He sets it aside and strides to me, in a towel, ready for bed. “I’m assuming she intended to give me a hard-on, what with the come-hither look.”

I laugh. “Not a come-hither look! Alison told me to think about you and I just did . . .”

“That’s the expression on your face when you think of me?” he asks, leaning forward.

I nod breathlessly as he cups my face.

“Think of me now,” he commands, his voice husky, watching me.

I scan his face. “I can’t. I’m too busy looking at you.”

“Close your eyes then, and think of me.”

I close my eyes, giggling, feeling his eyes on me.

Then I picture him, standing there watching me, in that towel, hot as hell. I picture the expression on his face when I gave him the portrait Alison made for me, in elegant black and white, with a sleek gold frame. I picture the way his eyes drank me up, almost as if I were alive in the picture and he expected me to leap out of the frame and make a grab for him.

I start to breathe heavily, and then I feel the ghost of his touch, his knuckles running down my cheek. My lungs strain for more air as his hand drops a little more, to caress the skin revealed by my own towel.

“You’re exquisite,” he says, breathing against my lips as he seizes the back of my head, and his kiss is so deep, my toes curl and all the atoms in my body seem to shudder.

“Do you want me again?” I breathe. We just had shower sex again. We’re like honeymooners; it doesn’t matter that we’re back in the White House. I’m thirsty for him, and him for me.

“Yes,” he says, tugging my towel loose. I swoon a little when he releases his own towel and draws me into his arms, skin to skin, mouths meshing, his hands stroking down my damp skin.

The next day, after I hurried to get dressed and then watched Matt put on his suit and cufflinks to head to the Oval with Freddy, his escort, who was waiting at our door, I find, in my desk in the East Wing, a Post-it with his handwriting.

Mrs. Hamilton –

I love you.

P.S. Nice skirt.

I smile. I find it funny, because I told him that I would love to answer some of the mail that the White House receives daily. It was just days ago, in Camp David, and I find myself remembering as if I were back in his arms, right there.

“Matt, you know all of the letters that arrive at the White House daily?”

“Hmm.” He’s falling asleep, my head on his folded arm, resting right on his biceps.

“You get a few on your desk every day. To answer,” I specify.

“Uhmm.” He nods, ducking and tucking his nose to my nose, scenting me.

“Would it be possible for me to answer a few too?”

He smiles against my throat, and I hurry on. “I don’t have to, only if you agree.”

“You like your letters, don’t you,” he says, stroking a fingertip along my abdomen.

“Well, I suppose I do,” I say, smiling in the dark.

“I’ll write you my answer then.”

I scowl. “What? You’re going to write me a letter?” I ask, dumbfounded. How complicated does he want this to be?

Then I realize he’s writing with his fingertip, on my skin. Tingles race along my body as I glance down and watch, rapt, as his finger forms the letter,

Y

My core clenches, god he’s so sexy, I can’t stay still. I suppress the urge to squirm as his long finger draws, slowly, the letter,

E

And then, exquisitely slowly, around my belly button, the letter,

S.

He’s still smiling but looking down at me now, his eyes glimmering. “Content, wife?” he husks out.

I purse my lips and then press them to his, where I murmur, “Yes,” before he bites my lower lip, then draws it slowly into his mouth, and that’s about all the business talk of the night.

Now I see his note, right atop a pile of letters. He knows I love my letters—and I find that Matt’s note is only the first out of dozens of letters that will now be left on my desk.

I store it in my drawer, still getting a shock whenever my eyes land on my hand and I see the glinting engagement and wedding rings on my finger.

Matt

“You’re telling me it’s a dead end?”

It’s me and Cox again at the Oval.

“Looks like it, Mr. President.”

Cox motions to the images of the letters, each photographed in a ziplock bag, on my desk. “We’ve run the letters similar to the one sent to you, all those we could find dating back to your father, and all the prints match White House staff. One shows a print from an external.” Cox pulls out an image of a large, balding man. “We sent a team. The guy worked at the Post Office in Milwaukee around the times the letters were dated. He doesn’t remember a thing.”

I rub my thumb restlessly over my lower lip. “Any other leads?”

“Negative, sir.”

“Let’s keep digging.”

“Yes, sir.”

He exits, and for a second, I grind my molars and glance at the photograph of my father on my desk as I pull out the files and get prepped for my meeting with the Attorney General.

28

THE UNEXPECTED

Charlotte

A week after our return from Camp David, I slip on my bra and feel a little bloated as I step into my skirt.

Last week when I realized I was late, I attributed it to the huge life changes of the past few months, plus the fact that the pill could be making everything screwy, but now I’m concerned.

I’m just not that irregular. I never have been.

I can’t stop thinking about it as I do an interview in one of the White House rooms. The moment we’re done, I call up my press secretary. Lola is thirty-five, young and feisty, and I’ve developed a good friendship with her. Although I may be closer to Alison, as she’s new to the White House like me, Lola is a bit savvier on secrecy and I really need this to be between us. She meets me in the Yellow Oval, where I’ve been pacing nonstop.

“I need a favor.”

“Anything.”

“I need Kayla to come visit me. And to find a way to discreetly bring me a pregnancy test.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll set you up.”

“Thank you, Lola.”

It doesn’t take her long. Less than an hour later, she returns with an unlabeled plastic bag in hand. “Okay, I was careful with who I asked. I ordered several brands, too.” She hands them over, smiling. “I’m nervous and excited for you.”

“I’m nervous and excited too.”

She leaves, and I rush down the hall to the Queens’ Bedroom and go through the whole procedure. Four times. Each of those times, it’s positive.

I’m pregnant with Matthew Hamilton’s baby.

I look at the tests in bewilderment, amazement, excitement, and fear. Complete, paralyzing fear.

Shock slaps me.

I’m confused, wandering restlessly down the halls as I wait for him to wrap up in the West Wing for the day. I call Portia and ask her when I can see the president. He’s in a cabinet meeting, but she assures me she’ll let me know when he’s done and fit me in before he meets with his national security advisor.

Forty-eight minutes later, I walk into the Oval, and Matt is looking down at some papers, his glasses perched on that elegant nose of his, one of his hands gripping his hair as if he’s frustrated. Some bill not quite there yet, I suppose.

“Matthew?”

I breathe in shallow, quick gasps and place my hand on my stomach as he raises his head, concern etched on his face.

“I’m pregnant.” My voice is quiet, worried, but it lands like a gigantic weight in the room.

Matt slowly pries his glasses off to look at me, raising an eyebrow. His face set, thoughtful, strong and unreadable. There’s a glimmer of hope in his eyes—hope and something raw and primal.

“I’m pregnant. I’m trying to stay calm and not freak out,” I admit, my voice trailing to a whisper.

His eyes flash as if he’s fighting some unnamable emotion; he lowers his head for a long, eternal minute.

And then he sets his glasses aside and kicks his chair back, crosses the room, grabs me by the chin so my eyes are level with his, and reaches out and puts his hand on my stomach, lowering his head, his chest expanding as he inhales and sets his forehead on mine.