Chapter 5 Ember #2
"And in case you missed it," the anchor said, "yesterday's candle lighting ceremony at the Christmas in July festival was absolutely beautiful. Let's take another look at Beacon Hill's newly appointed Lightkeeper and Hearthkeeper."
My hands froze on the spray bottle as the screen cut to footage from last night.
The camera angle was tight, focused on Dr. Bradley and me as we moved through the crowd lighting candles.
We stood close together, and it looked less like an honorable tradition and more like we were a happy couple.
His hand hovered near the small of my back, not quite touching but protective.
My head was tilted toward him, and I saw the attraction in my own eyes as I stared up at him.
This was bad.
God, this was so bad.
We looked intimate and way too familiar.
Anyone who saw this wouldn't have to try hard to guess something was going on between us.
"Dr. Nathan Bradley, Dean of Medicine at Beacon Hill University Hospital, was chosen as this year's Lightkeeper," the anchor continued.
"His selection of Hearthkeeper has certainly raised eyebrows.
Ember Harrison is only twenty-four years old and serves as Dr. Bradley's personal assistant.
Quite the age gap, but what a statement about mentorship and the passing of tradition to the next generation. "
The screen switched to footage from the ceremony itself.
The moment when Nate had leaned down and kissed me on stage.
The camera had caught everything—the way his hand had curved around my waist, the way I'd risen onto my toes to meet him, the lingering moment when he'd pulled back and our eyes had locked.
It made my cheeks burn even hotter this time, seeing it on television with all the neighbors in the building watching.
A few of them whistled and chuckled, which drew a round of laughter from everyone.
All while I was ready to pee myself.
The anchor's co-host chimed in with a laugh.
"They certainly seem to have good chemistry. That's important for a partnership that will last through the holiday season."
"Indeed," the anchor agreed. "We'll be following their journey closely as they prepare for the December tree lighting. Such a lovely tradition."
The segment ended, and the broadcast moved on to weather.
But I couldn't move.
I stood on the stepladder, gripping the spray bottle so hard that the plastic cut into my palms, and stared at the television screen.
They'd analyzed us—discussed us—turned our private moment into public entertainment.
The last time this had happened, it had destroyed my life.
Brad's face flashed through my mind—his smirk when he'd shown me the video, the casual cruelty in his voice when he'd explained that everyone on campus had already seen it.
I'd been mortified at that alone, but the following weeks turned into a nightmare so bad, I had to hide in my parents' house.
"Ember? Are you all right?"
Clara's voice broke through the spiral.
I blinked and looked down.
She stood at the base of the stepladder with concern etched across her features.
"I'm fine," I said automatically, but I sounded detached and distant.
"You don't look fine. You've gone very pale." She reached up and touched my arm. "Come down from there before you fall."
I descended the ladder on shaking legs.
The sponge slipped from my hand and bounced at my feet, leaving a wet spot on the raggedy carpet.
Clara caught my elbow and steadied me.
"What's wrong?" she asked quietly.
I couldn't answer.
My throat had closed and my chest felt too tight.
I stared at the television, even though it had moved on to other news now.
I shook my head, not trusting myself to speak.
I couldn't shake the dread coiling in my stomach.
The cameras were everywhere.
The reporters were paying attention.
And Nate and I had chemistry that apparently showed through the lens.
What would happen when they dug deeper?
When they started asking questions about who I was and where I'd come from?
Would someone recognize my face?
Would they connect Ember Harrison to Amber Hensley?
Would everything I'd built come crashing down again?
Clara vanished and when she returned, she had a bottle of water which she pressed into my hands. "Drink. You'll feel better."
I obeyed, taking small sips while she stood beside me like she was my mother, hoping to comfort me.
The other tenants had moved to a different part of the building, giving us space, and the television continued its broadcast, oblivious to my panic.
"You know what I think?" Clara said after a long moment.
"What?"
"I think you're braver than you realize." She folded her hands in her lap. "You're standing up there in front of everyone, representing something important, even though it terrifies you. That takes courage."
"I don't feel brave," I admitted. "I feel trapped."
"Those two things aren't mutually exclusive." She smiled gently. "Sometimes, being brave means doing the thing that scares you most."
I looked at her, this woman I barely knew, who was offering me comfort and wisdom without asking for explanations. "Thank you, Clara."
"You're welcome, dear." She patted my knee again. "Now, do you want to keep cleaning up or should we call it a day?"
I glanced at the puddle on the floor, then at the doorways still waiting to be cleaned.
My hands had stopped shaking, and my breathing had returned to normal.
The panic was still there, lurking beneath the surface, but Clara's presence had dulled its edges.
"Let's finish," I said, pushing myself to my feet. "I could use the distraction."
We worked together to clean the remaining doorways and I focused on the task in front of me, not the TV down the hall running an infomercial about garage doors.
But the feeling of dread refused to leave.
If I told Amelia about this, she'd know what to say, but then the last time we spoke, she'd surprised me by saying the opposite of what I thought she'd say.
My whole world felt upside down and I didn’t know how to right it.
If Nathan Bradley didn't get out from under my skin, I felt like this was going to turn out worse than San Diego.