“Matt Brems is here, Mr. President.”
“MATT!” the boy cries from the door of the Oval Office.
“Mr. President!” his mother chides the boy, horrified. “Mr. President, thank you for having us.”
“Hey, tiger.” Matt approaches and lifts his hand for a high-five.
I greet the boy’s father and hug his mother, Catherine. “How is he doing?”
“He’s a fighter.”
The boy looks around, smoothing a hand over his tie, his awe of the Oval etched on his face. “I want to be president one day.”
Matt motions for his chair.
The boy approaches with mounting disbelief.
Matt sits him down. Our eyes connect over his parents’ heads—and I know what he’s thinking. That we may have one of these, one day.
“Are you getting married?” the boy asks, surprising us.
“Yes.” I add, “Do you want to come to the wedding?”
“YES!” He giggles happily. “But Sara will be mad she couldn’t come too.”
“Who is Sara?”
“A girl at the hospital.”
“I suppose we should invite all of the children—they’ll be our special guests.”
I glance at Matt, and he stares back at me with this half smile that makes me blush and a look in his eyes that says go for it, baby; it’s your only wedding.
I’m grateful when Matt turns to the boy, giving me a moment to recapture my first lady role.
“Do you think your friends would want to come?” Matt asks the boy.
“Definitely!”
“Can we count on you to deliver the good news?”
“Yes!”
The boy hops off the chair and walks with his chest expanded, as if he just grew a couple of sizes because of the task ahead.
Before they leave, Matt sits across the coffee table from his parents and tells them, “I want you to check all options. I would like to personally support his treatment. I’ll also be starting a special fund in his name.”
“Thank you.” His mother starts crying.
When they leave, my eyes sting too. “Here we are with so much power but no ability to help him.”
A melancholy frown flits across his features. “We do what we can.”
Our eyes connect once again, and my heart somersaults in my chest. The vitality he radiates pulls at me, but the way his steady gaze bores into mine with silent expectation holds me in place.
“Were you thinking what I’m thinking?” I ask.
“We will have one of these in the White House.”
I nod.
Standing less than a foot away, he glances down at me, his gaze admiring as a corner of his lips hikes up. “You’ll make a great mother.”
“You’ll be the best dad.”
He runs his knuckles down my cheek, and sparks ignite all over my body. “I look forward to making you my wife soon.”
During the day, I don’t see Matt much. He’s been working nonstop and traveling occasionally too. He wants us to escape to Camp David for a few days after the wedding—a place where there will be no press, just us, and I’m looking forward to the peace and quiet.
Thoughts of our nights together keep filtering into my mind as I plan the wedding and make tour stops around D.C. and Virginia, visiting children and speaking to them about their futures—and how our future as a nation depends on them.
We’ve been running together on the White House grounds every morning when he’s in D.C., though. Having dinner together, then spending the night closeted in his room.
Every time I see him step across the threshold of his bedroom, my heart grows giddy and I’m breathing faster. I know it’s because we’re in love, but it’s also from the fact that we have never been openly dating each other until now, and I cannot get enough of him.
He cannot seem to get enough of me either.
It’s as if his masculinity has grown tenfold, his testosterone at an all-time high. We have sex multiple times a night. Shower sex, sleepy sex, morning sex. I sometimes watch him get dressed with a look of disbelief, wondering if he’s truly my fiancé. Sometimes, when I’m the one in a hurry to get dressed, I catch him standing in his towel, watching me dress with the look of a man who admires his woman, who wants his woman, who plans to keep enjoying his woman anytime he wants.
Most especially, with the look of a man who respects his woman.
I could not be any luckier.
He leaves for Africa for five days, and I take advantage of those days to plan something special for him. I’ve been trying to think of something to give him as a wedding gift. But what can you give the man who has it all?
“Alison, I want to get something special for the groom, a wedding present. He once told me he wanted a portrait of me. Would you photograph me? I want it to be a small picture, maybe five by eight, and I want to wear my hair down, my shoulders bare, and maybe just something sleek and a little sheer around my torso. And I want to be wearing his father’s pin.”
Alison’s eyes grow wide at my description. “I just fanned myself on his behalf. Whoa.”
I laugh. “I want it to look intimate. This isn’t for display; it’s only for him to have.”
“I’m your girl then. Where do you want to do the shoot?”
“I was thinking at my apartment. It’s leased for another month. I want it to be in simple surroundings—because I’ll always be the girl he met.”
Alison is thrilled at the prospect, so a day before he’s scheduled to arrive, after the Secret Service give us the green light, we head to my old apartment. I pull up a chair to the small window. There’s hardly a view outside, but I like the window in the background, with a regular view . . . of a regular life.