Several of his managers and chiefs, along with Alison and me, have just finished a shoot promoting clean energy when he arrives on Air Force One from his NASA tour. I ask my detail to drive me to the airport to greet him, and I watch him descend from the plane in a black suit and a crimson tie, surprised when he pulls me close to him and flat-out kisses me on the mouth.

The press has a field day with it:

Hamilton Holds Nothing Back From the First Lady

That night, after he went to dine with a list of influential Hollywood figures, the latest headline caught our attention in Matt’s suite:

Psychic Communicates with Ex-President Hamilton. “Matt Will Exact Vengeance!”

“Sounds like him, doesn’t he?” Dale Coin says—almost as if he believes this psychic could truly impact Matt’s own memory of his father.

Matt smiles wryly and lets the newspaper fall back with the others, but when he looks out the window, his eyes have darkened.

“Not vengeance. Justice.”

My eyes widen when I see the shadows in his gaze.

The press has been all over the Middle East conflict—Matt has been talking to the generals, executing several covert operations to clear our men out of there. Aside from that, everyone is still hung up on us dating. And his kisses, and the fact that he takes my hand to help me out of the car and doesn’t necessarily let go. The fact that he puts his hand on the small of my back when leading us somewhere.

All of it has been photographed and recorded, to my continued blushing about the celebrity of our now open relationship.

A reporter observes, “It does seem that the president appreciates having Miss Wells around, as we can see in this short video, where not only the public seemed enchanted by Miss Wells and her cute little purple dress at the state dinner held for President Asaf, but the president himself didn’t look at anything else for a brief but very obvious moment. What we all want to know is how this is going to play out and whether our president’s head will be in the right place.”

He powers off the TV, leaning back and looking at me with a silent, dark expression as our staff leaves us alone for the night.

Matthew booked only one suite for us—another fact that was recorded.

I swallow and look out, remembering all the people that have been gathering around him, how much they crave just a glimpse of their president.

“I don’t want to distract you. The media seems more hung up on us than what you’re doing. I don’t know that I like that.”

“They focus on what gives them ratings. So be it.” He looks at me as if he thinks I’m the cause of their ratings—not him, the most coveted bachelor shamelessly chasing after me—and glances at the eagle pin I’m wearing on the right side of my dress. I know he loves it when I wear it. His voice lowers a decibel. “Every presidency has had its defining moments. We don’t know what they will be for us. Battling ISIS. Nuclear war. Cyber war.” He tells me, “Do you know what the problem is with the past decades of elections, and why the candidates’ views shift so dramatically, their promises unkept, after they take office?”

“What?”

“The day you’re sworn in, you become privy to confidential information—everything you need to know to run the country. Information that’s sensitive, powerful, from espionage, delicate treaties, foreign relations. Some of this knowledge crushes the candidate’s dreams of what he wished to accomplish. People get disappointed, and the country continues carrying the weight of decisions made even decades ago, three presidents past.”

I’m transfixed, wanting to know more.

“Every president leaves the office looking aged far more years than those he served. It’s the hardest office in the land. I swore I’d never walk in. Every time my dad and I flew back on Marine One, onto the lawns of the White House, and he would tell me, ‘We’re home,’ I’d say, ‘Home to jail.’ And he’d say, ‘Yes, son.’”

“What did you find, Matt?”

“Nothing without loopholes. Treaties not to our benefit. Dangers lurking that we must tread carefully around. This is why I’m here, Charlotte. I knew this wouldn’t be simple. But I’m sick and tired of watching the train wreck and doing nothing to stop it. I know what it takes to run the country—it takes your very soul, and tough calls that might not always be the right ones. But we deserve someone willing to make them and back them up, make us thrive again, even if he has to sacrifice everything to do so.”

“But your father sacrificed his life,” I say miserably.

He rubs the back of his neck, then drops his hand with a sigh as he tugs his tie a bit loose. “I’m not sure he was killed because of the presidency.”

“What do you mean?”

“Cox and I suspect it was something personal, more than his policies.”

A thousand—no, a million—knots wind up in my stomach. “Matthew, please don’t put yourself in danger. You’re the commander in chief; you can’t be opening a can of worms, like my dad once said.”

“I will take care of myself. And Charlotte,” he specifies, his eyes darkening as he shifts forward to brush his thumb along my jawline, until he uses it to tilt my head back by the chin. “I will take care of you. Do you hear me?” He holds my gaze with steely determination. “You and this country. Go to sleep now.”

He kicks off his shoes and throws his tie off as I take off my clothes and slide into bed in my lingerie, under the sheets.

“I bet you joined me here because you missed me.”