I swallow again. “That sounds good.”
He nods, releasing me only when we are seconds away from arriving at the fundraiser.
The state car comes to a stop, and I feel queasy from the stress of my first public appearance. Matt gets out of the car, and I hear the people waiting outside. Some gasp, others sort of whisper, and then the press just starts to roar.
“PRESIDENT HAMILTON! MR. PRESIDENT!”
Matt looks into the car and extends his hand to help me out.
Overwhelming doesn’t cover it. I’m not sure if it’s because it’s our first night out, or if things will always be like this, but I paste a smile on my face even though the strongest urge I have right now is to avoid the cameras. I take his hand for support, slipping my fingers into his as I set my feet on the sidewalk and stand, blinded by the flashes. I slip my arm into the crook of Matt’s and feel him tuck it even tighter as he guides me inside.
A line of people eager to greet him instantly forms inside the ballroom.
I stand by his side, meeting friends of his, celebrities.
Hearing them gush over Matt is amusing, and I’m mind-blown by how easily he steps into his president role—how easily he owns it.
The way he smiles at the people, sometimes slaps a man’s back as they shake hands, shows how accessible he is, how open, human, and honest. Even in a tux, you can’t miss the ripple of muscle under his jacket and shirt as he moves, shakes hands, is greeted by everyone in the room. It makes the very tips of my breasts sort of ache against the fabric of my dress. And wearing a dress that he sent for me to wear makes me feel so sexy, as if he’s claiming me somehow. After the conversation that we had in the car, knowing that he wants to move forward and make this official causes a fire between my legs whenever our eyes meet.
Stifling a hot little shiver, I make my legs move around and mingle, making myself accessible too, trying to tell myself this is how my mother would do it. This is how Matthew’s mother would do it.
I greet ambassadors, congressmen, senators.
From across the room, Matt watches me, and I can see the admiration in his eyes as I work the room.
At some point during the first hour, I feel him advance, passing me, his shoulder brushing mine, and he tells me, “Look at you work it,” his voice rough with desire.
“I know this game’s rules,” I say flippantly.
He raises his brows. “Do you? Baby, I invented this game.” And just as he leaves to greet an incoming crowd, he whispers in my ear, “I’d kiss you right now, but like I’ve said before, I don’t do things half-ass, especially my woman.”
And we part again, swallowed by the crowd.
“But my, was I surprised when President Hamilton announced you. You are so, so very young,” one of the elderly women, a judge, tells me, eyeing me narrowly.
I swallow nervously, feeling judged. “I am young,” I say. “But you can’t always measure maturity in years. I’m fully devoted to both the president and my role.”
I ease away, and only after that do I realize what I said.
I’m fully devoted to the president . . .
I wonder if he knows that though I’m doing my best to be grateful and polite, to put myself out there, this is hard for me.
Finding it a little hard to breathe, my dress constricting, I search for him among the crowd. He’s still being chased by a dozen people approaching him to say hello.
A yearning for something more normal steals into my mind, and suddenly I fully understand Matthew’s own wish for normalcy, growing up the way he did.
I know that whenever I see him for the following four or eight years, this will be the case. Every time we go out in public, this will be the case—he will be the sun all the planets in our universe gravitate around.
And the women?
The women are everywhere.
I watch them throw themselves at him and I get a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s never-ending. And of course they want him. He is Matthew Hamilton. Not only the hottest bachelor you’ve ever seen, but the country’s most powerful man.
I’m his acting first lady. I’d thought that it was a good idea to let him do his job, and me mine, before anything about our personal relationship came out. Maybe I’m just trying to get used to the cameras, trying to be sure the people will accept me. I would hate to be the intern the president screwed—any number of scenarios could come up, and a part of me has hoped that if I gain their respect as a first lady, they will accept me, no questions asked.
I may be deluding myself.
The press thrives on tiny morsels and tidbits. They can feast on me in a second, and like Matt has said before, people will think what they want to think.
I’ve wanted them to think he’s available.
Now I’m so resentful of the situation.
Feeling my cheeks flush with frustration and a desire to simply breathe, I turn around in search for a safe zone.
Right this second, I can’t fake the part with so many eyes on me, while all the female eyes are on him. I feel a little bit sick to my stomach wondering if I can really do this—be with someone like him, love someone like him, step up this high to do something of this magnitude.
I head outside, watching Stacey move across the room to where I’m going.
“I just want some air,” I explain.
She speaks into her mic and opens the door for me, and I’m grateful that she gives me space as I head down the long terrace, as far as possible, into the bite of the chilling wind.
I’m rattled and need some space. I’m trying to compose myself outside, and my heart nearly flies out of my throat when I hear his deep voice behind me. I hadn’t heard him approach. He’s stealthy like that; he comes to you unaware and before you know it, he is EVERYWHERE. Freaking everywhere. In your dreams, in your every thought, right in front of you, so big and beautiful and brawny and elegant and untouchable.