A ridiculously sexy smile curls his lips, but this time, his eyes aren’t smiling. He searches my expression with curiosity. And his smile fades. He’s still holding the pin. I’m holding my breath, wanting more of these touches, more of him.

But I know how ridiculous thinking about anything with him is.

He’s so driven to win, I know the last thing he needs right now is a distraction like me.

“Reminds me of the good old days,” I finally reply, trying to push down the thick longing in my veins. “The ones you’ll bring back.”

“I’m ready.”

We smile. The very air between us seems to be on fire.

“Good night, Matt.”

I reach for the door, but he leans over me and sets his fingers on mine, clicking it open for me, his warmth enveloping me again, his fingers sliding over mine, caressing like a feather.

“Good night, Charlotte.”

He watches in the shadows of the car, his eyes dancing the way they sometimes do when I do something that amuses him, still the crush-worthy guy I met when I was eleven.

Can he see how much he flusters me?

Of course he can.

I get to my apartment and my feet ache, my back aches, my brain aches. I feel too drained to do anything but kick off my shoes, stretch my arms out, and fall flat, facedown on the bed. But I can’t sleep. His gorgeous dark-flecked eyes keep looking at me.

And they’re looking at me like a man looks at a woman he wants.

Matt is looking at me as if he wants me.

I can’t stop thinking about the way I impulsively threw myself at Matt and kissed him. The way he smelled, the way he felt, so warm and male and strong. I’m restless that weekend and call Kayla over to my apartment.

“So how is it going?”

Pushing the thought of having kissed him aside, I think of how great it feels to be campaigning with him. “Incredibly well,” I admit.

“Is he as lean and built and tall and dark as he is on TV?”

“TV can’t accurately capture his charisma in person. He’s . . . he’d be attractive with his face alone, but combined with his personality and energy it’s sort of naughty.” I’m starving, eating my dinner in a hurry so I can go to bed early.

“He’s running for president. Your childhood mega crush, and mine!” Kayla marches to the TV remote and flicks it on to the first channel. He’s on the screen—as attractive as he is in person.

“What are Republicans saying?” I ask her.

“They’re shitting in their pants.”

“And the Democrats?”

“Shitting in their pants.”

She sighs and drops down on my couch. “Never voted for an Independent candidate in my life, but this one is mine. Hamilton for the win!” She glances at me. “We miss you at Women of the World. Are you planning to come back after the campaign?”

“Of course.”

“Why leave WoW at all?”

“Because he’s what America’s been waiting for. We deserve it.”

“You hate the spotlight, even though you secretly admire how well your mother takes to it.”

“I’m shy.” I shrug. “It doesn’t come as easy to me as it does to my mother. But I want to be there when he kicks ass.”

“What about our trip to Europe this year?” Kayla asks.

I join her on the couch, sighing as I stare at the ceiling. “We can go to Europe anytime, but it’s not any day that Matt Hamilton runs for president.”

“The perfect baby father and every woman out there knows it. If you can’t have him in your bed or fathering your children, at least let him be our chief in command.”

“Commander in chief,” I correct.

“He can be anything he’d like.”

I groan and laugh.

12

WE FOUND OURSELVES RUNNING THE SAME PATH

Charlotte

I hadn’t really realized I was getting into such a high-stress job when I said yes. You want to help people, have limited time, and you can’t help everyone in the way you want to. It generates some huge pent-up frustrations I’m having trouble venting.

I head up to the park for a quick morning run and he’s there. Matt Hamilton is the most easygoing guy I know, one who can keep his cool during adversity. While the world is in a stir over the news, and the TV keeps replaying his announcement, he’s stretching his quads.

A cap covers my red hair, which I twisted beneath it. Somehow he still recognizes me, his eyebrows rising just a fraction when our eyes meet. He’s not wearing a cap, his hair blows in the wind, and the shirt he wears is pressed against his defined torso.

He’s not only running for president, he’s running the TCS marathon in New York. Though it’s already a huge marathon, the sign-ups have skyrocketed as rumors of his participation leaked. “It’s dangerous, Matt,” Carlisle warned just this week.

Matt laughed. “I’m not running a campaign on fear—fear has no place when you decide to run a country.”

“Reckless!” Carlisle insisted.

Matt rose from behind his desk and slapped his campaign manager’s back, shaking his head, frowning down at him. “Relax. It’s just a marathon. Besides, running helps me keep my head clear.”

I tuck my face under the cap until I run past him with a brief nod of acknowledgment.

I hear his light, agile running steps behind me as he catches up with me, and I’m a little more breathless when I see him in my peripherals.

“Morning, Charlotte.”

“Morning,” I say under my breath, trying to keep my pace.

We run in silence the rest of the hour.

This has been happening every day, for nearly two weeks. We seem to be . . . running together. Not on purpose, though. We both simply seem to want to run at this time, in this park, daily.

“Have any free time this morning at headquarters?” he asks.

“I’ve got a packed schedule.”

“Never too packed for me.”

My lips twist wryly.

His lips twist wryly too. “We’ve got some business to discuss with you.”

“What kind of business?” I ask suspiciously. “Yours or mine?”

“Isn’t it the same?”