“I’m nearly nine months pregnant,” I say.

“Exactly! And you’re still standing.”

“Lola, you kill me,” I laugh.

But I definitely pulled out a lovely chiffon empire-cut gown in a light pink color, which I’m wearing with my hair back in an elegant waterfall look.

It’s classy, but edgy for a pregnant woman, I suppose.

Matt zips up the dress for me and as I stare at myself in the mirror, he remains behind me, drinking me in. His voice appreciative, his smile wolfish. “You’re so gorgeous, sometimes it’s too distracting,” he chides, turning my face and placing a soft kiss on my lips.

“You have no idea the amount of cells that become inactive in women’s brains when you walk by,” I say.

He lets go a surprised laugh, and I laugh too, grabbing my little purse as he escorts me out.

There’s a party after the movie, and Matt and I decide to hit it for an hour, have a little fun.

During the night, as I meet the lead actors and Matt talks with his producer friend, I notice the women approaching him and I find it very interesting to watch them fawn, even knowing that he’s married. He’s cordial and polite, of course, he’s a Hamilton, but the ease with which he’d been standing is gone and he seems to close himself off from any flirtation. He’s so loyal, and I adore him for that.

I’m surprised the women continue to persist, though, too excited and infatuated to notice that he’s definitely not interested.

I think it’s more than his beauty they’re drawn to. More than his power.

I think it’s his humanity that calls them. The fact that he never puts on a show or acts as if he’s perfect; instead he’s always acted as if he’s not perfect but attempts to be. As if he knows that all of his imperfections—his amusing and heartwarming overprotectiveness and even his fear of not being both the best husband and father along with the best president—make him real, that all of our imperfections make us real and relatable because not one of us is perfect, not even a president. We simply want the one who will give us his unfailing best. Like he has.

I find myself blatantly staring and when I realize it, I quickly chide myself in silence and turn away. When I turn back, our eyes lock—and his eyes drift over my empire-cut gown, to my abdomen, where I carry his son. I’m due in mere weeks. And like I’ve noticed these past months, when he looks at me—at what I hold in me—there . . . I see it. A flash so quick and bright, it nearly blinds me.

He seems to push it down, under control, but I saw it. All the love, all the desire, all the craving that could ever be in a man is in him. For me. For us.

“The president never fails to make heads turn,” Alison says beside me as we mingle with the crowd, her camera always at the ready for her to snap the next shot.

It’s true people stare. Although I know people love him for more than his face, because despite the fact that he grew up with everything, he lacks pretention. His parents reared him to be a normal guy, with chores, discipline, and an attitude that was honest and never self-serving. In fact he never liked people doing special things for him, such as not allow him to pay for things; he always paid his way, even when they insisted they wanted to do the gesture for him. Fairness was ingrained with him, or maybe it’s just part of who he is.

The man is unforgettable and he knows it.

And now he’s the president, my husband, soon to be my baby’s daddy.

I frown when I notice Wilson approach him as discreetly as possible, which, considering how much attention Matt draws, is not very discreet, and Matt ducks his head to him. He nods and then lifts his eyes, his gaze instantly landing on me because he’s been keeping tabs on me all night.

Something in his expression alarms me. I pick up my skirts and start walking across the room as he motions me to the door.

“Something wrong?”

“We need to go,” he says.

He escorts me to the door, his hand on the small of my back as we climb into the state car.

I know whatever has happened is big; otherwise we wouldn’t have left. Something needs his attention ASAP.

“We’ve been attacked in the Middle East.”

I gasp. Then I set my hand on my stomach when a contraction hits. I’ve been feeling them on and off, and was told it was normal—the body preparing.

“What is it?” He looks at me in concern.

I meet his gaze, unsure. “Hopefully . . . practice.” But Murphy’s Law says it won’t be.

33

YOU LOVE ME

Charlotte

He’s making me time them on our way to the White House, and the contractions are coming regularly, every four minutes.

“Can you wait for me?” Matt asks when we reach the White House and he sits me on the nearest couch.

“I’ll try,” I promise.

“Wait for me,” he says. His tone is firm and sounds like an order to the universe, part command, part request to me as he glances at my stomach.

I can see the tearing need inside him to be in two places at once, a need that is impossible for him to fulfill, even as the most powerful man in the land.

His jaw flexes in the fiercest way. “I hate doing this to you.” He leans over and he cups my face. “I love you.”

I nod, wanting to appease him. “Every time you hold me close, every time you look at me, I’m reminded of how much you love me. When you do this . . .” I lift his hand and kiss the back of it, the way he sometimes grazes his lips over my knuckles. “That’s all I need. Just knowing it’s there, that you’re there and you’re what’s best for our country and what’s best for me.”