My cheeks warm at his words. I grab my hair as it flies with the wind.
“I’m pretty sure as we head to election our moments will become more and more fleeting,” I admit, laughing.
“I won’t allow that to happen.” He plunges his hands into his pockets. “I want to spend my every free moment with you—and I want you to spend yours with me.”
I feel shy all of a sudden. “You need your sleep,” I whisper, shooting him a chiding look.
Lightly smiling, he reaches out to brush the back of his thumb along mine. “I’ve got news for you, Miss Wells—my off-schedule hours are mine to do with as I please. And I intend to do you every one of them.”
Oh god, my sex just sort of gripped really tight.
He’s so sexy when he talks like this to me.
I’m flushed, uncertain about continuing to play this game, especially when it’s getting close to voting day, when the camera eye will keep zooming more and more on him as he continues making news and racking up voters.
“I’d like that. But I don’t know if it’s a good idea to keep taking risks . . . We’re ending this soon.” I chance a shy glance at him. “Aren’t we?”
He drops his hand, his jaw tightening. “I watched my mother take a backseat to the country. I can’t allow you to do that too,” he says.
“Maybe I don’t mind taking a backseat to the president . . .” I trail off, suddenly realizing what’s coming out of my mouth.
“That’s not happening. Ever.” His eyes flash, and I’m taken aback by the steely determination in his words and voice.
I quickly try to explain. “Look, the needs of one woman shouldn’t come before a whole country. I wouldn’t expect—”
“You don’t need to be anyone’s afterthought. Not even the country’s. I’m not doing that to you—don’t even ask me to. Not me, not anyone.” He looks at me, then rakes his hand through his hair. “God. You’ve still got so much ahead of you, you’ve got so much to offer, you don’t deserve eight years—four at least—” He trails off, his eyes dark, as if he hates remembering.
“It wouldn’t be hell to me if I spent it with you,” I whisper.
We’re interrupted when one of our team members appears on the terrace. We step back a little from each other when we hear the elevator ting and then Hessler comes over, instantly charging forward to talk business with Matt.
Matt’s smile fades, and he pops open a button on the sleeve of his shirt and folds his cuff as he listens. Getting down to the dirty job.
I spend more time listening than the five minutes we spent alone together just now, and then I quickly excuse myself.
I notice the steely frustration in his gaze as I leave, the way his jaw clenches as if he’s keeping himself from saying something.
30
NEWS
Charlotte
I hardly slept. I kept wanting to go to him, I kept sort of hurting, remembering how Matt got ticked off just thinking of me in the same situation his mother once endured. I kept thinking of him wanting to spend more time with me, and I kept checking my calendar, crossing another X on another day with him that I won’t ever recover.
I also got a call from my mother, and if I hadn’t already had enough on my mind, that phone call also had me tossing and turning all night.
She’s concerned about the rumors and concerned I might be harming this campaign more than doing it any good.
“Half of the press is speculating about you two,” she warns. “Are you sure you don’t want to consider quitting while you’re ahead and Matt is the country’s favorite, and come back to Women of the World?” she asked.
“I’m sure,” I told her, but last night, as sleep eluded me, the kernel of doubt she planted sat like a ton of bricks in my gut.
This morning I’m rushing to get ready. The TV is set on the local news, and I’m half listening—when I hear my own name being said.
I freeze in the bathroom, where I was applying makeup.
Disbelieving, I walk out to the bedroom and stare at my face on the TV screen—a picture of me from a high school yearbook, another of me standing discreetly behind Matt at one of the events.
A big red circle is around Matt and me in that picture. Next flashes an image of me from my social media that the campaign staff had actually asked me to take down; I’m in a bikini, pictured with Kayla, Sam, and Alan. Did the press gain access to it through other posts on my friends’ sites?
It’s a shock to see my image on the TV. My personal images out there. True, social media is public. But on TV?
I set the lipstick aside on the nightstand, my eyes widening as I listen.
They’re now speculating about me? Just me?
“Think there’ll be a romance . . .?”
“Maybe, Carl. Her Georgetown colleagues describe her as being a sweet, hardworking girl who always did the right thing.”
“President Lawrence—or as they called him, ‘Law’—Hamilton and Senator Wells had a friendship dating back to their years in the army, so maybe it really is just a friendship between Matt Hamilton and Charlotte Wells. Time will tell.”
I flash back to the last night I spent in Matt’s arms. The hotel room becomes tiny, claustrophobic. I’m reeling like a drunk, and the kernel of fear my mother planted seems to grow a thousand and one limbs.
Really, there are other news stories to be told.
I skim the channels. On another station, they’re talking about Gordon having a deal to funnel supporters from the Republican candidates who lost their bid for the presidency.
Another has a story about President Jacobs and his latest executive order.
I flip to another channel, which is showing Matt speaking during one of his engagements. “Our country is on the brink of transformation.” And the crowd, drunk on him, is swept up in the moment.
I frown, march into the hotel closet to search through the clothes I packed, and pull out my most powerful power suit that says I mean business—and that’s all I mean.
I’m grateful the rest of the day focuses on what matters. The campaign.
Even more grateful to find that Matt had decided to cut the speculators’ wings, flat out.
Matt’s comment on the issue of our relationship on TV that evening: “Miss Wells is an old family friend, and more important, she’s perfect at her job. Thank you.” And with a nod and a grin, he leaves them all whispering and tittering.
“I’m pretty sure as we head to election our moments will become more and more fleeting,” I admit, laughing.
“I won’t allow that to happen.” He plunges his hands into his pockets. “I want to spend my every free moment with you—and I want you to spend yours with me.”
I feel shy all of a sudden. “You need your sleep,” I whisper, shooting him a chiding look.
Lightly smiling, he reaches out to brush the back of his thumb along mine. “I’ve got news for you, Miss Wells—my off-schedule hours are mine to do with as I please. And I intend to do you every one of them.”
Oh god, my sex just sort of gripped really tight.
He’s so sexy when he talks like this to me.
I’m flushed, uncertain about continuing to play this game, especially when it’s getting close to voting day, when the camera eye will keep zooming more and more on him as he continues making news and racking up voters.
“I’d like that. But I don’t know if it’s a good idea to keep taking risks . . . We’re ending this soon.” I chance a shy glance at him. “Aren’t we?”
He drops his hand, his jaw tightening. “I watched my mother take a backseat to the country. I can’t allow you to do that too,” he says.
“Maybe I don’t mind taking a backseat to the president . . .” I trail off, suddenly realizing what’s coming out of my mouth.
“That’s not happening. Ever.” His eyes flash, and I’m taken aback by the steely determination in his words and voice.
I quickly try to explain. “Look, the needs of one woman shouldn’t come before a whole country. I wouldn’t expect—”
“You don’t need to be anyone’s afterthought. Not even the country’s. I’m not doing that to you—don’t even ask me to. Not me, not anyone.” He looks at me, then rakes his hand through his hair. “God. You’ve still got so much ahead of you, you’ve got so much to offer, you don’t deserve eight years—four at least—” He trails off, his eyes dark, as if he hates remembering.
“It wouldn’t be hell to me if I spent it with you,” I whisper.
We’re interrupted when one of our team members appears on the terrace. We step back a little from each other when we hear the elevator ting and then Hessler comes over, instantly charging forward to talk business with Matt.
Matt’s smile fades, and he pops open a button on the sleeve of his shirt and folds his cuff as he listens. Getting down to the dirty job.
I spend more time listening than the five minutes we spent alone together just now, and then I quickly excuse myself.
I notice the steely frustration in his gaze as I leave, the way his jaw clenches as if he’s keeping himself from saying something.
30
NEWS
Charlotte
I hardly slept. I kept wanting to go to him, I kept sort of hurting, remembering how Matt got ticked off just thinking of me in the same situation his mother once endured. I kept thinking of him wanting to spend more time with me, and I kept checking my calendar, crossing another X on another day with him that I won’t ever recover.
I also got a call from my mother, and if I hadn’t already had enough on my mind, that phone call also had me tossing and turning all night.
She’s concerned about the rumors and concerned I might be harming this campaign more than doing it any good.
“Half of the press is speculating about you two,” she warns. “Are you sure you don’t want to consider quitting while you’re ahead and Matt is the country’s favorite, and come back to Women of the World?” she asked.
“I’m sure,” I told her, but last night, as sleep eluded me, the kernel of doubt she planted sat like a ton of bricks in my gut.
This morning I’m rushing to get ready. The TV is set on the local news, and I’m half listening—when I hear my own name being said.
I freeze in the bathroom, where I was applying makeup.
Disbelieving, I walk out to the bedroom and stare at my face on the TV screen—a picture of me from a high school yearbook, another of me standing discreetly behind Matt at one of the events.
A big red circle is around Matt and me in that picture. Next flashes an image of me from my social media that the campaign staff had actually asked me to take down; I’m in a bikini, pictured with Kayla, Sam, and Alan. Did the press gain access to it through other posts on my friends’ sites?
It’s a shock to see my image on the TV. My personal images out there. True, social media is public. But on TV?
I set the lipstick aside on the nightstand, my eyes widening as I listen.
They’re now speculating about me? Just me?
“Think there’ll be a romance . . .?”
“Maybe, Carl. Her Georgetown colleagues describe her as being a sweet, hardworking girl who always did the right thing.”
“President Lawrence—or as they called him, ‘Law’—Hamilton and Senator Wells had a friendship dating back to their years in the army, so maybe it really is just a friendship between Matt Hamilton and Charlotte Wells. Time will tell.”
I flash back to the last night I spent in Matt’s arms. The hotel room becomes tiny, claustrophobic. I’m reeling like a drunk, and the kernel of fear my mother planted seems to grow a thousand and one limbs.
Really, there are other news stories to be told.
I skim the channels. On another station, they’re talking about Gordon having a deal to funnel supporters from the Republican candidates who lost their bid for the presidency.
Another has a story about President Jacobs and his latest executive order.
I flip to another channel, which is showing Matt speaking during one of his engagements. “Our country is on the brink of transformation.” And the crowd, drunk on him, is swept up in the moment.
I frown, march into the hotel closet to search through the clothes I packed, and pull out my most powerful power suit that says I mean business—and that’s all I mean.
I’m grateful the rest of the day focuses on what matters. The campaign.
Even more grateful to find that Matt had decided to cut the speculators’ wings, flat out.
Matt’s comment on the issue of our relationship on TV that evening: “Miss Wells is an old family friend, and more important, she’s perfect at her job. Thank you.” And with a nod and a grin, he leaves them all whispering and tittering.
