But landing in the USA felt bittersweet—it’s the home I love, where I was born and want to die, and fell in love, but also the country that’s led by the man I love and am trying desperately to get over.

So I steal into the ladies’ room to find it vacant. And I just look at myself in the mirror—and whisper, “Breathe.” I shut my eyes, lean forward, and breathe again. Then I open my eyes. “Now get out there, and say hello to him, and smile.”

It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever told myself to do.

But I exit the room, and watch him with every step I take as I head back to the crowd—everyone waiting to greet him. To be greeted. Acknowledged.

Alison spots me and snaps my picture. “You’ve got it bad. Can’t say I blame you,” she says.

“I don’t want to,” I whisper.

She smiles and continues snapping pictures.

I drink him up like a starved woman, six feet plus of pure fantasy, all packaged in a real man—beautiful beyond belief. So beautiful, I can’t believe beauty like that exists.

And then he’s three steps closer, his voice so near. “Thanks for coming.”

Two steps. “Good to see you.”

One step.

I try to smile when he stops before me, towering over me, dark and gorgeous. Everyone is holding their breath. A silence settles over the room. I blink in disbelief.

Matt Hamilton.

God. He looks hot as sin, his eyebrows slanted as he looks piercingly into my eyes, a half smile playing on his beautiful lips—lips that are full and lush, and very, very wicked.

There’s a catch in my breath, and so much pride welling in my chest as I duck my head in a slight nod.

“Mr. President.”

He reaches out to take my hand in his grasp, his fingers sliding over mine.

“It’s good to see you.” His voice is especially low.

I remember him telling me he’d get hard when I called him Mr. President, and now I can’t stop blushing. But it’s not like I’m going to bring it up now.

His fingers are warm and strong. His grip just right.

His hand so right.

We’re not even shaking hands. He’s practically holding my hand. And every part of me remembers this hand. This touch on me.

When he lowers my hand to my side, he slips something into my palm and ducks to murmur in my ear, “Be discreet,” and I grip what feels like a small piece of paper in my fist as he proceeds to greet the other guests.

Slack-jawed, I watch him retreat, then I discreetly open the paper. It reads:

10 minutes

South exit

up the elevator

take the double doors down the hall.

He’s expecting me.

I count the minutes as the live performance by Alicia Keys begins, and Matt opens up the dance floor with his mother.

The most handsome president I’ve ever beheld.

Where did he learn how to dance like that?

I’m holding a glass of wine as I watch him twirl her on the dance floor. She’s laughing, looking younger than her years, though the pain in her eyes never really fades. Matt is grinning down at her, trying his damnedest to relieve that pain.

I love this stupid man so much I want to punch something.

When the dance ends, other couples join, and I see Matt—who’s still causing titters in the room—excuse himself from his mother and head out a different exit than the one he indicated for me.

He’s tugging on his cufflinks as he crosses the room, his agents already moving at the sides of the room, toward the same exit, and I set my wine aside. I’m telling myself it’s no good—that if I go there, it’ll just be to get my heart broken a thousand times again. But a part of me . . . just doesn’t care.

This is Matt.

I crossed an ocean to forget him, but I’d swim across thousands for this man.

My heart will always beat for him.

The heart that had to put a whole ocean between us for fear of seeking him out.

The heart that beats like a mad thing in my chest as I go meet him.

I follow instructions to the T. I spot Wilson outside the room, along with an army of other agents of the Secret Service.

Wilson whispers something into his receiver as he nods at me and reaches for the doorknob.

“Hi, Wilson.”

“Miss Wells.” He nods briefly as he opens the door. “The president is inside.”

“Thank you.”

I suppose my heart is whacking so loudly because I’m seeing him again, and also because I don’t know what to expect.

I walk into the room, the door shutting with a soft click behind me.

The air is sucked out of me as if by a vacuum.

A Hamilton vacuum.

It feels as if the whole room is just a backdrop for him. He’s so . . . imposing. Electrifying. I have eyes only for the tall, dark-haired, broad-shouldered man at its center. His stance confident but easy, one hand inside the pocket of his slacks. The bow tie he wears is perfect. Even his hair is perfect, not a strand out of place, and I ache to run my fingers through it.

But inside his eyes there is a whole universe, dark and endless, an intensity in his gaze that pulls at every fiber of my being as he slowly drinks me in—every inch of me in this dress, from my eyes, to my nose, to my lips, my throat, my shoulders, my chest, my abdomen, down my legs.

It’s hard to speak. The way he’s looking at me is thawing my resolve to be strong, and I need to pull his attention away from stripping me naked with his eyes. “Being president looks good on you,” I can’t help but say, because as he undresses me with his eyes, I sort of get an eyeful of him too. His athletic, muscular frame and how the tux hugs his shoulders.