“Ah, youth.”

“Maybe it is youth, or maybe simply determination.”

“Is your husband not concerned he’ll leave his child fatherless? Like his father?”

I raise my brow. “No. We trust the Secret Service to keep him safe.”

“But they couldn’t keep your beloved President Law safe.” She eyes me. “It would be a shame to lose such a perfect example of masculinity to a mistake.”

I manage to keep my expression neutral, my gaze direct. “Thank you for your concern, but my husband and his administration are stronger than ever and will continue to be,” I say, my tone no-nonsense.

Katarina leaves early, and her husband remains with mine—I’m not sure where, but somewhere in the White House, probably the Oval, where all the big stuff is discussed.

I’m exhausted, so I hit the bed in the Queens’ Bedroom, unsure of when Matt will be done.

I keep replaying my conversation with Katarina as I drift off to sleep.

I have a nightmare. It’s dark and I’m aware that I’m dreaming, but everything feels too real to be a dream. The fear pulses through me, the regret, and the confusion.

Carlisle is bloodied, and I look and follow the trail of blood to Matt. He’s lying down, not breathing, his hand holding a small one, and it’s me, lying in that same pool of blood, his father’s pin bloodied on my lapel.

I sit up in bed with a gasp, then glance around as the world spins. My throat constricted, my heart beating, I’m dizzy. I scramble out of bed in search of the bathroom and realize I’m not in my apartment. I’m in the Queens’ Bedroom. In the White House. I inhale, then grab a robe and step outside. My agent Stacey stands up at attention.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes, just getting some water, thank you.”

I head to the kitchen and notice Wilson down the hall—and my eyes instantly jerk to the side to see Matt seated in the yellow sitting area.

“You’re back,” I gasp.

“Got in a while ago.”

“How did it go?”

“Not as well as I wanted, but better than I expected.” He scrapes his hand over his jaw and looks at me, then at Wilson, and Wilson scats.

The fear of my nightmare wanes with his presence.

I’m aching, his piercing coffee eyes, his infectious smile, his husky voice, and the way I want to be with him greater than my fear.

His low, sexy voice is like a blanket around me. “How are you? Are you uncomfortable?”

“I don’t have time to be uncomfortable.” I smile.

I head over to him and he draws me to sit on his thigh. “You outdid yourself tonight.” He cups my abdomen. Kisses it. “You look tired.” He peers at my face, his gaze too penetrating. Too knowing.

“A little. I think it went well. The Kebchovs were definitely impressed. The first lady was impressed by you, but I’m getting used to that.”

He frowns and strokes a hand over my hair, and I angle my head into the touch, stroking my hand up his chest. There’s a nearly imperceptible darkening in his eyes, a hunger lurking all of a sudden in his irises.

“Let’s get you to bed.”

“Are you coming with me?”

He doesn’t answer, simply leads me there.

Once in bed, he strips me, and then strips himself. I cuddle into his chest, in his arms, Matt sitting with his back propped against the headrest. “Rest, Matt,” I groan, kissing his pec, caressing the dusting of hair on his chest.

“I will. I’m just thinking.” He kisses my forehead.

I reach up to press his face against mine, stroking his hair, until I feel him turn his head into my hair and close his eyes, able to catch a few hours of sleep before the hum of the early-morning White House begins, and it’s a full day for the both of us again.

During the week, I have another group of important visitors at the White House. Kids from a local art school arrive, and I’ve set up small tables in the East Room so we can all do a White House–themed project.

One of the six-year-old girls calls me to her table and asks, “Like this?”

I reach over and adjust the paper so I can see it. Just then, she lifts the brush and smears paint on my cheek, and I laugh when I see Matt stop at the door—the room falling silent for a second, followed by a round of gasps from the little kids.

“Children—” I straighten up, still laughing as I grab a napkin and start to wipe my cheek—“we have a special visitor. It’s the president!”

And how I love the expressions on their faces as Matt leans forward into the mic at the podium at the end of the room. “Whoever painted the first lady,” he says, winking, “good job.”

I laugh and he walks over, leans over to the little girl, and assures her, “She looks even more beautiful than she did this morning.” He takes the napkin from me and wipes off the paint, smiling.

We look at each other over the children. Both of us thinking there will be one of ours here before we know it.

30

CROWDS

Matt

“My intention to pass a carbon tax for all carbon emissions is unwavering. The very air we breathe has been polluted for years. That’s not happening anymore.”

“Mr. President.” Coin is at the door, interrupting my session with one of my advisors. “There’s been an incident.”

He leads me to the adjoining room and turns on the TV.

I watch Charlotte walk out of the Virginia elementary school to a crowd of reporters and fans, the Secret Service struggling to keep the area secure.

A little boy tries to break through the security line. He’s pushed back, falls, and the line breaks, the crowd engulfing Charlotte.

I see her duck protectively over the little boy that fell, while Stacey fights to open up room to pull her out of there.

“Where is she now?” My tone sounds menacing, even to me.

I lost my father—in the blink of a second.

I see the pool of blood. Hear the damn phone call. See the damn news all over again. Feel the damn loss.

“On her way, sir,” Wilson tells me after checking into his speaker.

“I want to see her when she gets in.”

I head back to the Oval and stare down at my desk, clenching my hands together as I try to breathe. I’ll lose my shit if I ever lose her. I’ll lose my shit if anything happens to her or our children. I spot the FBI file for my father. A reminder of how justice hasn’t been served to one out of hundreds of thousands of evildoers in this country. I grab the file and toss it into my drawer, the frustration of Charlotte being careless suddenly getting to me too fucking much.

Charlotte

Well, that wasn’t supposed to happen.

I’m still in shock over the number of people coming to my visits. It seems the crowds only keep growing, their obsession with me nearly rivaling their obsession with Matt.

“Charlotte, please, a picture with me!”

“Charlotte, would you please intercede for my boy, he was suspended—”

“Charlotte, do you know what you’ll be having?”

I’m heading back to the White House, and a doctor is tending to some scrapes on my arm in the back of the state car. I caused them myself. Well, maybe. A little boy—he couldn’t have been more than four—was getting trampled as he tried to reach me, and I threw myself forward to try to protect him.

I’ve already been scolded by Stacey and the rest of my detail, the men shooting each other concerned looks, and I’ve already heard them speaking into their mics. Explaining what happened to the president.

The fact that this has already reached Matt’s ear and possibly worried him makes me feel worse about it all.

I’m exhausted when we get back to the White House. I reach my room and remove my pumps, exchanging them for a pair of pretty ballerina flats, and the floor is quiet—except for the staff. I find myself heading to the West Wing.

I just have to see him. I crave him like air. He’s the anchor that holds me down in this new and frightening, exhilarating experience, and he’s the reason I want to do better than well. He’s the reason I even have this opportunity in the first place.

I also want him to know I’m fine.