I’m pregnant with Matthew Hamilton’s baby.
I look at the tests in bewilderment, amazement, excitement, and fear. Complete, paralyzing fear.
Shock slaps me.
I’m confused, wandering restlessly down the halls as I wait for him to wrap up in the West Wing for the day. I call Portia and ask her when I can see the president. He’s in a cabinet meeting, but she assures me she’ll let me know when he’s done and fit me in before he meets with his national security advisor.
Forty-eight minutes later, I walk into the Oval, and Matt is looking down at some papers, his glasses perched on that elegant nose of his, one of his hands gripping his hair as if he’s frustrated. Some bill not quite there yet, I suppose.
“Matthew?”
I breathe in shallow, quick gasps and place my hand on my stomach as he raises his head, concern etched on his face.
“I’m pregnant.” My voice is quiet, worried, but it lands like a gigantic weight in the room.
Matt slowly pries his glasses off to look at me, raising an eyebrow. His face set, thoughtful, strong and unreadable. There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes—hope and something raw and primal.
“I’m pregnant. I’m trying to stay calm and not freak out,” I admit, my voice trailing to a whisper.
His eyes flash as if he’s fighting some unnamable emotion; he lowers his head for a long, eternal minute.
And then he sets his glasses aside and kicks his chair back, crosses the room, grabs me by the chin so my eyes are level with his, and reaches out and puts his hand on my stomach, lowering his head, his chest expanding as he inhales and sets his forehead on mine.
“Say it. Again,” he growls.
Ten minutes later, I’m looking at a hand resting against my belly as we lie on his bed. My heart is racing and practically about to jump out of my body.
He hasn’t really said anything. He simply opened the door to the Oval, jerked his head in the direction of the hall, and I followed.
I followed down the hall, and up the stairs to the residence—and to his room, where he shut the door with a soft click.
I lie down in his bed, watching him kick off his shoes and come to sit beside me, his hand pulling my shirt up and resting on my stomach—his eyes as firmly fastened to me as his hand is.
I start to speak. “I know this is crazy but I . . .” My voice breaks then, because the hand starts to gently rub against my belly. A soothing motion that just makes me exhale and melt farther into the bed pillows.
His skin tan and smooth, his hand contrasts with the milky white skin of my stomach as it rises and falls with each breath I take.
I look at that hand and feel waves of emotion crash against me. Excitement, fear, amazement . . .
His head is now bent down to my stomach. He hasn’t said anything yet. I am practically bursting with nerves.
“Matt . . . please say something,” I beg softly.
I didn’t know how he would react, and I even considered showing him the “positive” marking on the first pregnancy test I took. Never mind the three subsequent positives I got after that. But I didn’t. I just spoke the words.
God. He was just sworn into office, is just laying down his plans to create real change in the country. A baby is the last thing he needs right now . . . it would overwhelm him and stress him beyond belief.
But now, there is no avoiding it, and my heart is clenching as I look at this man, his soft, dark hair hovering over my stomach, his hand soothing my belly.
I realize he may be disappointed. Or maybe contemplating how to handle this. The press conferences we need to hold, how to tell his mother . . .
Then I feel his eyes on me.
His eyes are impossibly dark, as if he’s fighting some emotion he doesn’t want to feel or acknowledge. “I don’t even know where to begin . . .” His voice thickens, but his expression tells me what he doesn’t speak in words.
He cups my face in both of his hands and kisses me fiercely, telling me everything I need to know.
Suddenly, as he sucks on my tongue with so much thirst that my toes curl, I really want to cry.
Because I didn’t plan for this baby. Neither did he.
But I want it. I want him to want it too.
When he draws back, he glances down at me proprietarily, his eyes lit up like firebrands, his expression so harsh with emotion and yet so tender. “I love you,” he says quietly, cupping my face in one warm hand. “You know that.”
His lips kiss my forehead as he whispers, “God, I really don’t want to fuck up now.”
He pulls back to bend over my stomach again, and I see the look of amazement in his eyes as he kisses right below my belly button. He rubs his cheek against that same spot and our eyes lock.
We’re having a baby.
Holy shit.
A million realizations start to rush into my head.
I have this man’s baby inside of me. We’re going to be a family. I’m going to make him a father. I’m going to be a mom!
Holy crap!
Are we ready?
I look at him and he sees the worry in my eyes and shakes his head, signaling me not to worry.
I nod my head and whisper, “What if we’re not ready?”
He looks at me and comes up to a full sit beside me, taking me into his arms.
He rubs my back with his big, warm hands, and I let myself be supported by him completely.
“I’m scared,” I breathe.
I love him so much I feel like my heart will break with the magnitude. I feel tears well up in my eyes as I think of all he is and all he has done. He is more than I ever wished for, more than I ever dreamed of, and I cry silent tears, thanking the world and the universe for giving me such a man.