Mr. President(38)

“Except I find myself craving some alone time with you.” His lips tilt in mischief.

His smile soon fades and shadows enter his eyes.

“It would be easier had I not run. During my father’s terms at the White House, I used to dream about freedom. A thousand times, my father said I would be president. He told his friends, his friends’ friends, and he often told me. I’d laugh and shake it off.”

“He even told me,” I say good-naturedly, and the warmth of his smile sends shivers through me.

He makes no effort to hide the fact that he’s looking at me tenderly. “He did, didn’t he?”

His eyes.

They just eat me up.

“I lost my father the day he decided that being president would be his legacy.” His eyes are leveled on mine beneath his drawn eyebrows. “He tried juggling it all, but he couldn’t do it. We kept thinking when it was over, he’d be ours again. He kept promising when it was over, he’d have time for us again.”

I swallow a lump of emotion in my throat. I know what comes next.

“Never happened.” The cold glint in his eyes sends a chill through me.

“It’s been thousands of days since. Too many years spent living in the past. Too many years wondering why. Too many nights wanting things to be right in our country.”

We’re silent.

There’s a tension emanating from him, pulsing around me, tempting me to draw my arms around him and simply crush him against me if that were even possible.

Matt glances at the statue and drags a hand across his jaw.

“Charlotte, I have enormous respect for you and your family. In so many ways, I feel responsible for you.”

“Matt, you’re not, you’re not responsible for me—”

“I’m not supposed to want you,” he says, cutting me off.

“What?” My eyes widen in disbelief.

What can I say when he looks at me in that way?

He’s looking at me as if he’s frustrated that he wants me.

Silence settles between us.

“I think of you. I think of you too often, if you ask me,” he says.

I nervously tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear and stare at my lap. “I think of you too.”

My comment seems to come as no surprise. “So what are we going to do about it?” he asks softly.

“Nothing,” I say.

He laughs, and drags a hand over his face and tsks, shaking his head. “Nothing’s just not in my vocabulary. Is it risky? Yes. Is it selfish on my part? Maybe. But I’m not just going to do nothing.”

I swallow. “Matt.” I glance around nervously, trying to steer away from the path this conversation has taken. “Have you realized people could talk if anyone recognized us? Why did you bring me here?”

“Isn’t it obvious? I knew you’d love it here.”

I laugh. “I really do, you wicked man.” I try to push at his chest teasingly, but he catches my wrist and pulls me closer, his eyes darker.

“I’m so wicked you have no idea.”

He’s looking at my mouth not as if he wants to kiss it.

Matt is staring at my mouth as if he means to devour it.

“You know you can’t kiss me,” I croak even as we now look at each other’s lips.

He brushes his thumb over my lips. “I can kiss you. I definitely want to kiss you. I think we both know I mean to kiss you. Long and hard. I want my tongue rolling around yours, Charlotte, and I want your delicate little moans, too.”

God help me. I’m pretty sure nothing could stop this man from getting anything he wants—nothing. Except maybe me.

Because Rhonda is right.

What we’re doing together transcends me, transcends even him.

And even though I’m twenty-two, I know that getting Matt back into the White House will be the biggest thing I ever did.

“Except … C is for campaigning. We can’t do something foolish,” I say, trying to brainwash myself that I don’t want this just as much.

He smiles tenderly. “If you’d ask me right now, C is for Charlotte coming in my arms.”

Shocked and breathless by his bluntness, I turn to stare blindly at the inscription of freedom on the wall across from me—of all of us having freedom. And yet I have never been more aware of not having the freedom to fall in love with this man.

“There won’t be any of that,” I say.

Matt slides his hand to stroke the top of mine, pausing and leaving it over mine when a group of teenagers shuffles into the cavern, and he tightens his jaw and remains silent as, fortunately, they don’t glance our way.

I shift on the bench—an inch away from his touch—then turn back to Matt and narrow my eyes in exaggerated suspicion, wondering how many women have caught his interest. And how long it lasts. “Why aren’t you married yet, anyway?”