An idea that just so happened to be mine.

I turn to join them, a deep sense of pride bubbling up inside me and warming my chest. I keep walking but before I get to my cubicle, Matt speaks again.

“Charlotte, come to my office, please.”

I swallow the lump in my throat and manage a “Sure” before following Matt there.

He sits down and gestures for me to take the seat across from him.

I sit down and start to twist the rings on my fingers.

“You did well in there, Charlotte,” he says, looking at me with warm eyes. I can’t tell if he wants to pat me on the back and tell me “good game” or kiss the hell out of me and tell me “come for me.”

I shake my head, because that thought brought warmth between my legs.

“Thank you.” I smile.

He smiles back and rubs the stubble on his jaw, saying more to himself than me, “I knew I brought you on this campaign for a reason . . .”

I cock my eyebrow at him. “And what reason would that be?” I ask.

He looks me up and down, a devilish smile on his face. “Your looks, of course.”

I laugh, and he laughs with me, but his laughter fades. “I brought you on because something told me you are just as passionate about this country and about real change as I am.”

I feel myself blush. And he eyes me curiously.

“I didn’t think you would say yes, you know,” he confesses to me, and then prods, “Why did you?”

“Why did I what?” I ask, lost by the look in his eyes, and how I feel like the only woman in the world when they are looking at me so intently.

“Say yes.”

I pause and think about his question. Actually think about it for a moment.

Why did I say yes to him?

I feel my mental wheels turning and before I know it, I’m answering him confidently. “I couldn’t let my chance to do something great pass me up.”

He stares at me. I stare back.

And in that moment, I feel the air shift. I feel like I just earned something Matthew Hamilton does not give out easily or frequently: admiration.

“If you don’t need my help anymore—I should get to work myself,” I say.

He nods.

Nervous about the connection I feel, I hurry off and get back to my desk. The phones haven’t stopped ringing, the piles of letters distributed on my and Mark’s (another aide’s) table mounting by the second.

10

THAT DOG OF YOURS NEEDS A LEASH

Charlotte

The next morning, my alarm goes off at five o’clock. Before joining Matt Hamilton’s campaign, I’d exercise at seven and be at work by nine. Now I need to be at work by seven thirty, and because I want a head start, I rise early, wash my face, get on my jogging pants and long-sleeved T-shirt, grab my phone, earbuds, and jacket, and head out.

The sun peers through a couple of gray clouds as I follow my favorite running trail—one that passes the Washington monuments. The day is too gloomy to admire the view, and I almost wish I’d stayed in bed.

I see a flash of movement out of the corner of my eye and from around a corner in the distance emerges a dog, happily trotting my way. He barks at me, then sits before me, all at attention and excited. Being a cat person, my relationship with dogs has been nonexistent, so I don’t know what to do with the creature except try to get him to settle down. As I grab the end of his leash, something dark catches my attention, and I lift my head.

I stand in the middle of the trail, blinking my eyelashes, struggling with the shock of seeing Matt Hamilton walking toward me in a red running shirt and navy-blue shorts.

His face shows a combination of a frown and a smile. He looks both surprised and amused to see me, and I’m shocked.

His shirt molds to his skin, revealing the lovely definition of his chest. He’s so rugged and at the same time so elegant, it’s hard to think straight.

My heart beats a thousand beats a second. “Fancy seeing you here,” he says.

“Fancy that.” I smile, my throat dry as he stops before me.

And then we start walking, together, and he’s eyeing my profile as the sun kisses every inch of his face.

His dog happily trails beside him, and I find it amusing to see the way he looks up devotedly at Matt. Matt turns toward me. “I see you’ve met Jack.”

“Jack,” I repeat, smiling at the dog.

“He has the bad habit of saying hello to anyone we meet at the park.”

“I bet those people end up terribly excited when they find out who the dog’s owner is.”

His brows fly up. I can’t freaking believe I said that out loud. I start to laugh and quickly say, “I have a cat. Doodles. She’s not like Jack; she hates strangers. I hope she won’t consider me one too one day—she’s staying with my mother because I’m hardly home.”

We continue walking in comfortable silence—well, not that comfortable, I suppose. I’m too aware of him. How tall he is compared to me.

“So what made you go to Georgetown? And become an advocate for women?” he asks me.

I’m surprised by how genuinely interested he sounds. By the attentive way he looks at me as he waits.

“I want to make sure women’s rights are known.” I shrug. “What about you? I know you went to law school to run your empire.”

“Really. Where did you hear that?”

“The press.”

He gives me a smirk, then chuckles and shakes his head in reprimand. “I think you know better than to listen to them.” His smile fades, and he falls sober and adds, “No, really. I admire the fact that you went into public service. What inspired you to change the world?”

“I don’t know,” I begin, thoughtful. “Every summer during college, I went on mission trips. I loved getting to know all these people and I loved helping. Especially women: it’s hard to imagine when you live in a first-world country the kinds of things women across the world are still subjected to. It made me want to do something for others. And you, Mr. Hamilton? What gives you inspiration?” I return.

“Walking next to you watching you speak.”

My breath catches, and I notice that his eyes are shining like beautiful dark satin, and I realize he’s flirting with me—and I’m a ball of fireworks on the inside. “So tell me about C,” he says.