by Katy Evans
He smiles at me, and cants his head in the barest of nods, and there’s something about that smile and that nod that fills me with an odd sense of anticipation.
For what, I just don’t know.
I ride in the back of the town car with my mother, sort of unable to stop replaying the things Matt said to me when he came over. Sort of hating the fact that I still can’t control the things he brings out in me. “He’s going to win,” my mother says softly.
“Do you think so?” I ask her.
The wanting for him to win suddenly hits me with so much force, it almost overwhelms me. Sitting there talking with him, I sensed a genuine quality in him and a strength that makes you want to cling to it. Which is silly, really, but don’t you want a strong president? You want someone who can keep his head in a crisis, someone confident, and someone real.
“Well, his announcement caused quite a stir. But the Democrats and the Republicans won’t let go of the presidency that easily,” my mother says, and I press my lips together.
As I start to get out of the car, my mother says, “Charlotte, you know how much I hate you living alone here …”
“Mom,” I groan, shaking my head with a chiding frown, then wave her off and shut the door behind me.
That night is not the first time in the past eleven years that I dream about Matt Hamilton again, but it’s the first one where the guy in the dream looks exactly like he did tonight.
6
THE NEXT MORNING
Charlotte
I’m still thinking about the previous evening as I head to Women of the World. I’ve been working with my mother since I was eighteen, winging both my studies in Georgetown and social service hours here. I help run the organization and my days are usually a combination of fundraising, job hunting, and supportive talks with the women we take under our wing. I’ve just gotten off a phone call when a tall man with a full head of salt-and-pepper hair appears at my office door and knocks.
“Hi, Charlotte. Good morning.” He speaks with the familiarity of old friends.
I recognize his face, but I can’t pinpoint where I know him from.
“Benton Carlisle …” He extends his hand, which I promptly shake. “Unfortunately we didn’t get the chance to be introduced last night. I’m Matt Hamilton’s campaign manager.”
My heart skips, regardless of me wanting it to or not. “Oh, of course—Mr. Carlisle, I’m sorry. I haven’t had coffee yet. Please, sit down.”
“I won’t be staying long. I’m simply here on behalf of Matt.”
“Matt?” I question.
“Yes. He wants to formally extend you an invitation to join his campaign.”
If seeing Matt’s campaign manager in my office wasn’t shock enough, this certainly is.
“I …”
“He told me you were the first in line to help and he’d hate to refuse his first offer.”
My eyes widen. “Mr. Carlisle—”
He laughs. “I admit I was taken aback. Most of our recruits have experience, something which you have nothing of. And yet here I am, first thing in the morning.” He looks at me as if wondering what I did to deserve this and I don’t like his possible assumptions.
“I agree that I have no experience. I appreciate the offer, but I’ll have to decline.”
“Fair enough.”
“But please send my best wishes to Mr. Hamilton.”
“I will.” He leaves his card. “In case there’s anything we can do for you.”
We shake hands, and I watch the man depart as elegantly and soundlessly as he came in. When he is out of view, I sag in my seat, stunned.
The rest of the day I focus on busywork, but when I head home to my apartment, I sit on the couch, my precious cat Doodles perched on my lap, and I wonder why I declined the offer. I’ve been wanting to do something important on my own, out of my parents’ shadows. Working on a campaign, wouldn’t that be thrilling? Exciting? Why didn’t I leap? I wonder if my fear has to do with the same reason it would be thrilling and exciting. Because it would involve Matthew Hamilton, and he is both what inspires me to agree and makes me crave to keep a safe distance.
That evening, I watch a TV show where one of the candidates is discussing purely incendiary things about poor immigrants, poor refugees, and how he’ll raise taxes so that we can become the world’s greatest army again.
He makes it sound as if refusing to help those who are suffering is the only way we could ever return to our golden days.
I press my lips together and turn off the television.
Maybe I can help. I believe in him. I believe he’s better than any of the options they’ve been tossing around on TV.
I grab Carlisle’s card and call him. “Mr. Carlisle, this is Charlotte Wells. I’ve been thinking about the offer … and yes. I want to help. I’m ready to be used in any capacity and I’m ready to start Monday.”
There’s a stunned silence, then, “Matt will be pleased.”
He sends me the address where I should present myself on Monday, then I hang up and stare, wide-eyed, at my phone. Holy shit! I just signed up to work on Matthew Hamilton’s campaign.
7
FIRST DAY
Charlotte
My eyes are fixed out the window of the back of the cab as I ride to the seat of the Matt Hamilton Presidential Campaign.
It’s a clear February day.
D.C.’s quiet strength seems a permanent reminder of this being the home of the country’s powerful executive seat. Sweeping monuments, carpets of green, politicians swarming its cafés and streets, Washington sits proudly and strongly as the most elegant city in the nation.
There’s nowhere I’d rather live. If there is something beyond here … it’s just a temporary fling.
My pulse is in D.C.
The pulse of the nation is in D.C.
If New York is the brain, Los Angeles is the beauty, D.C. is the heart, the very soul vibrating in our monuments, each one of them a testament to the strength and beauty of the American experience.
So the cab takes me through the heart of it all, past the labyrinth of the Pentagon, along the Potomac, and by the Lincoln Memorial, the pristine white walls of the White House, and the dome of the Capitol.
I don’t know why I’m here.
What possessed me to want to leave my job at Women of the World?
The TV has replayed his announcement endlessly, and I’ve replayed the inaugural party in my head just as endlessly.
No, I do know why I’m here. Because he asked me, maybe. And because I want to take a little part in history.
I get out of the cab and rummage through my purse as the two-story building, seat of the Matt Hamilton campaign, looms before us.
I pay the driver, and the moment my strides start eating up sidewalk, I feel recharged with hope and anticipation.
I’m led inside by a middle-aged woman with a crisp voice and an even crisper walk. “He’s ready to see you.” She signals to the main area of the second floor, where a group of people hover anxiously around Matt—six feet plus of natural athleticism, brains, and hotness to the extreme clad in gray slacks and a black shirt—all of them staring down at a long table.
Matt’s arms are crossed, he’s frowning at some of the slogans he’s being shown.
“I’m not wild about this one.” His voice is deep, and it hums with thoughtfulness as he taps a finger to something he doesn’t like. “Reeks of bullshit, and that’s not what we’re about.”
We, as in he and his team.
He seems like the most down-to-earth, unpretentious guy, even when he’s easily the most famous.
“Charlotte.”
He lifts his head and sees me. And he gets that laughter in his eyes I remember so well, and I can’t see what he finds so funny about me. But I smile nonetheless, his smile infectious.
As he eats up the floor toward me, he’s wearing that easy charm that makes everyone want to be his best friend. Or his mother, or better yet, his w
ife. He does have that thing a reporter once said that “suggests to the easily suggestible he needs some loving.” A sad tilt to his eyes makes him all the more handsome.
He’s the man his father groomed and that a nation has waited for.
Hamiltons inspire loyalty more than any other family ever has who’s been in executive power.
His hand clasps mine.
“Mr. Hamilton.”
“Matt,” he corrects.
His hand is warm, big. All-engulfing. I feel it slide over mine, I shake it and try to hold his gaze. But it feels as he squeezes me in his grip that he’s squeezing my whole body. I’m nerve-wracked, and I blame the twinkle in his eyes and that handsome love-me, take-me-home, mother-me-or-fuck-me face.
He drops his hand at his side and shoves it into his pocket, and I glance at it for a second and wonder if he felt that electric rush that I felt when he touched me.
He glances down at my hands too, as if realizing how small my hand is compared to his too. “Settling in all right?”
“Yes, sir. I’m absolutely thrilled to be here.”
“Matt …” someone calls.
He nods at the guy who hands him a phone, reaches out with his free hand and sets it lightly on the back of my shoulder as he nods at me. “We’ll catch up, Charlotte.”
He squeezes me—the lightest bit—and the touch sears me—it’s a little unexpected—and though it lasts just a second, it sends a frisson of heat shooting down my body. My toes curl in my shoes.
I can’t help but follow his retreating back as he lifts the cell phone to his ear and retreats to his office to take the call.
God, I’m in so much trouble.
Focus, Charlotte!
Nope. Not on his ass.
I tear my gaze free and paste a smile on my face as I’m led toward my cubicle.
My first day consists of a basic rundown of my duties as a political aide.
“Why did he run? He’s been fiercely trying to protect his privacy for years.”
Two young women talk by my desk, one dark-haired and the other with a sporty, short blonde bob.
“True. But only for as long as he chose to be,” the blonde tells the brunette.
They glance at him. I resist the urge to do the same.
Matt is stepping into the limelight after years fighting for his privacy from obsessed reporters. The resourceful press would find itself filtering into Harvard when he began college, and every event where he was enlisted to help promote, he’d end up being the headline rather than the cause he was so generously trying to push.
It annoyed him.
“When he offered the job, I asked him, why me? And he said, why not you?” the blonde then shares. “Because you’re so hot no woman can work around you and think straight,” she answers herself, laughing.
I smile and pull my attention back to organizing my desk.
My office is perfection, with a view of the city. Outside this building it feels serene, the country on track, as always, but there’s a hum inside this building, in my coworkers, in me.
After settling in, I head into the small kitchenette for coffee. With a full cup, I turn the moment I hear footsteps behind me, but I miscalculate how close the newcomer is. I start when I bump into her and slosh coffee all over her shoes.
I’m mortified. Dammit, Charlotte! I pry my coffee-stained fingers from the cup and set it aside and grab napkins. “That didn’t just happen. Your shoe.” I start to bend but the blonde with the sporty bob bends too, getting it before I do.
“Hey, it’s fine. A little excitement never hurt anybody.” She smiles. “I’m Alison.” She puts her hand out, and I take it. “The official campaign photographer.”
“Charlotte.”
“Charlotte, I know how you can make it up to me.”
She waves me after her and we head into Matt’s office as she carries her camera and stands inside. The instant I realize this is Matt freaking Hamilton’s office I’m walking into, I run my fingers nervously through my hair—spotting his broad shoulders and hot self in the chair behind the desk, all gorgeous and busy as he reads some papers.
As he reads, my finger gets stuck on a small knot in my hair and I quickly try to smooth it out.
When I finally do, I summon the courage to look at him, and he’s watching me, a frown on his face. “Do you want to be in the shot with me?” His voice is low and terribly deep.
I stare in confusion. “God, no. Absolutely not.”
“All that effort and you won’t let the world enjoy it?” he asks, his expression unreadable as he quirks an eyebrow, signaling to my hair.
Oh god.
I’m blushing. They say Matt enjoys life, he enjoys life so much he wants to change it. I smile, a little too nervous, and just stand aside as Alison sets up the camera. “Here, Matt?” she asks.
“Why don’t we do something more natural?” His dark gaze remains on me as he crooks a finger, luring me forward. “Charlotte, want to hand me one of those printouts behind you?” he asks, his voice a bit rough.
Feeling a knot of nervousness in my throat, I grab one and walk up to him, aware of him watching every step forward that I take when I hear the consecutive clicks.
“Lovely,” says Alison.
Matt takes the folder with lazy grace, his gaze still holding mine, his voice still terribly deep and unnerving. “See? I knew there was a reason I brought you on. You make me look good,” he says approvingly. His lips curl just a tad.
I lift my brows; he lifts his too, as if challenging me. Heat crawls up my neck and cheeks. Really, there’s nothing that can make him look a little better than he already does.
By the time I go home I’m beyond embarrassed. Go ahead and look like a crushing fool, Charlotte, I chide as I head to my apartment.
When I get home, I’m thinking of the most somber outfit I have. No matter if I’m petite and have a childlike face, I want to be taken seriously here. My feet are killing me, my neck is killing me, but I don’t slip into my pajamas until I pull out a soot-black power suit, slacks and a short black well-cut little jacket for tomorrow. I spread it out on the chair that sits by my window and eye it judiciously. It’s smart and crisp, exactly how I want to look tomorrow.
Matt Hamilton is going to take me seriously if it kills me.
My parents are proud.
Kayla has been texting nonstop, and she wants the details.
I spend a while texting her back, alone in my apartment.
I hadn’t realized how lonely it would be to sleep in my apartment on my own. You wanted to be independent, Charlotte. This is it.
The light of my answering machine is blinking, and I play back the messages.
“Charlotte, I’m really not happy about you being there in that little apartment, especially now that you’re doing this. Your father and I would like you to come back home if you’re serious about embarking on a year of campaigning. Call me.”
I groan. Oh no, Mother, you won’t.
We had discussed that I’d be able to move from home and carve my own path at twenty. Mother, not happy when the date approached and I was still in college tempted to be foolish, pushed it to twenty-two. Now, a month after my twenty-second birthday, I’ve paid my dues, stood my ground, and refused for her to push the date farther.
She insisted the building was relatively unsafe—with only one man at the door. If any of the inhabitants summoned him upstairs, the door and lobby would be unmanned. It was small and uncomfortable and not safe.
I thought it was perfect. Well situated, the right size to keep clean and tidy. Although I haven’t met anyone except two of my neighbors, one a young family, the other an army veteran. And I do feel, at night, that things creak and croak and keep me awake. This was the first step of me carving my path on my own.
So I lie in bed and set my alarm for tomorrow. I’m physically exhausted, but my mind keeps replaying the day.
I think of the campaign and of Matt and of President Hamilton’s assassi
nation. I think of our current president and my personal hopes for our future president.
Every person that I know, every person conscious of themselves and their potentials … we all want to make an impact, a contribution, to work on something that matters to us. I’m on a new path that I’m carving on my own. I’m young and a little insecure, but I’m making a difference, even if small.
8
THE TEAM
Matt
The thing about presidential campaigns is that you don’t just need the right candidate. You need the right team. I eye the dozens of folders strewn across my desk. I’m on my sixth cup of coffee, and I take the last sip as I consider the latest addition to my team.
“Women of the World, Charlotte Wells. She’s almost an intern—no experience. You certain about this?” Carlisle asked.
I decided all this over a box of donuts, veggie wraps, soda cans, and bottles of Voss water.
You can’t say Charlotte is beautiful, she’s too stunning for that. You just don’t forget a face like hers.
Red hair like a flame falling down her shoulders. And that spark in her eyes. She’s energetic, unapologetic, exquisite. Despite being raised as a senator’s daughter, she’s so far been untouched by political scandal—untouched by the sometimes seedy dealings politics are paired with.
She’s more right for the job than Carlisle believes. I’m aware of his reluctance, but more than certain Charlotte will prove herself in spades.
Rather than bring in the experienced political allies from my father’s era, all too willing to back me up, I’m bringing in people who want to make a difference. Who’ve made it a habit of thinking of others before themselves and their pockets.
