Chapter 4
NATHAN
I arrived at the festival grounds for the candle lighting ceremony under string lights crisscrossed over the cobblestone square.
A small crowd had gathered near the central stage where rows of candles waited to be lit.
Children ran around their parents' legs, clutching glow sticks and half-eaten funnel cakes, while volunteers in red aprons distributed programs and song sheets.
I adjusted my tie and scanned the crowd, searching for auburn hair and hazel eyes.
After what happened in Ember's office yesterday, she had every right not to show up.
Part of me wondered if she'd even return to work on Monday morning.
The hospital board meeting had run an hour over schedule, dragging through budget projections and staffing concerns until my patience had worn thin.
By the time I'd returned to her office, the lights were off and her desk was cleared.
I'd stood in her doorway for a full minute, staring at the empty chair, before pulling out my phone and dialing her number.
The call had gone straight to voicemail.
I'd left a message, asking her to confirm her attendance at tonight's event—but I hadn't heard back.
Now, standing in the middle of the festival with my Lightkeeper robe folded over one arm, I felt ridiculous.
She wasn't coming.
Why would she?
I'd crossed every professional boundary yesterday.
Not just crossed—obliterated, destroyed, decimated.
The memory of being buried inside her with her moans and those tiny gasps she made filling the room tormented me.
I'd barely slept last night while she played on repeat in my mind.
And now I had to stand in front of this community and pretend to be their symbol of moral virtue.
The Lightkeeper—a man of integrity and family values. A respected leader who embodied everything Beacon Hill held dear.
When in reality, I'd had sex with my assistant—my twenty-four-year-old assistant—on her desk in a hospital office where anyone could've walked in.
Young enough to be my daughter in another life and still completely impossible to resist.
I felt deeply ashamed of myself and at the same time, I felt like a teenager who just got laid for the first time.
Ember Harrison was on fire, and her body felt incredible.
I couldn’t remember a time where a woman was so responsive to my touch.
It made me feel like a king or a god that I could make her go twice with so little effort.
I was a bit chuffed.
"Dr. Bradley!" A woman in a red apron waved at me from near the stage.
I recognized her from yesterday—the festival coordinator with the clipboard. "We're so glad you're here. We'll be starting in about ten minutes."
I nodded and made my way toward her, weaving through clusters of families.
A few people recognized me and offered congratulations on the Lightkeeper appointment.
I shook hands and smiled and tried to ignore the persistent voice in my head telling me I was a fraud.
The coordinator thrust a program into my hands. "You'll lead the crowd in the first carol, then light the unity candle at center stage. After that, you and your Hearthkeeper will move through the rows and help attendees light their individual candles. It's all very straightforward."
"And my Hearthkeeper?" I asked, trying to keep the nervous tension out of my voice. "Has she arrived?"
With no point of contact between us, I feared that I had ruined everything and that she had run off to hide, never to be seen again.
Or maybe to be seen again at the back end of a sexual harassment lawsuit.
That thought made my throat constrict.
The coordinator glanced at her clipboard, then scanned the crowd. "I haven't seen her yet, but I'm sure she'll be here soon."
I wasn't sure of anything.
I thanked her and moved toward the side of the stage, positioning myself where I could watch the entrance to the square.
Volunteers were setting up the sound system, testing microphones and adjusting speakers.
I shrugged the crimson robe on over my suit, fastening the clasps at my chest.
At least it wasn't a thousand blazing degrees out here with the sun going down, but July wasn't being merciful to the city this year.
Still, with the amount of anxiety I felt, I was grateful for the extra layer to hide any sweat rings for now.
I checked my phone for the dozenth time and I shoved it back into my pocket after seeing no missed calls or messages.
This was fine.
I'd done public events alone before.
I could manage one candle lighting ceremony without her.
And if I never saw her again, why would it matter?
She had been in my life for three days and it'd be easy to move on—much easier than moving on from past women.
It wasn't like we were emotionally attached or anything.
Except I didn't want to manage without her.
I wanted to see her face when she arrived, wanted to watch her try to hide her nerves behind that careful mask of composure while her cheeks blazed.
I wanted to know if she was thinking about yesterday as obsessively as I was.
The crowd began moving toward the rows of chairs set up in front of the stage.
Families claimed seats while groups of teenagers clustered at the back, more interested in their phones than the ceremony.
I positioned myself behind the stage curtain, out of sight, and tried to calm the restless energy coursing through me.
"There you are."
I turned so fast I nearly knocked over a stack of folding chairs.
Ember stood three feet away, dressed in a simple black dress and low heels.
Her hair was pulled back from her face, and she wore minimal makeup, but she looked stunning.
My heart kicked against my ribs.
"You came," I said, then immediately felt foolish. Of course she'd come. This was her job.
"You thought I wouldn't?" She crossed her arms over her chest and lifted an eyebrow. She was sassier than the last four assistants combined and I loved it.
"I wasn't sure." I stepped closer, lowering my voice. "I called earlier. Left a voicemail."
"I know. I got it."
"But you didn't call back."
"I needed time to think." She glanced past me toward the stage, where volunteers were making final adjustments. "We should probably get ready. The ceremony starts soon."
I wanted to pull her aside and have a real conversation, but the coordinator was already heading toward us with another clipboard and an apologetic smile.
"Ms. Harrison! So glad you made it. Let's get you into your costume." She handed Ember the gold-trimmed gown from yesterday, then turned to me. "Dr. Bradley, you're all set. We'll cue you in about five minutes."
Ember disappeared behind a makeshift changing screen, and I stood there feeling useless.
When she emerged wearing the Hearthkeeper robe, I had to force myself not to stare.
Red and gold were definitely her colors.
They brought out the pop of green in her eyes that had me staring again.
She caught me looking and raised an eyebrow. I cleared my throat and turned away.
The coordinator ushered us toward the stage entrance.
"Remember, you'll light the unity candle together after the first carol to symbolize the community is one, then you'll work your way through the crowd, helping people light their individual candles from yours. It's a symbol of spreading light and warmth through the community."
The music started—a piano playing the opening notes of a familiar carol—and the coordinator gave us a gentle push toward the stage.
The crowd applauded as we stepped into view.
I held out my arm, and Ember took it, her hand resting lightly on my sleeve.
We walked to center stage where a tall white candle stood waiting, its wick already prepared.
I picked up the long match from the table beside it and struck it against the box, and the flame caught immediately and fought to stay alive.
Together, we leaned toward the unity candle where I touched the match to the wick, and Ember cupped her hand around mine to shield the flame from the evening breeze.
The candle lit with a soft whoosh, bringing a smile to Ember's face.
The way she looked up at me with a soft smile made my heart stir.
She was so beautiful.
How had I never noticed before this moment?
We turned to face them, and I began the first verse of the carol.
My voice felt rusty, unpracticed, but the crowd joined in after the first few lines.
Ember stood beside me, mouthing the words but not quite singing.
I could feel the tension radiating from her rigid posture.
When the carol ended, we descended from the stage and moved toward the rows of attendees.
Each person held an unlit candle, waiting for us to bring them the flame.
I lit the first candle from the unity flame, then passed it to a young boy who grinned up at me with missing front teeth.
Ember took the next candle and lit it from mine, then helped a woman in the second row.
We worked our way through the crowd as they continued to sing carols, and soon, everyone was sharing the light from row to row.
We reached the back of the crowd, and I spotted a gap between two vendor booths—a narrow space where the sides of the stalls had been pulled closed for the evening.
The shadows there were deep, offering privacy from the flickering candlelight and the watchful eyes of the community that continued to face the front where the coordinator and other volunteers were raising a wreath on stage.
I touched Ember's elbow and nodded toward the gap.
She hesitated with a frown on her face, then followed me into the narrow space between the booths.
The moment we were out of sight, I doused my flame and took her candle and doused it too, then pulled her against my body and leaned into the booth wall.
"What's going through your head?" I asked in a rushed tone.
She seemed put on the spot, fumbling for words, turning her head away from me. "What do you mean?"
"You've barely said two words to me all night. You didn't return my call. You show up here acting as though yesterday didn't happen." I braced one hand against the wall beside her head while the other firmly held her body against mine. "Talk to me."