I laugh despite myself, then turn away to the window.

Sober now.

He steps behind me, inhales my hair slowly. My heart flips in my chest because he’s brushing his nose lightly into my scalp. His voice is close to my ear. “Sleep with me when we get to D.C. this weekend.”

“Matt . . .” I begin.

Yes!

No. No. NO.

I’m torn as I slowly face him.

He’s People’s Sexiest Man Alive, despite years working to be taken seriously. Fooling around with a young intern isn’t the image he’s worked to achieve.

“We’ve started something here. I’m not about to let it go,” he says, cutting me off.

Wow. He’s really stubborn.

I exhale.

He catches my chin and smiles down at me. He repeats, “Sleep with me in D.C.”

I ease an inch back, away from his touch. “I’m just realizing that I don’t know if I can do this.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m not sure that I don’t want more.”

My admission is sobering to myself. And to him.

“More,” he repeats.

He drops his hold. Then rakes a hand over his hair while a restless little muscle starts working in the back of his jaw.

“My biggest fear is my kids will experience things in life and I won’t know about it. That I’ll be the last to wish them a happy birthday. That my wife will be alone every night because I’m too busy to even kiss her goodnight. I couldn’t do that to you, Charlotte. I watched my mother suffer greatly next to my father when he took office.”

He shoves his fisted hands into his pockets, looking down at me intently.

“I want you, Charlotte. I want us. This. But if I win . . .”

Shadows fall across his eyes and reality floods my heart at the unspoken words that hang heavily in the air—winning doesn’t come with more. It’s a sacrifice he’s willing to make to become this country’s leader, and one I admire him for.

“You will win,” I tell him.

I’m fighting to keep the regret from my voice.

Matt just stares at me, my lips, my face, lifting his fingers as his lips curl. “All this conviction,” he croons, rubbing the pad of his thumb over my lips.

My heart is tripping all over itself.

I can’t help staring at his full, sensuous lips. I might not get more, but I can’t deny myself another kiss from this man.

I lean up on my toes, slipping my arms around his neck. Around this stubborn, confident, kind, sexy, larger-than-life, rebellious man’s neck.

And my lips meet his.

We’re kissing heatedly, and there’s a light tap on the door, and the stolen moments are gone—and as he chucks my chin, smiles, and heads out the door, reality starts to sink in.

22

FLIRTING WITH DANGER

Charlotte

I exhale and pull the zipper of my black sweatshirt up to my neck. I slip on a baseball cap, guiding my ponytail through the small hole in the back, and place glasses over my eyes even though the sun is already setting.

I’m in my D.C. apartment and it’s Saturday afternoon.

Ever since our “meeting” in that hotel room, and almost getting caught, I can’t shake this overwhelming feeling of dread. My stomach twists and turns in knots thinking of what I’m about to do.

I know that this is risky, beyond risky, going to his house on his one night off, but I need to talk to him. In private.

If I don’t do this one risky thing, we’ll keep doing a million risky things right up until Election Day.

I need to stop this before we get in too deep . . . to the point of no return. A part of me fears that we already have, and a part of my soul tells me that no attempt on either of our parts can really stop the avalanche of emotions now surging between us, present in every look, touch, smile, and kiss.

I need him to know that we can’t continue this dangerous thing we have started, because I would never forgive myself if I cost him his presidency. Presidential elections, and especially presidential campaigns, are very delicate things.

One wrong move, one wrong comment, one slipup can mean game over. And for Matt, an Independent candidate already having to fight against two long-standing parties with history, loyalty, dirty tricks, and a lot of money on their sides . . . he can’t afford a slipup.

I ask my parents if I can borrow their car for the night and say that I’m going out for drinks with my friends.

However, I drive toward Matt Hamilton’s house. I didn’t want to take a cab because I didn’t want anyone else knowing of my little trip.

When I roll up to his house, I feel my stomach turn and twist into a million knots. I force myself to open my car door and walk up the steps to ring his bell.

A couple of shaky breaths later, and a couple more thoughts of chickening out, Matt Hamilton stands in his doorway. Barefoot, hair rumpled, in black jeans and a dark blue T-shirt.

He inhales a sharp breath when he sees me, and rakes his eyes over my body before asking me in a gruff voice, “Why are you here, Charlotte?”

I smile, but I know it doesn’t quite reach my eyes.

“Can I come in?”

He doesn’t respond, merely eyes me with curiosity and steps aside to let me walk past him. He moves just enough to let me go by, but not enough for me to do so without touching him.

My shoulder grazes his chest, and his scent envelops me.

He leads me to his living room, where I see the TV is on with the volume low. On his desk is a mess of papers and folders.

He sits across me and clasps his hands behind his head, his eyes never leaving mine. He sits in silence, piercing gaze on me, and I just take him in. Every fiber of my being telling me to go crawl into his lap and let his warmth soothe away any doubt or fear in my head, but I can’t move.

“I can’t do this, Matt. What happened in your hotel room . . .”

I meet his gaze, his eyes like hot coals, his jaw clenched tightly.

I gulp and continue. “We almost got caught. I can’t be the reason for you losing this presidency.”

“You will not be the reason for me losing. If anything, you’ll be the reason for me winning.”

I shake my head. “You know that we’re playing with fire. This is the Oval Office. The White House. I can’t let you throw it away for me.”