I sat through all of it, my hand occasionally brushing against Ember's under the table, offering silent reassurance.
And finally, after what felt like hours, the program ended.
Applause filled the room, and people began standing, gathering their things and moving toward the exits.
I held a hand out for Ember and we made our way toward the door.
Near the exit, I leaned close to whisper, "See? A beautiful woman can survive in a den of lions now and then…" and she burst into laughter.
It was a genuine reaction to my lighthearted way of breaking the tension and it felt intimate.
My hand rode her lower back as I remained pressed in close to her ear.
And the flashbulb caught us both off guard.
I looked up sharply to see a photographer lowering his camera, grinning as he reviewed the image on his screen.
He gave me a casual wave and disappeared into the crowd before I could react.
"Did he just—" Ember started.
"Yes." I kept my hand on her back and guided her through the exit. "Don't worry about it. Photographers are everywhere at these events."
But worry was exactly what I felt.
We stepped out onto the sidewalk to await the car and my gut started to churn.
The angle had been perfect—my head bent close to hers, her laughing, my hand on her back.
To anyone looking at that image, we didn't appear to be employer and employee.
We looked intimate.
Involved.
And after the comments from more than half the people in attendance, followed by the rude way that donor pointed out how much younger than me Ember was, I knew the photo would hit the tabloids and start a round of gossip.
I could live with it, though it would be frustrating.
But Ember was a private person, and I worried this would push her away from me and turn her off from even trying to see if we had a spark.
I was starting to hate the press as much as she did.
7
EMBER
I'd been hiding since yesterday evening when I got home from work, which was awkward, to say the least.
Following Dr. Bradley around knowing what we'd done felt scandalous even though no one knew a thing except the two of us.
And every time someone whispered something around me, I jumped to conclusions, assuming they thought the worst of me or that they'd figured out what we did.
After that photographer snapped our picture, he had asked me to go home with him, but I just couldn’t.
As alluring as the idea of great sex with him was, I just wasn’t in the mood, and I told him as much.
Shame felt like my permanent aura, following me everywhere I went.
