White House: Commander In Chief Part 30

I just love for people to see him as I do, to know the real man, the one behind the facade, the name, and the presidency.

The Matt Hamilton we all love.

I watch out the windows of Air Force One, the clouds beneath me looking like a carpet of cotton candy.

I lay my hand over my belly and think of Matt.

I'm so in love with him and I can't believe I'm four months pregnant with our second child.

The debates are over, the campaigning has been exhaustive but inspiring, and now we're heading back home.

Our little family of three, soon to be four.

I know from looking at my parents that no matter how strong the love, relations.h.i.+ps are always tested. Boundaries are pushed, some promises broken, and disappointments happen. That's just life. No road is ever perfectly smooth or straight.

But I also know from looking at my parents that love is a choice. Sometimes the hardest choice of all. And I know as I turn to look at Matthew, his profile showcasing perfect masculine beauty, his lips pursed thoughtfully as he looks quizzically at a stack of manila folders in front of him with his gla.s.ses perched on his nose, that I will always choose him.

A realization that comforts me.

I chose him over a normal life. I chose him over privacy. I chose him over insecurity about whether or not I would ever be enough, as a wife, as a mother, as a first lady. I chose him over fear. I chose him over everything . . .

Love can be pa.s.sionate, wild, consuming, mesmerizing. It catches you in the wake of what seems to be an ordinary life and it turns it upside down until you are fully living with every cell, every pore, every atom in your body. It makes you live life to its fullest potential. Love heightens all your emotions, until your past life looks like you were living on mute, like you were living with senses that were partly numbed.

This awakening to experiencing everything to its fullest potential is what makes life the most joyful and blissful experience, and also the most painful one. Looking down at the clouds beneath me and the blue sky stretching out before me, I simply let myself embrace it all, whatever comes.

I see myself with Matt. I see myself having kids with him. I see myself stretched out between his legs, reclining on him, while holding hot cocoa in my hands, hearing the crackling of a fireplace.

I see myself holding his face to my chest, quietly soothing him after a hard day. After having to make some tough decisions.

I see him climbing into bed beside me and nuzzling my neck, telling me how much he loves me, how I am his angel.

I see him holding our daughter's hand (yes, it's a girl-we got confirmation just last week!), her red hair in two little pigtails as she skips besides her father, looking up at him with all the love and awe in the world, and him looking down at her as if she were the greatest treasure.

I see myself thirty years from now, sitting next to an old and still ruggedly handsome Matt, talking about how we met, how he won the presidency, how he proposed, the life we've had.

Because even if he wins, four more years as president is not much compared to the years he will be an ex-president, and I his wife. The term is not the only thing that counts. What really lasts is what you did, your legacy for all time.

It's a simple choice, really. I choose him. Always.

And despite his own fears and concerns, disappointments and ideas about his ability to be both president and husband, president and father, president and man . . . he chose me.

Whatever happens, we chose each other.

It's cold outside, but that's where Matt and I spend the November evening of Election Day. I bring out a small speaker and I play some music, settling for a song Hozier played on our wedding, "Better Love." And we dance, like we sometimes do. I sway in his arms while our team watches television in one of the White House rooms, and Matt Jr. sleeps, and the country waits with bated breath, and I just dance with Matt.

And that's how Carlisle finds us, when he steps outside.

"Well, Mr. President," he says, smiling wryly as he spots us. "Looks like you're up for a second term."

I gasp, my hand flying to my mouth. Matt's hands tighten on me, his jaw clenching, his eyes flas.h.i.+ng with happiness-with gratefulness.

He frames my face and plants a firm, fierce kiss on my forehead, then he steps up to shake Carlisle's hand. "I couldn't have wanted to hear anything else."

They shake hands, and Carlisle slaps his back. "You do me proud, Matt."

"Where's Matt Junior?" he immediately asks me.

"In bed. Matt, you cannot seriously wake him-"

"Oh yes I can," he says, already striding inside. I follow him to the bedroom, where he slowly opens the door and steps into the room to find our son's sleeping form.

Matt sits on the edge of the bed and leans down to whisper, "Hey, bedbug," waiting for Matty to stir awake.

"Dad," he just says, grinning a toothy grin.

Matt strokes one hand over his head. "We're staying."

Matty's eyes widen. He'd been worried. No matter how much I a.s.sured him that we'd find another home, that his dad has a lot of homes we could move into, he'd argued that none of the staffers he'd come to love would be there, nor the swans in the fountain.

"Jack too?" He blinks, and Matt laughs and grabs his face, kissing the top of his head.

"Jack too."

"Okay," he says happily. "Jack, we're staying!" he says, and we tuck him back into bed and just watch him for a minute in the shadows as he falls back to sleep. Our boy, the apple of our eye. Jack is wagging his tail from the corner of his room when Matt embraces me from behind, cupping my stomach with both hands, his chin propped on the top of my head, his thumbs moving back and forth. He doesn't need to trace the letters "I love you"; the way he holds me says he loves us, all of us, all the same.

45.

THE END.

Charlotte He won. By both the popular vote and the Electoral College again. The White House staffers breathe a sigh of relief. Matt and I wander the West Colonnade, Matt Jr. asleep upstairs. The noises of the White House are so familiar to us, every creak and shuffle, the hum and the bustle. There will be no transfer of power until four years-four more years of Hamilton change are under way, of slow steps forward, continued increase in economy and security.

It's a cold winter day, and hundreds of thousands of people flood the National Mall to watch Matt's second inauguration.

Usually protocol dictates that the operations supervisor organizes the dinners and the entire Inauguration Day, rearranging furniture for upcoming interviews, moving out one president as the next one moves in-all within a few hours. The few hours when the oath is taken, the luncheon is served, and the parade on Pennsylvania Avenue is held. This year, there is no such furniture moving. The first family is staying. But while that part of the protocol seems to allow the White House staff to breathe a sigh of relief, other parts are still taking place.

Getting ready to welcome the president after the inauguration through the North Portico doors. Organizing a buffet for us to share with our family and friends before the inaugural b.a.l.l.s.

Everyone is buzzing-the standard hustle and bustle of the White House seems to be triple its usual speed.

I spend the morning with a stylist and a makeup artist, while Matt has a security briefing to rehash what has been done so far, and where things stand.

We get ready for church service, and Matty and Jack go with us to visit Matt's father at Arlington Cemetery.

I feel a bottomless sense of peace and satisfaction, humility and honor, as we head to the U.S. Capitol, where the inauguration will take place.

I worried Matty would not behave during the event, but instead I've realized that he's as smart as his father, and everything I asked him to do-stand still, pay attention, sing the anthem-he's doing instinctively.

I sit behind Matt as he's sworn in, and I glance at his profile and then at my son's. Matt told me last night that he felt honored to share this moment with his son, that he remembered so clearly the days his father took the oath both his first and second time.

Now I watch Matty drink in his father, as he swears to protect and preserve the Const.i.tution of the United States.

I wore blue last time, and white for my wedding day, and now I went for a wine-colored dress. I look like a flame, Matt says.

You never quite get used to the adoration people shower you with; at first it's almost uncomfortable. It takes courage to receive this love and adoration-to own it, because in a way it means you must reciprocate, must deserve it. I know it has been easier for Matthew to do it than it has been for me. He was born to be commander in chief. You could say he belongs where he is because he was born with America in his veins, but I also believe it's part of his personality. It's what has helped us change and grow so much in the past four years-the knowledge that we are phenomenal, and can do and deserve phenomenal things, but also the humility to accept that there is no perfection, that change takes time and effort, that this country isn't based on one person, but on the joint effort of many. Matt is just the leader.

I could not be more proud of him.

The way he carries himself, the smile he wears, the strong outline of his shoulders straining against his gabardine.

Once he finishes his speech and the inauguration comes to a close, we exit up the stairs, and I hug him. Just a hug, and I whisper, "Congratulations, my love."

Wisps of hair fall on my face, and before I can brush them aside, Matt brushes them behind my forehead first. I laugh at the wind blowing my hair into disarray. The wind is being just as playful with his hair. I brush a lock of hair behind his forehead too.

"Four more years," I say.

"They go by fast, don't they?"

"Too fast."

He smiles. "Let's do it."

His fingers smooth and warm as they touch mine, the effect like a hot burst of fireworks in my veins as he takes my hand, the other already taken by Matty.

"Is my first lady ready?"

"As ready as you are."

After the luncheon and the parade, we head to the White House to relax, snack, and then change for the b.a.l.l.s. I go to the bedroom to change into more comfortable heels, and when I head to the Old Family Dining Room, the boys aren't there.

"Oh, Mrs. Hamilton, Junior's with his dad, I think."

"Where?"

"The West Wing."

I head over and greet Portia, worried Matty may be giving her trouble, but she merely grins and motions to the door. "You'll find them both there, Mrs. Hamilton. Also, Alison is on her way-oh, there she is. The president wanted a family picture today."

I just grin, amused, and step into the Oval Office. And there he is, the Ruler of the Modern World, looking out the window, arms crossed, but he uncrosses them as he turns. He sets his hands on the desk before him, arms spread wide, his gaze unflinching and uncompromising-the gaze of the most powerful man in the world. He smiles at me.

I shut the door.

I clear my throat, my lips curving. "Mr. President."

"Mrs. Hamilton." He starts to round the desk.

"You wouldn't happen to know where a rather restless, very handsome young boy went? I can't find him anywhere."

Smiling, he shakes his head and lets his eyes fall to his desk.

Alison is suddenly behind me, her camera flas.h.i.+ng as Matt Jr. peeks from under the desk saying, "Boo!"

"Matt, get out from under your father's desk," I chide.

Alison snaps a few pictures.

"But I don't want to. It's my special hiding place," Matt Jr. says.

"We'll make a tent in your room, or in the Red Room-no, the Blue Room. We'll make you the perfect hiding place there."

"But Dad won't be there. It's no fun without Dad."

Matthew laughs and I roll my eyes. "Were you this difficult?"

"Not nearly," he says, glancing at me, his smile fading.

He looks at my mouth, and I realize that I'm gnawing my lower lip. He leans his dark sable head to me as he brushes his thumb over my lip to make me release it. "I want to kiss that lovely lip."

I ease back to look at him. "You're kissing me with your eyes," I whisper.

"To h.e.l.l with it. My mouth is jealous." He laughs.

He grabs my face and kisses me. It's a quick, dry kiss, PG-13 rated rather than a triple-X kiss, but Matty grins and raises his arms so that we'll scoop him up. Matt scoops him up in his arm and tells Alison, "Catch him while he's still," and Alison is grinning as she starts clicking.

"Jack, come here, boy." Matt whistles to Jack, and I'm shocked to see him crawl out from under the desk too.

"Oh my goodness." I laugh now, and as Jack sits before us, we all turn to Alison's camera lens.

Matthew's lips are curled in a sly grin, little Matt is smirking just like his father does, and I'm blus.h.i.+ng-still because of this man, after all these years. No, we don't live in a fairy-tale world, but between all the bad things, there are these moments, these people, these glimpses of who we are-good. Who we love. How hard. How true. Which is why we cling to every reminder of that good to steer us back, to find the path to where we want to go. Where we deserve to be. Happy. Free. And loved.

Dear Readers.

Thanks so much for picking up my new WHITE HOUSE series. I have loved every second of Matt and Charlotte's story, and I hope you have too. There's a third book I have been planning for some time; it's a standalone with new characters, but in this same world, taking place during Matt's second term. I hope to tell you more about it as soon as I am able to. In the meantime, I'm working on something new, a s.e.xy standalone, that I am just dying to share with you in the spring! Stay tuned!

Thank you for your support and enthusiasm for my work.

XOXO,.