfather as possible, her hair still the same near-black shade as mine, her poise remarkable.
Big, brusque, and no-nonsense, Patrick Hamilton’s relationship with my father was a close one. Until my father was gone, my grandfather meddled and insisted I get into politics. The last thing my mother wanted was to see me do that.
“Get a life, Matt. Go and study anything you want, be anything you want.” Except a politician. She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to. In her mind, she wouldn’t be a widow, but instead a happy wife had my father not been president. In her mind, she’d have lived a happy life. She led one of duty instead, and she did it formidably, but no makeup and hairstyle can hide the shadows in her eyes regarding my father’s unresolved murder.
I kiss her forehead in greeting. “I’m sorry this is making you worry. Don’t,” I command.
She smiles lightly at me and pats my jaw. “Matt.”
Only one word, but combined with the look in her eyes, I’m quietly reminded that my father was one of five sitting presidents to be killed—all by gunshots. Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, JFK, and Hamilton.
I take a seat in the living room and she signals for Maria, her live-in cook, to bring us coffee.
“I had lunch with the Democrats,” Grandfather says as he sips his coffee. “They want you joining the primaries; they’re sure you’ll win the ticket.”
“I’ve already told them, I’m running independently.”
“Matt, your father—”
“I’m not my father. Though I do plan to continue his legacy.” I glance at my mother, who seems to be battling a mixture of pride and worry.
“Why won’t you at least consider the Democrats?” Grandfather insists.
“Because”—I lean forward, looking him dead in the eye—“they failed to protect him. As far as I’m concerned, I’m better off alone.” I stare him out. He’s not an easy man—but I can be as difficult as he is. “My father told me never trust your own shadow. I’ve kept people at bay, but now I’m choosing who I let in. And out. Out is my competition. I’m letting in my country. They deserve better than what they’ve gotten lately. I’m going to pave the path for that better.”
“Fuck, Matt, really!” Grandfather rants.
His temper is formidable, and my mother quickly steps in with her usual soothing charm.
“Shhh . . . just let me do this, Charlotte. Please,” he says as he lifts his head from my neck and holds my head between his hands, his eyes gazing into mine and then lowering to my lips, and then traveling back up to my eyes.
I feel him inch closer to me, and I slowly start to realize that he wants to kiss me. Right now. In this car.
Matthew Hamilton, possible future President of the United States and my first crush, wants to kiss me.
I reach out and hold his face in my hand too, and his eyes flare.
I don’t know whether I should do this or not, but right now all I hear my body say is that I need to touch this man.
I kiss his cheek, my lips lingering.
I feel him relax, but his grip on me tightens.
What are we doing?
“Sir, we’re here,” Matt’s detail’s mumbled voice sounds through the partition.
I think I hear Matt curse under his breath. I inch myself off his lap to sit back in my own seat, and inhale a shaky breath as Matt opens his own door and comes around the car to open mine.
The look we exchange when we lock eyes as I come out of the car I cannot possibly describe. It’s charged with need, lust, longing, curiosity, and something else . . .
I force myself to look away and walk toward the building, the feel of his lips still on my skin.
15
GETS LONELY AT THE TOP
Matt
That was me being a whole lot reckless and foolish.
I’ve been thinking of red hair, blue eyes, soft lips, and how much I wanted to dip in my tongue and taste her. I wanted to open her mouth and kiss her, slow and savoring, then fast and wild. At this point, only both can satiate me.
I thought that following that one impulse after the hospital would be enough to calm the fire burning me . . .
It’s not.
She’s been in my head for the past eighteen hours.
I’m running on no sleep. I need a good workout or my focus scatters, but my schedule couldn’t allow one today. My grandfather flew in from Virginia after the resounding success of our first two months of campaigning, and my mother—who’d opted to quietly ignore the fact that I’m running—had no other choice but to welcome us for breakfast this morning.
I’m aware of early campaign troubles. Among them, my grandfather.
My grandfather was the tireless political engine that drove my father to the army, to the Senate, and later, to the White House. He pulled strings left and right and put my dad on George Washington’s white horse, but it was my dad who rode the horse like he owned it. The one who’d won the reelection by the biggest margin in history, keeping almost 70 percent of the country happy when polled about his first term. My granddad got him there, but my dad stayed there.
I don’t want my grandfather’s political engine to back me now—it would require sacrificing merit for favors during the appointment of my cabinet. That’s a sure way to keep the country from growing and blazing brighter than ever, and that’s what has been keeping us from irrefutably being the most powerful force in the world.
Habits need to be put aside, new ideas proposed, new blood brought in to freshen up the antiquated outlook on how to run America.
The world is changing, and we need to be on the forefront of that change.
My grandfather has made it no secret that he wants me on the forefront . . . but of one of the parties. Who like to keep the status quo.
I’m the last to arrive at my mother’s brownstone.
My mother sits in a high chair, regal in pearls and a white designer skirt and jacket. She’s a modern Jackie Kennedy, sweet and composed, morally as strong as titanium. There are strong resemblances between our families, the Kennedys and Hamiltons. To the point where the media has speculated, after Father’s murder, on whether the Hamiltons also have a curse on their heads that won’t let them carry out their bright destinies.
Mother sits as far away from my grandfather as possible, her hair still the same near-black shade as mine, her poise remarkable.
Big, brusque, and no-nonsense, Patrick Hamilton’s relationship with my father was a close one. Until my father was gone, my grandfather meddled and insisted I get into politics. The last thing my mother wanted was to see me do that.
“Get a life, Matt. Go and study anything you want, be anything you want.” Except a politician. She didn’t say it, but she didn’t have to. In her mind, she wouldn’t be a widow, but instead a happy wife had my father not been president. In her mind, she’d have lived a happy life. She led one of duty instead, and she did it formidably, but no makeup and hairstyle can hide the shadows in her eyes regarding my father’s unresolved murder.
I kiss her forehead in greeting. “I’m sorry this is making you worry. Don’t,” I command.
She smiles lightly at me and pats my jaw. “Matt.”
Only one word, but combined with the look in her eyes, I’m quietly reminded that my father was one of five sitting presidents to be killed—all by gunshots. Lincoln, Garfield, McKinley, JFK, and Hamilton.
I take a seat in the living room and she signals for Maria, her live-in cook, to bring us coffee.
“I had lunch with the Democrats,” Grandfather says as he sips his coffee. “They want you joining the primaries; they’re sure you’ll win the ticket.”
“I’ve already told them, I’m running independently.”
“Matt, your father—”
“I’m not my father. Though I do plan to continue his legacy.” I glance at my mother, who seems to be battling a mixture of pride and worry.
“Why won’t you at least consider the Democrats?” Grandfather insists.
“Because”—I lean forward, looking him dead in the eye—“they failed to protect him. As far as I’m concerned, I’m better off alone.” I stare him out. He’s not an easy man—but I can be as difficult as he is. “My father told me never trust your own shadow. I’ve kept people at bay, but now I’m choosing who I let in. And out. Out is my competition. I’m letting in my country. They deserve better than what they’ve gotten lately. I’m going to pave the path for that better.”
“Fuck, Matt, really!” Grandfather rants.
His temper is formidable, and my mother quickly steps in with her usual soothing charm.
