I’m fond of the chef, who is just like Jessa was when I grew up, loving to make us our favorite cakes and dinners when we have special occasions. Who somehow knows when Matt has had a rough day and makes a particularly tasty dish to bring a smile to his face. And who indulges me in all my kids’ luncheons.

I’m fond of Lola and all her stressing about the news and dealing with the relentless press.

Even the Secret Service. All-seeing, all-knowing, tight-lipped, never sharing the information, always not only protecting us physically, but ensuring that our private lives are as private as they possibly can be.

Every room I stand in has meaning. Has a story. Has presence.

The presidency is not just a political agenda, or standing strong against opponents. It’s about keeping us together, proud and safe. Taken care of and motivated. It’s not only about protecting our rights and freedom, it’s about providing examples and inspiration—that is what made America what it is today. I cannot imagine anyone doing a better job than my Matthew Hamilton.

That night after we have dinner in the Old Family Dining Room, Matt Jr. asks his father why he’s letting all those men run for president.

“Because it’s their right; it’s one of the most sacred of our rights, in this country. Our freedom,” he explains as we retire to the Yellow Oval.

Matt Jr. frowns in confusion as he listens, then simply declares, “I want you to be pwesident.”

Matt laughs, dragging a hand over his face as Matty heads off to run and play with his toys, Jack trailing behind him.

“I’ll put him to bed,” his nanny, Anna, tells me as she rushes after him.

Matt looks at me then, pouring himself an after-dinner drink and bringing me one as well. “I’ve been thinking about it. For years, it seems.” He looks at me as he takes the seat across from mine. “I’ve been obsessively counting.” He looks into his glass, then at me. “How many days I’ve been able to be here for you, how many days I haven’t. It’s a tough call,” he admits, with a wry, sad smile. “The day Matt was born—”

“There was no way I would have let you stay with me,” I quickly interject.

He seems amused but refrains from smiling. “That’s not the only time. On your twenty-fifth birthday—”

“The airport was closed due to the blizzard. How were you supposed to land? All that was not in your control,” I assure him.

He exhales, then looks at me curiously, calculatingly, laughing softly. “Charlotte, listen to me.”

“I’m listening and you’re not making sense.”

“Baby,” he says, more sternly now. “We need to discuss how you feel about me running. And I need you to be honest with me, honest in ways my mother never was with my father.” He’s completely somber now, looking at me between drawn eyebrows.

My chest sort of hurts that he even has to ask. I have never wanted him to feel worried about neglecting us; the truth is, he always goes above and beyond. “Were you considering not running?”

“I won’t run if it’s an issue with my family. You know I love being here, Charlotte. I’m driven to do what I do.” He gives me a smile that sends my pulse wild. “But I love you two more than anything.”

I’m so in love with this man sometimes it hurts just because.

I know that Matt has never wanted to miss out on some important things that he’s unfortunately sometimes had to miss out on. I know he’s tried harder than any man ever would to make me and our son feel loved, supported, and protected.

“We’ve both come a long way,” I say as we both sit here, looking at each other for a while—and I’m realizing at this moment just how much we’ve both slowly fought our wars to make this work. “I never thought I could live this life, come to these heights with you—and yet here I am. Not doing too shabby.” I grin, and he laughs softly, his eyes sparkling. “And you . . . you have to know that you’ve proven more than capable of being both a president and the best husband and father we could ask for,” I add, not bothering to hide the admiration in my voice.

“I don’t want you to ever feel like I’m putting you and Matty in second place,” he says, scrutinizing my face closely, as if searching for the answer. “If for any reason it’s crossed your mind, I want you to know that I will choose you both and end it right here.”

“No! You can’t!” I protest.

I shift forward, scowling at him as I set my glass aside, mirroring his position.

I inhale passionately, then exhale and scowl at him. “Although I am just one citizen among millions, I have had the honor of knowing firsthand what you bring to the table. Integrity. Honesty.”

I try not to get emotional, but suddenly putting into context all that he has done for nearly four years makes it difficult.

“I know in my heart of hearts that no other candidate will offer this, bring this . . . or not quite like you. You are of us. All of us. I have you forever, but as a citizen I’d have you as president for just four more years. Make them count. My heart is yours and my vote is yours. Don’t deny me all you have to give, or four more years of having this . . . honor . . . of being by your side while you’re doing what you were meant to do.” I add, “Please.”

He smiles when I end up breathless after my pleas.

He slowly sets his glass aside and comes to his feet. He begins walking around the table, then pulls me to my feet as he clenches his jaw, grabs me by the back of the head, and kisses me. Long and with tongue. “Thank you. I love you. You know that,” he hisses, fierce, his forehead against mine, his eyes holding mine deliciously captive.

“Yes,” I say, my toes curling the way they do every time he looks at me like that. “But I’m still unsure of how much. Immeasurably, you’ve said. What is that, even?”

His eyes trace every inch of my face. “It means there’s no metric system, no measurement, there’s no beginning to it, and no end.”

I am completely breathless, and he smiles, noticing that I’m panting, and kisses me again, long and slow. “That’s how much,” he rasps against my mouth, patting my butt.

We head to the Lincoln Bedroom, where he dials a number through the White House secure lines.

“Carlisle.” He speaks the name and looking at me with a smile, clicks the button to put the call on speaker. “I need you and Hessler.”

“I told my heart condition to fuck off. That I wasn’t going to die anytime soon because I was fucking waiting for this call.” I can hear the grin in Carlisle’s voice, and Matt and I smile at each other.

“It’s done then,” I tell Matt when he hangs up. I feel giddy. “There’s no way anyone stands a chance.”

He shrugs and gets ready for bed, unbuttoning his shirt. “You never know. Better men have lost.”

“Yes, but great countries are led by the greatest people—and there aren’t many quite like you,” I say as I pluck off my diamond earrings.

When I slide naked under the covers with him, I nearly gasp as the warmth of his flesh touches mine.

“Are you ready to hit the trail, wife?” he asks, leaning over me, gazing down at me as he brushes my red hair behind my face.

“Maybe.” I grin, then decide to tease him with my favorite slogan from his last campaign. Born for this. “Then again, maybe I was born for it.”

“No, baby,” he’s quick to assure. “You were born for me.” And his mouth swallows any protest I might have uttered. Which, in fact, would have been none.

42

IT’S ON

Matt

I’m on a roll, and it’s not even 10 a.m.

After my daily briefing, hearing what everyone is doing around the world, and making a few calls, I’m in the press room.

I’m ripping it. The pride, anticipation, and adrenaline coursing through my veins already, my intention, desire, and determination to keep my seat and continue serving fueling my every word.

“I must admit”—I look at everyone in the press room—“being president is a tough job. Sleepless nights, tough calls, even looking at your faces every day,” I say, mocking the press a bit over their complete obsession with me and my wife. “Man. It’s not a job to be taken lightly.” I whistle, shaking my head as they laugh. “I’ve known that since my father took office. It took a toll on our family. I’ve tried to let it take the least possible toll on mine. Because, you see . . .”