It’s been thousands of days since. Too many years spent living in the past.

Now, as I secure my cufflinks and smooth my tie, I think back to those shoes and realize that I’m about to step into them.

“Ready, sir?”

I nod, and he pulls back the curtain.

The world is watching. They’ve been speculating, hoping, wondering.

Will you, won’t you . . . Please do, please don’t . . .

He’ll win if he runs . . .

He doesn’t stand a chance . . .

I wait for the noise to settle down, lean into the microphone, and say, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my pleasure to announce that I’m officially running for President of the United States of America.”

4

THE NEWS

Charlotte

The morning after my birthday, I notice the light on my answering machine is blinking. I press play, half listening as I lie back in bed, trying to shake my grogginess away.

“Charlotte, it’s your mother—call me.”

“Charlotte, answer your cell.”

After a third similar message, I get up, put coffee on, and return my mother’s calls. “You heard the rumor?” she asks in place of a greeting.

“I’ve been asleep for the past … seven hours.” I squint. “What rumor?”

“It’s on national television! And we’ve been invited to his campaign inaugural, Charlie, you must come. Time for you to get your feet wet in politics.”

My first thought is the same I’ve had for years. That I don’t want to be in politics. I’ve seen and heard too many things being the daughter of a senator. I’ve lived through much already.

“It’s time for you to make a difference, take steps in embracing your own personal power …” my mother continues, and while she rambles on, I turn on the television. Matt’s face flashes before me.

His sun-bronzed, slightly-stubbled, perfectly symmetrical, hot-as-hell face.

He stands behind a podium, a place he’s never been photographed before. The paparazzi have caught him unaware on dates, on the beach, everywhere, but never, as far as I know, behind a podium.

A black suit and crimson tie cover a body fit for a GQ cover, his suit so black that the suits of the men surrounding him seem gray in comparison.

He’s been known to be an outdoorsman who loves physicality, who keeps in shape by experiencing every adventure and sport nature has to offer. Swimming, tennis, hiking, horseback riding. His lean, athletic build, clearly defined beneath the fitted suit, is certainly a testament to that. A full, rather seductive mouth curves into a smile as he speaks into the microphone.

Beneath him, a black line scrolling across the screen says:

BREAKING NEWS: MATTHEW HAMILTON HAS CONFIRMED HIS INTENTION TO RUN FOR PRESIDENT

I read the line again. I also vaguely listen to his voice on the TV. He has such a delicious voice, it’s making the little hairs on my arms stand at attention.

“. . . running for President of the United States of America.”

Something inside of me somersaults; I’m hit by a series of emotions—shock, excitement, disbelief. I fall back on the couch and press a hand to my stomach to keep the winged things inside of it from moving. My mother continues telling me how much my father and she would love my company, but I hardly listen.

How can I, when Matthew Hamilton is on TV?

He is so gorgeous I bet every woman watching wants him to father all of her babies, put those lips on nobody but her, and use those eyes to look at nobody else …

This god.

The prince of America.

Has decided to run for president?

He speaks from a place of confidence and strength.

I know firsthand that politics are not for wimps. I know what my father has gone through to reach and keep his seat in the Senate. I know the kind of sacrifice, patience, and discipline that serving the people requires. I know that despite doing his best, criticisms have kept him awake at night more times than he’d care to admit. I know that being president cannot be easier than being senator. And I know that Matt hadn’t really wanted this.

But after his father was murdered, our economy went to shit. We’re all basically at the point of reaching out for lifesavers, and the situation is so dire that there are probably not enough to go around.

So he’s doing it?

Stepping up?

“So there’s really no excuse for you not to come!” my mother continues.

“Okay.”

“Did you just agree, Charlotte?” My mother sounds so shocked that I smile at having managed to surprise her.

Hell, even I’m surprised that I’m not singing my same song. Blame it on my birthday and another year spent waiting for a big neon sign to point me toward my ideal life path that has yet to appear.

Another year spent waiting for that “this is who you are, this is what you are meant to do” moment. When I remember the night the Hamiltons came for supper, I felt like I was touched by something exciting, historical, and meaningful. That moment branded me in so many ways. You cannot express in words the awe, honor, and complete amazement of being faced with the President of the United States. It makes you want to do great things too.

Maybe seeing Matt again will bring me clarity. Or at the very least, I might actually get to know him and see what he is made of. See if he really is capable of living up to the Hamilton name.

I’m curious.

I’m … intrigued.

Maybe I’m even a little bit in need of convincing myself that my infantile crush has, indeed, been crushed.

Or maybe, like the rest of the world, I’m just excited. That there’s finally a man who can really earn the respect of both parties, cut through the red tape, and get serious work done.

“I’ll go with you,” I agree, much to my mother’s delight. “When is it?”

5

STILL THAT GIRL

Charlotte

I’ve moved into my own flat close to the offices of Women of the World. One bedroom and a sizeable closet. My wardrobe is filled with more power suits than anything, they’re a must for hunting down sponsors and job opportunities for our women ... new opportunities that inspire them to be better.

But there’s a short row of dresses in the crammed closet of my new apartment. I might not have dozens of options to choose from, but the night of the kickoff party, I have more picks than the one dress I had when I was eleven.

Kayla is dying of jealousy, and Alan and Sam have been hinting on being willing to escort me to the event—in case I needed an escort. I’ve declined, since I’m going with my mother. My father, as a current Democrat, is not really up to coming to support an Independent candidate. But my mother has a mind of her own, and when it comes to anything Hamilton, it seems so do I.