He stands and goes to get himself coffee, then he stands a few paces to my right, staring at the TV, frowning very hard.
He looks so good.
We’ve been in a blur of campaigning in reception halls, high school and college gyms, sprinting towards Election Day. Things will get even more intense after today—I’m sure we’ll spend another few months away from D.C.
And suddenly I don’t know if I can do this. If I can live with this relentless little ache while I travel with him, watch him kiss those babies and genuinely, truly hold them because he wants to, not because it’s good press.
As the news continues, he flashes on screen. Full head of tousled sable hair with highlights. The entitlement reflected in his informal dress only makes him stand out more. “Matthew Hamilton’s good judgment, drive, and discipline are going to be strong weapons against the Republican and Democratic nominees,” the newscaster is saying before they head back to tallying the results.
So here we are, watching the early returns as the presumptive nominees of the opposing parties are named.
No surprises there—Jacobs and Thompson. Though Hessler is still surprised, it seems.
“What the ever-loving crap. One is about as old-fashioned as a goddamn priest. And don’t get me started on the other. There aren’t enough bullpens in the country to hold all the bullshit he spouts,” Hessler groans of the opponents.
We all seem to glance at Matt for his opinion.
Matt runs his hands over his neck, frowning thoughtfully. “Our government will keep whoever wins in check. That’s the beauty of our system.”
Hessler huffs. “As long as they don’t cozy up to the idea of issuing a ton of executive orders.”
Matt smirks at that, then stares thoughtfully at the TV, obviously weighing his opponents’ virtues and flaws.
I stand up and head to the kitchenette outside the viewing room and have to pass by Matt. He doesn’t move to let me go by. His gaze darkens as I approach, and he reaches out impulsively to my neck.
Gently he seizes the eagle pin at my collar. He strokes the eagle with the pad of his thumb. Once, that’s all, his eyes shining with pride as he does.
I hold my breath. He searches my expression with curiosity. And his smile fades. He’s still holding the pin. I’m afraid that he can see I’m almost panting—damn my body! There’s a little hurricane of butterflies in my stomach and I’m afraid this guy—so damn perceptive all the time—can see it too.
I’m nervously inching back, and the move makes him drop his hand. He finally moves to let me pass, and Mark suddenly follows me for a refreshment.
“Something going on with you two?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, annoyed at how nosy he is. “Nothing.”
“Good. Phew! I was worried for a moment.”
I press my lips together and extract a water bottle from the small fridge.
“It’s all everyone talks about here—all those phone calls from girls claiming they’re Charlotte and they want to talk to Matt.”
“Maybe their names are Charlotte.” I close the fridge and crack the bottle open.
“All three dozen of them? No way.” He shakes his head and wiggles his eyebrows. “There’s only one Charlotte as far as I’m concerned . . . and unfortunately, there’s also only one Charlotte as far as Matt is concerned. He can’t stop looking at you.”
“Mark . . . nothing’s going on.”
He grins then, and he leans an elbow on the doorknob.
“Good. Do you want to go out with me this weekend?”
“Excuse me?”
“A date.” He grins.
I hesitate, then realize Matt is still a few steps behind him. He’d been in a conversation with Carlisle, but is now looking in my direction.
If I’m determined to get him out of my system and nix any rumors about us, too, a date is a way to go. Other fishes in the sea, no need to go for the Great White Shark. But all I can say is, “Not until we win.”
Then I quietly step out and go back to the viewing room, sipping my water.
The crowd soon disperses, and I find myself battling the urge to linger behind and ask Matt about his weekend. I head to the elevators with the crowd, doing my best to force myself to go home.
Matt frowns when I pass him dismissively. He moves abruptly to stop me, taking me by the elbow. “Hey.”
I look up and glance around, concerned that anyone could have seen. But they’ve all shuffled into the elevators.
We stare at one another, and there are a thousand messages in his stare that I can’t decipher but somehow feel, in my belly, like a tangle of crackling wire.
Lips tipping upward in an adorable way I try not to notice, Matt waves me forward. I cautiously walk with him. He has so much power he’s not just a person, but a presence.
He’s wearing a smile, a wicked little twinkle in his eyes as if he knows . . . everything.
He frowns down at me and jerks the knob of his office door open. “After you, Miss Wells.”
He smiles like a gentleman, but his stare is that of a naughty caveman as I go inside and he shuts the door behind him.
I inhale for courage, but there’s one thing about his office here in headquarters. The upper half is glass, and anyone who returns to the building could see us.
My heart is thudding madly as I hear him approach from behind. He slides one hand around my waist and pulls me back against the wall of his chest. “Hmm. Your hair smells good.”
I exhale.
“Always different,” he adds as an afterthought.
“We’re always hotel-hopping; I’m at the mercy of what’s offered in my room.”
“This is real, though. This is yours,” he murmurs.
He seizes my shoulders. His tanned, long-fingered hands giving me a delicious little squeeze.
I try to suppress my reactions as I turn around in his hold and lift my eyes to his face. He’s staring down at me quietly, as if trying to figure me out.
“So, Mark,” he says, his eyes scanning me.
“What Mark?”
He lifts his brows pointedly.
“Oh, you mean Mark.”
“Mark Conelly.” His eyes flick to the door, then to me. “What does he want with you?”
“Nothing. He’s just a friend.”
“You sure?”
There’s an odd little hum in my body when I see the roiling swirls of darkness in his eyes.