“Charlotte, are you sure about this?” my mother asked this morning.
“Yes,” I lied, as I packed, nervous, excited, knowing only that I’d do anything to make a difference, and that this is the best chance I’ll ever get to make a mark. Knowing, also, that I’ll do anything for him—to be close to him.
As I spoke, I was fully aware of a group of Secret Service agents, my new detail, outside my door.
“Charlotte,” my mother said tearfully.
“Don’t tell anyone yet, not until the president gives the press conference.”
She hesitated. “I don’t know if I’m terribly proud or terribly concerned right now.”
“It’s okay, you can be both.” I exhaled. “I won’t disappoint you.”
“You never could.”
Oh yes, I thought to myself, I could, but I didn’t want to think of the one selfish act that, if discovered, could have shamed my mother terribly. The one thing I took for myself, without concern for anyone else. The affair I had with Matthew Hamilton before he became president. I was so afraid of a scandal.
I still am. He made it clear from the start that he didn’t want a family, and I’m not sure I’ll bear my heart getting broken twice. Still, not for a second would I think of denying him. I guess I’m hoping.
Hoping we can make things work. Hoping that maybe . . . I belong here. Determined to try.
Matt began his presidency without a wife. I know his greatest fear is not being able to have both, and he sacrificed his personal needs for those of his country. I admire him for it. If he can put his country first, so can I.
We can take things slow. I can try this role on for size—and even though it already feels gargantuan, I’m excited. The only other time I’ve ever been this excited was when he asked me to join his campaign.
But for slow, things sure are moving fast. The Secret Service at my door, very early this morning. Now here I am, inhaling as I take in the room.
“It’s the Queens’ Bedroom,” she explains.
I clear my throat as I take in the luxurious bedroom before me. Oh god, the man I love is . . . sleeping somewhere near. Night after night after night.
“The president will be right across the hall. His chief of staff asked me to take you to see him, once you were ready.”
I inhale, stepping into my room in the most photographed residence in the land, overwhelmed, happy, honored . . . and afraid that I won’t be able to fit the shoes of all the first ladies before me. I set my things down, then I look at Clarissa and smile, nodding, terribly humbled as I stride down the long, busy halls and toward the West Wing.
“Miss Charlotte Wells, here to see the president,” Clarissa tells Matt’s assistant. She worked with us on the campaign, but she was stationed in San Francisco and I didn’t have the opportunity to talk to her. I say hello now, and she smiles and quickly steps away from her desk.
“He’s expecting you. I’m Portia. It’s very nice to meet the first lady.”
“Thank you.” I’m a little light-headed. She opens the door of the Oval Office after a few raps.
I gulp as I see the regal curtains framing the windows at the end. And the desk.
And . . . Matt. In a suit.
I walk into the Oval. Matt stands leaning on his desk, arms crossed, while five other men and his chief of staff are there. I spot Hessler and Carlisle among the group, and I smile, my eyes sliding back helplessly to a pair of dark espresso ones.
“Charlotte,” he greets, his lips curving.
“Mr. President.”
“So nice to see this lady right here.” Carlisle gives me a brief hug, and Hessler a nod and a rare smile, before Matt motions with his head and they all start leaving.
The door shuts, and I’m alone with him.
With him.
And he is everything.
All of him.
All of this place. This room.
He smiles a little. “Welcome home, beautiful.”
I swallow. I laugh, aware of his eyes sort of quietly, intensely caressing me. “This room is bigger than I imagined.”
He just smiles at me, motioning to the sitting area. I follow and sit across from him, licking my lips nervously.
“I’m so happy to see Carlisle and Hessler. I thought you’d ask Carlisle to be your chief of staff?” I breathe.
“I did. He declined due to health. Besides, he likes campaigning. He wants to be ready in four years when we run again.” His voice so close is soothing, yet quietly arousing, too. “He’s part of my kitchen cabinet—him, Beckett, and Hessler.”
“Hessler won’t be joining you either?”
“He wanted experience before attacking the position of chief of staff himself. They both seem more inclined to be ready for when I run again in four years.” There’s a trace of laughter in his voice. “I know—seems so far away. But that’s the way their minds are working.”
“How do you feel, Matthew?”
“Ready. I’m ready.” His expression stills and grows serious, and he glances around the Oval, at the George Washington portrait, then at me. “I’m making big changes and it’s going to take time, but I’m getting them done no matter what I have to do.” He frowns, his eyes level under drawn brows. “How do you feel?”
“Scared. Happy. Scared,” I repeat, laughing. Then I shrug, and meet his watchful, intent gaze. “I couldn’t sleep, thinking of this opportunity. I want to open the White House a bit more, for citizens to experience it in a different way, not just as a museum they walk into. I’d like to do things for women and children, too.”