It was reckless—and it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but feeding this wild thirst. Getting rid of that fucking feeling of having my hands tied. Quenching the hunger to touch her, fully knowing that she wanted it, craved it like me.

I not only want this girl, I enjoy being with her.

Growing up the way I did, it feels like a thousand and one expectations are piled on me, one after the other. It can be isolating when people put you up on a pedestal.

It wears on you, having to be the bigger man all the time, to always live up to the Hamilton name.

Everybody has always wanted me to be something bigger than I am. To guard and follow the legacy of my father and the family name.

Even as it feels as if it is my one driving desire to do just that, with her, it feels like she wants me to be nothing more than I am, and nothing less. The few moments together that we’ve had, I was able to let loose with her. Be real with her. She’s the only woman I’ve ever been truly confident won’t leave my bed and take our story to the press. The only girl I’m myself with, no mistrust there, no other agenda—not from me, and not from her.

But I also know that I may have a dose of pixie dust with the public. They’ve been forgiving with me, with my every transgression, rumored or real. But I can’t say they would be as forgiving with her if this got out.

“Yeah. I need to be more careful.” I glance at Beckett, a ton of frustration weighing on me.

Wilson’s familiar three knocks resound in the room, and he opens the door. I know what he’s about to say. The press is probably outside. And they want a statement.

“Are they all outside?” He knows very well who they are.

“Yep.”

I get to my feet. “Let’s go, Beckett—let’s give them a diversion to keep them away from her door.”

“How can you stand having to give a statement for every time you take a shit, man?” Beckett growls.

“You get used to it.”

18

RUMORS

Charlotte

By the next morning, everyone is talking about an affair.

Last night on the eleven o’clock news, the first spot featuring Matt and me appeared on a local channel. “Security camera footage of Matt and a mysterious redhead thought to be a campaign aide ‘secretly’ trying to buy shoes . . .”

I hate seeing it, I hate it with every fiber of my being, but the moments we shared . . . the lingering feeling of his hands on me at the Tisal Basin . . . it almost makes the scandalous rumors of shoe-shopping worth it.

I go downstairs to check my mailbox, only to find two reporters at my building door. I know Matt must be fielding so many more, but to me, two reporters is two too many.

“Miss Wells—”

“No comment, thank you.” I struggle to open the door once more.

“Are you and Matt Hamilton on the tape?”

I slide into the building and see my message machine blinking madly with fifty-two—fifty-two—messages. I disconnect it.

I get an email from my parents. SCANDAL, the subject line reads.

I don’t open it.

Kayla texts me.

I text back:

I’m fine, thanks for worrying. I AM NOT ROMANTICALLY INVOLVED WITH MATT HAMILTON!

Sent. Not involved, I tell myself.

Women voters are going crazy, though, and by that evening, Matt is on the news.

“It is not true that I’m in a relationship with Miss Wells. We took a hike around the Basin as we reviewed my upcoming campaign schedule, so let’s keep the focus on that.”

I turn off the TV with a heavy feeling in my stomach. I eat and think about the situation over my grilled chicken and salad, then change into my running gear. That night, I plunge myself into a run, and run like I’m running a marathon when I head to my parents’ house to say goodbye before the campaign tour.

They’re expecting me in the living room—and I know they were discussing the news. The somber looks on their faces say it all. My father only hugs me and tells me in his gruff way to take care of myself, then heads upstairs.

My mother hands me a glass of lemonade and eyes me worriedly as we sit on opposite couches in the living room. “We saw the news.”

I groan. “Not you too, Mom.”

She nods. “Definitely me, Charlotte. For decades, your father and I have avoided any sort of scandal. Scandal is a career killer in politics.”

“Mom, I know—it was completely innocent.”

“Just remember you’re a lady, Charlotte. Ladies are always ladies first, women second. Understand?”

“Yes, I understand. Don’t worry—I wouldn’t cause any scandal for us.”

“It’s not that Matt isn’t . . . Goodness, he’s a breath of fresh air for this country and he’s running independently. Charlotte, the parties will be out to destroy him—you don’t want to fuel that fire. He belongs to America now. He always has.”

“I know, Mom, I know,” I say.

“Don’t fall in love with him.”

I duck my head, laughing mirthlessly. “Why would you say that?”

Her eyes shine with sympathy and understanding. “Because any woman would. But you’re not any woman. You’re your father’s and my daughter.”

I placate her for the next half hour, and I know I should be concerned; I am concerned. But nothing can stop me from hitting my bed and reliving Matt’s kisses a thousand times.

19

TRAVELING

Charlotte

We’re traveling on a twin-engine plane for the campaign. Our first stop is Dallas, and I’m the only woman flying among a group of four men and a dog. Matt’s junior campaign manager, Hessler, his intimidating grandfather Patrick, Carlisle, Jack, and his hot owner, Matt

Heavenly Kisser

Hamilton.

I’m nervous about the news. Those kisses we shared were so dangerous. I had no idea that I could be so reckless and impulsive until that night.

Matt smiles at me ruefully when he greets me—and I swear every single existing butterfly in my stomach takes flight because he looks genuinely happy to see me. Like he regrets almost getting caught, but he doesn’t regret the kisses one bit.

God. His kisses.

I try not to remember the launch of heat they caused inside me as I greet the men by the plane steps. Carlisle, judging by the tension in his shoulders when he looks at me, seems pretty unhappy about the news.