Mr. President(14)

After settling in, I head into the small kitchenette for coffee. With a full cup, I turn the moment I hear footsteps behind me, but I miscalculate how close the newcomer is. I start when I bump into her and slosh coffee all over her shoes.

I’m mortified. Dammit, Charlotte! I pry my coffee-stained fingers from the cup and set it aside and grab napkins. “That didn’t just happen. Your shoe.” I start to bend but the blonde with the sporty bob bends too, getting it before I do.

“Hey, it’s fine. A little excitement never hurt anybody.” She smiles. “I’m Alison.” She puts her hand out, and I take it. “The official campaign photographer.”

“Charlotte.”

“Charlotte, I know how you can make it up to me.”

She waves me after her and we head into Matt’s office as she carries her camera and stands inside. The instant I realize this is Matt freaking Hamilton’s office I’m walking into, I run my fingers nervously through my hair—spotting his broad shoulders and hot self in the chair behind the desk, all gorgeous and busy as he reads some papers.

As he reads, my finger gets stuck on a small knot in my hair and I quickly try to smooth it out.

When I finally do, I summon the courage to look at him, and he’s watching me, a frown on his face. “Do you want to be in the shot with me?” His voice is low and terribly deep.

I stare in confusion. “God, no. Absolutely not.”

“All that effort and you won’t let the world enjoy it?” he asks, his expression unreadable as he quirks an eyebrow, signaling to my hair.

Oh god.

I’m blushing. They say Matt enjoys life, he enjoys life so much he wants to change it. I smile, a little too nervous, and just stand aside as Alison sets up the camera. “Here, Matt?” she asks.

“Why don’t we do something more natural?” His dark gaze remains on me as he crooks a finger, luring me forward. “Charlotte, want to hand me one of those printouts behind you?” he asks, his voice a bit rough.

Feeling a knot of nervousness in my throat, I grab one and walk up to him, aware of him watching every step forward that I take when I hear the consecutive clicks.

“Lovely,” says Alison.

Matt takes the folder with lazy grace, his gaze still holding mine, his voice still terribly deep and unnerving. “See? I knew there was a reason I brought you on. You make me look good,” he says approvingly. His lips curl just a tad.

I lift my brows; he lifts his too, as if challenging me. Heat crawls up my neck and cheeks. Really, there’s nothing that can make him look a little better than he already does.

By the time I go home I’m beyond embarrassed. Go ahead and look like a crushing fool, Charlotte, I chide as I head to my apartment.



When I get home, I’m thinking of the most somber outfit I have. No matter if I’m petite and have a childlike face, I want to be taken seriously here. My feet are killing me, my neck is killing me, but I don’t slip into my pajamas until I pull out a soot-black power suit, slacks and a short black well-cut little jacket for tomorrow. I spread it out on the chair that sits by my window and eye it judiciously. It’s smart and crisp, exactly how I want to look tomorrow.

Matt Hamilton is going to take me seriously if it kills me.

My parents are proud.

Kayla has been texting nonstop, and she wants the details.

I spend a while texting her back, alone in my apartment.

I hadn’t realized how lonely it would be to sleep in my apartment on my own. You wanted to be independent, Charlotte. This is it.

The light of my answering machine is blinking, and I play back the messages.

“Charlotte, I’m really not happy about you being there in that little apartment, especially now that you’re doing this. Your father and I would like you to come back home if you’re serious about embarking on a year of campaigning. Call me.”

I groan. Oh no, Mother, you won’t.

We had discussed that I’d be able to move from home and carve my own path at twenty. Mother, not happy when the date approached and I was still in college tempted to be foolish, pushed it to twenty-two. Now, a month after my twenty-second birthday, I’ve paid my dues, stood my ground, and refused for her to push the date farther.

She insisted the building was relatively unsafe—with only one man at the door. If any of the inhabitants summoned him upstairs, the door and lobby would be unmanned. It was small and uncomfortable and not safe.

I thought it was perfect. Well situated, the right size to keep clean and tidy. Although I haven’t met anyone except two of my neighbors, one a young family, the other an army veteran. And I do feel, at night, that things creak and croak and keep me awake. This was the first step of me carving my path on my own.