Campaigning is as exhausting as I remember, and I love it just as fiercely as I recall. Years ago, youth made us believe in the impossible, but it’s only those who believe in the impossible who can actually make it possible. And we have. For four years. We’ve tried, and succeeded, so many times.
Matt gives me a genuinely admiring stare. “I appreciate you being here.”
I smile wearily and get a bottle of cold water from the fridge, then come back to the living area to take a sip. “I’ve always found it inspiring. When I watch you move all those people.” I frown a little. “Makes me wonder half the time what’s real and what’s bullshit.”
“Charlotte,” he chides. “We don’t have a bull in the pen at the offices. None of it is bullshit.”
“All politicians bullshit.”
He lifts his brows. “I’m not a politician.”
“You are now.”
I laugh, and then watch him approach.
The air crackles with adrenaline. His satisfaction pulses off him in waves, and my own body responds in kind.
He takes a seat next to me as I lie curled on the side of the couch, leaning forward on his elbows and reaching out to pull my legs toward him. He’s close now. Our energies fuse, combine, and seem to multiply the thrill of a successful evening by a thousand.
“I was right.”
“Right about what?” I ask.
“Bringing you in that very first day.”
“Why did you? Old times’ sake? I dazzled you with my bad manners the night we met? Or my huge appetite for quinoa? Or with my letter?”
He just smiles and doesn’t answer.
He’s smiling as he takes my feet in his hand, tracing his thumb along the arches. For a moment I’m transfixed watching his thumb. The most delicious shiver runs down my spine, to my stomach and the tips of my breasts.
“I’m ticklish.”
And breathless and excited and in love.
“I see that.”
He lifts his head, slowly cupping one foot by the heel and lifting it up, and up, and up. He opens his mouth, watching me as he nips the tip of my toe. He engulfs it, runs his tongue over the back, sucks gently as he starts running his other hand up my arm, to my face. He inserts his thumb into my mouth, slowly rubbing my thumb with his other hand.
“Matt,” I groan. I stop his hand, look down at our fingers. His hands obsess me. Why they obsess me, I don’t know, but they’re so big, look so powerful. He holds SO MUCH in those hands.
He grabs my shoes and looks at me as he slips and straps them back on, his fingers touching the same toes that are still tingling. Neither of us says a word once my shoes are on, and he keeps his hands on the top arch of my foot for several long, extra heartbeats.
“I love you,” he says simply, grabbing my face and pressing a kiss to my lips.
Exhaling, he stands up to get ready, and I glance at the clock and leap to my feet and follow him.
We are traveling extensively. Sometimes Matty travels with us, the times he doesn’t choose to remain in D.C. with my parents or Matt’s mother.
The crowds follow wherever President Hamilton goes. People want to see him, they want to see his first lady, they want to dote over his son, they want to pet Jack, and they want pictures—goodness, are the media covering us everywhere we go?
Matt is, as usual, a good sport with the press, but I get nervous when I’m walking with little Matty and reporters are snapping pictures and causing Stacey and the guys to work extra to push them all back.
Still, I love being out in the country, seeing the changing scenery. Deserts to forests, cities to small towns, farms and pasture to stoplights and highways. And the people—different and unique, everyone hoping for the glory to keep shining on the United States. Everyone trusting Matthew Hamilton to keep bringing it.
Today we’re in Philadelphia, and I get to introduce him to the people.
“Well, it really is such a pleasure to be here,” I say, breathless. “What an amazing crowd!” They all clap and cheer. “I know why you’re all here. It’s because my husband is quite charming and gives quite a good speech.” They laugh. “And also, because I know you know that Matthew Hamilton genuinely cares about you, about this country, about what’s right. I have witnessed firsthand his dedication, his effort, his complete devotion to this country, and if I weren’t already hopelessly in love with him, that would be enough to seal the deal for me right now.” More laughter. “The changes he’s put into effect these past few years . . . Millions of new jobs. Better education for our children, a more comprehensive healthcare plan, a thriving economy, and our outstanding free trade, which enables you, as Americans, to have any product for the best price available at your fingertip . . . this is only the beginning of the more extensive changes he’s been working to address . . . and I definitely hope you sit tight and listen to him share them with you tonight. So without further ado, ladies and gentlemen, I present my husband, Matthew Hamilton, the President of the United States!”
He takes the stage, leans into the microphone. “She’s better at this than I am.” He smirks, winking at me as I take a spot on the sidelines, and I laugh at the same time the crowd does.
“Thank you, Mrs. Hamilton,” he tells me with a nod as he takes in his doting crowd. “She’s right. It’s a great crowd today . . .”
“HAMMY! GO GET IT, HAMMY!” someone shouts.
“I will,” he promises, grinning, then falling sober.
“Today, I want to discuss something with you. Last night, I got word that I’m to be a father again. The first lady is expecting.” The smile on his face is absolutely dazzling, and so contagious there’s not a sad face in the house.