by Katy Evans
33
GONE
Charlotte
I rearranged his schedule so that he can take three days off. It’s been known the Hamiltons have a huge mansion in Carmel and I imagine him there, regrouping, sunbathing in the buff, maybe meeting up with his friends, clearing his head from everything, when I get a text early Monday.
Taking one more day off. You’ll have to shuffle some more things around.
M
I reply:
Count on it.
I sigh and set my phone aside, worried.
After the debate, Gordon and Jacobs have been attacking Matt relentlessly. We’re getting closer to voting day, and he’s lost two points in the last polls—courtesy of a relentless campaign against him from both parties. President Jacobs accuses him of being a philanderer with no family values, no wife.
Gordon accuses him of being a playboy, listing dozens and dozens of women he’s had affairs with, claiming his phobia of commitment is a measure of his inability to stick with one thing. If he can’t commit to one woman, how can you expect him to commit to an entire country?
Funny, this coming from a man who’s had four wives.
And in that list of women, of course, he mentions me. Charlotte Wells. How ridiculous it is for Matt to consider bringing an inexperienced twenty-something-year-old to the White House.
I wonder if Matt has seen everything, and what he thinks. I picture him saying, “People will think what they want to think,” and leaving it at that. But I can’t feel the same. I feel a shudder of humiliation when I think of two things.
Of what people believe. Of what my parents will be exposed to if Matt and I continue playing with fire.
And of losing to two men who don’t deserve the seat I believe my candidate deserves.
My thoughts are racing dangerously as I open my computer and stream the news.
Pictures of me and Matt running . . .
Of Matt buying me shoes . . .
Of Matt looking at me during campaign events . . .
I keep waiting, dreading someone will have a picture of us kissing in New York. But it doesn’t pop up. I keep watching, but it still doesn’t appear.
I can’t take the guilt and the worry that it will, that it’ll all get fucked up in one second.
I shut the news tab, my throat tight as I open a new computer file. My fingers are trembling, but in my heart, beneath the pain, I know this is what I need to do.
I head to Carlisle’s office that evening. I take a seat and slide the paper across his desk. The letter is facing him, but he doesn’t read it; his eyes are fixed on me.
“My resignation,” I say quietly.
He reads it over, his expression opaque, then he lowers the paper and turns it around to face me. “Are you certain about this?” He sets a pen on the side, so that I can make it official and sign it.
I stare at it and my throat starts to close as I read my resignation letter.
Matt had a lot of thinking to do. And I hadn’t known that, in his absence, so would I.
“I couldn’t forgive myself if he lost the election because of me,” I tell Carlisle.
“I know Matt. I’ve known him since he was a teen aiding us with his own father’s campaign.” He presses his lips together. “He won’t accept your resignation,” he adds.
“He has to. You need to make him see reason. Carlisle, we’re so close to winning; we’re talking about the difference he could make not for one person, for millions.”
“I know, I know, dammit.” He sighs, jams his hands in his pockets, and looks at me. “But he wants what he wants. He wants you in the campaign. We all do.” He nods. “We’ll field whatever comes our way; you won’t be a scapegoat. Matt won’t allow it—he’s told me so himself.”
I swallow. “I’m not worried about me, I’m worried about him.”
“That’s my job, girl.” He stands and pats me on the shoulder. “Don’t think just because Matt is a nice guy, he’s not willing to get down and dirty with them if he needs to.”
“That’s not what he stands for; that’s not what he believes in.”
Carlisle leans back and eyes me narrowly. “I misjudged you, Charlotte.” He smiles at me, and nods again as he finally accepts my resignation letter.
“Thank you; that means a lot coming from you. I’ve learned a lot these past months.” I hesitate at the door, but then return to give him a hug. “Thank you for taking a chance on me, inexperience and all.”
“Well, you’re only inexperienced once, and now you’re no longer.” He smiles at me with the most fondness I’ve seen yet as he takes my letter from his desk and slips it onto the top of a pile in the right drawer.
“We’ll handle it discreetly,” he says. “Rhonda can be scheduler. We’ll say you decided to continue working and making a difference at Women of the World.”
“Thank you, and don’t worry about me talking to the media,” I say as I head to the door, suddenly overwhelmed with grief. I pack my stuff only after everyone leaves the building so there are no questions asked of me that I can’t answer.
I can’t believe I’m quitting on him. I can’t believe I won’t be able to stay and see this through. Everything I wanted to do has now been reduced to the fact that I do better by quitting? I’m disappointed that I let my own selfish emotions get in the way. But I can’t regret the time I spent with him.
I head to Matt’s desk and remove the pin that I always wear. The pin commemorating my favorite president, one I’m waiting for his son to replace. I set it on his desk and hope he knows it means . . .
Well, that it means I’m leaving because I care.
That night, I do what my mother has been aching for me to do. I pack a bag and head over to sleep at my parents’ place. When she comes into my room, there’s a long silence between us.
“Do you want to talk about it?” she asks softly.
I shake my head. A tear slips down my cheek. I quickly wipe it away. I shrug and look out the window, holding back the other tears.
She quietly comes over and embraces me in her warm arms. “You’re doing what you need to do. Politics are not for the faint of heart,” she reassures me. I know that she knows I fell in love with him. She saw it coming and warned me from the start.
“I know.” I nod. “I know, which is why I never really wanted to dive in until . . . well, until him.”
“You did the right thing.” She squeezes my shoulder. “So many careers around politics have been ruined by scandal and—”
“I need your help. Please. What do I do? I just don’t . . . I don’t want to be in love with him forever.”
“Nothing, Charlotte. You go on as if nothing happened. On Monday, you go back to Women of the World. You smile, you think of others, you forget about this, you forget about him. Did you two . . .”
I can’t speak it out loud, how powerless I was during moments when all I wanted was Matt’s arms around me and nothing else.
During one of our more comfortable talks during all these months of campaigning, Matt once told me a lie marks you forever with the public. You cannot lie, not ever. Twist the truths, maybe, play around with words . . . but a lie, never.
I left so he wouldn’t have to lie about me.
When my mother leaves, I take an extra-long bath in my old bathroom, then I climb into my warmest pajamas and get into bed. The same bed where I first fantasized about Matthew Hamilton.
I’m so confused, I feel heavy, as if the world’s hate is already on my shoulders.
“Here, kitty,” I call to my cat.
Doodles is a ball of white fur curled up on the windowsill. She doesn’t move from her spot.
“What? Are you going to give me the silent treatment because I was away for so long? Oh, come on, Doodles, I need a hug right now.”
No response.
I hug my pillow, and eventually feel my cat join me in the bed in the middle of the night, when I’m still awake, staring out that same window.
&nb
sp; Mother thought it best I wait it out a week before returning to work, just in case any press comes knocking on our office doors. She wants to protect me from that, and I want to protect Matt from that, so I agree.
That night, we’re having dinner—my father, my mother, and me.
“I think you should move back in with us for a while. Until all this settles down.”
“There’s no dust to settle.” I shake my head firmly at my mom. “I’ll go back to my place tomorrow.”
By the time we reach dessert, I check the time again.
“Is there somewhere you need to be, Charlotte?” my father asks. He sounds terribly exasperated.
“Not me, Matt,” I absently answer as I head over to the television in the living room. “There’s this speaking engagement tonight. I’m sure it’ll be televised.”
I grab the remote on top of the TV and skim through the channels. Carlisle appears onscreen, standing there instead of Matt.
“Apologies, friends and supporters, tonight Matt needed to cancel. I’m here to answer any questions you might have . . .”
He cancelled?
I’m shocked.
He never cancels. Even when he had a headache, he’d just pop the Advils I’d set on his desk.
I drop the remote and watch as Carlisle begins to answer questions. What if something’s wrong? I want to call Carlisle, but he’s clearly busy. If I called Hessler, would he tell me? What about Mark or Alison—would either of them know?
I grab my phone and quickly skim my contacts, my hand shaking.
“Come and have tea with us, Charlotte,” my mother calls.
The doorbell rings and my mother turns. “Jessa, darling, can you see who’s at the door?”
Jessa rushes from the kitchen to the front door, passing the dining and living rooms as she does, then she comes back to where we sit. “It’s Mr. Matt, miss.”
My mother’s teacup clatters, my father raises his head, and I don’t think I’m breathing.
“Well, don’t stand there, show him in,” my mother urges.
I’m in the middle of the living room, while my parents sit frozen at opposite ends of the dining table, when Matt appears. I don’t think I’m breathing when I see him. I just didn’t expect to see him anytime soon. And suddenly it just hurts. My eyes hurt. My chest hurts. All of me hurts.
I feel as if something is squeezing around my heart, and it takes my every conscious effort to keep my parents from noticing.
Matt is wearing a black sweater and black pants, his hair wet from the rain outside, and he’s never looked so hot. So sexy. So in control.
His eyes meet mine, and after a brief crackling stare, he slides them over to my parents. “Senator Wells,” he says.
My father’s chair screeches as he stands. “A pleasure to have you in our home, Matt.”
He greets my mother, and she embraces him fondly. “You’re just in time for tea or coffee,” she says. “Would you like some?”
“Thanks. I’m actually here for Charlotte.” His eyes are hooded mysteriously, to the point where I can’t read what he’s thinking.
“That’s what we assumed,” my father says with a nod. “Thank you, Matt, for the opportunity you gave her, campaigning for you; we’ve never seen her dive into anything with so much passion.”
“It’s her I came to thank for her support,” Matt says. His eyes slide in my direction and he drinks me up as if the mere sight of me provides a shot of vitamins to his soul.
I blush crimson at the thought as my parents’ footsteps trail up the stairs. I drop down on the couch, and Matt takes a seat across from me. My parents’ house seems smaller with him inside. As small as it felt when his father and the Secret Service were here, except now it’s just him.
Matt.
Doodles is swishing her tail, eyeing us. “What’s her name?” Matt stretches out his hand, palm up, and Doodles goes to him, just like that.
“Doodles.”
He lifts his brow and smiles, scoops her up, and sets her on his lap.
I feel nearly devastated by the want to go replace Doodles on his lap and kiss him, but the noise coming from the upstairs bedroom reminds me of where we are, of my parents in the house.
And suddenly I miss Jack as much as I miss Matt and his touch. I miss touching him when I can’t touch Matt, curling my hand into the fur of his head and feeling his big ol’ dog weight on my lap, so trusting, like there’s nothing I could ever do wrong in his eyes.
Apparently he shares that with his master.
Oh, god. Matt. Why is he looking at me like that?
Why is he here? “You shouldn’t be here,” I say breathlessly. “You know you shouldn’t be here.”
“But I am.” He sets Doodles at his feet and leans forward, a gleam of determination in his eyes.
I have to battle for restraint to keep from heading straight to him and saying . . .
Saying what?
“How did the thinking go?” I ask in a quiet voice.
I don’t want my parents to hear us. I don’t want anyone to hear us. It seems that my times with Matt are always stolen, and very few of those times do I have him alone like this.
I treasure our times alone.
“I went to see my father.” There’s a trace of sadness in his eyes. “I always pay him a visit at Arlington National Cemetery when I need to feel grounded.” He’s stroking my cat with his big hand but his eyes don’t leave me, not for a second as he talks. “Then I went to our house in Carmel. Just to be alone for a while.”
“Things get so hectic, I know,” I say.
When he speaks again, his voice is warm. “I was supposed to concentrate on the campaign and I kept thinking of you.” His smile is as intimate as a kiss. “You can imagine my disappointment when I came back to D.C. to find you gone.”
“It’s for the best; you know it.”
His smile suddenly gains a spark of eroticism. “Actually, I don’t.”
“Matt, Gordon and Jacobs are after anything they can get on you.”
“And trust me when I say I won’t let it be you.”
I exhale, then hug my arms around myself.
“Why did you leave?” he asks.
I try to keep my voice level. “I thought it was for the best.”
“Never. That’s the last thing I wanted when this began.” His eyes keep holding mine, a muscle working in the back of his jaw. “I don’t want you gone. If anything, I want you closer to me.”
I flush harder and try to push any talk about the connection between us aside. “The polls, Matt—”
“Two points lost are two points I can gain back. We’re gaining them back. You’ll pile up my schedule even if I don’t sleep.”
I laugh, but he doesn’t. He leans forward, his thighs stretching the material of his jeans and his shoulders the cotton of his sweater. “Come back to the campaign.”
“Charlotte,” I hear Jessa say as she brings a tea tray from the kitchen, “your mother wanted me to bring this.” She sends a beaming look in Matt’s direction, flushed as if she were nineteen instead of sixty-three.
“Thanks, Jessa.”
“Thank you,” Matt says warmly, reaching out for a cup and taking a sip.
She seems to flush even more as she heads back to the kitchen.
“My mother will be worried about a scandal. You need to go, Matt.”
I stand and tug at his hand, forcing him to release the cup, set it down, and he catches my fingers as he comes to his full height. “Can I count on you?”
His nearness suddenly engulfs me. Every atom of my body is awake and buzzing with the heat of his so close, the feel of his eyes on my face, expectant, warm as the sun and just as bright.
“Always,” I croak.
His hand and mine are linked and burning.
He smiles at me, a dazzling smile, and squeezes my fingers, looking down at me with the most adorable expression on his face. “Thank you.”
He releases me and pets my cat o
ne last time before he walks to the door, and I walk with him.
“Thank you for coming. I’ll bring my things back tomorrow,” I say.
“Tomorrow is the gala—” he begins, and I cut him off.
“I’ll be there too,” I assure him, pushing him out the door before he can kiss me. Even a kiss to the cheek would devastate me, and I’m afraid of yielding to the impulse to do more.
He’s smiling, amused as he watches me slam the door shut.
I close my eyes and inhale, hating that I know the same thing I knew then: that he can never really be mine. But to quote him back, that hasn’t stopped me from wanting him.
34
GALA
Charlotte
Tonight’s gala seems to be the grandest and busiest of all the galas we’ve held. We’re at the grand ballroom of The Jefferson Hotel.
The White House is so close, you can practically feel its power churning and surging, surrounding you. I glanced at its white columns as I arrived, and not for the first time I wondered what Matt’s life was like there. If there was any normalcy at all.
The ballroom is glittering tonight, everyone who is anyone is attending—from huge industrialists to prominent artists, musicians, doctors, and teachers—and yet my attention is focused on spotting only one person. The one.
I’m in a white dress and my eyes drink in the luxurious decorations surrounding me in my search of the one thing I most want to see.
The figure of the man that has my heart pounding like this.
“Charlotte!” Alison launches herself and hugs me. “A vision in white—I approve!” she happily says, then leans back and lifts her camera. Click.
“Alison, come on!” I groan, and she tugs me into the crowd, where I say hello to my team colleagues. No one even hints at noticing or knowing that I’d left, and I’m sure it’s due to Carlisle’s expert hand at damage control.
I keep searching for Matt across the room with a pounding in my heart and a knot of nervous anticipation in my stomach. It feels like forever until my eyes snag on the tall, dark figure of a man—and they stay there, absorbing everything that is Matt Hamilton
