"There are cameras," I said desperately. I thought I'd throw up right there. It was happening so fast, I couldn't stop it. "And reporters. I can't?—"
"Ember." He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear, and his tone took on a very serious note, the kind where your boss is reprimanding you and you'd better shut up and listen.
I clamped my mouth shut and whimpered under my breath. "This ceremony means a great deal to the community. I understand it's a bit unexpected, but I need your help. After the ceremony, I'll find a way to get you out of the Hearthkeeper obligations. I promise."
I stared up at him, breathing so fast I felt lightheaded.
His pale eyes held mine, and I saw genuine concern for the situation.
Knowing the whole town was counting on a tradition to take place in less than five minutes and I was the one chosen to fill a gap didn't make it any easier, but I felt stuck.
No one here knew me, right?
And San Diego was so far behind me that I should've let it go.
It was one moment, one little snapshot of me on a stage, not doing anything bad or newsworthy, per se.
I could do this.
I swallowed hard. "Fine. But you owe me."
"Agreed," he said, and he squeezed my shoulder, sending arousal rushing down to my groin.
Then his bright, warm smile returned and crushed me.
For the love of all things holy, I was stuck facing my worst fear while swooning over a man I should never even think about.
In minutes, my bag and tote were taken from me, replaced by a red robe and sash that choked me and made the sweat pour off my back.
The coordinator pushed a spikey crown on my head that scratched my scalp and itched, and then she dabbed my face with some powder while clearly noticing my perspiration problem.
"Perfect!" the coordinator declared. "Now, let's get you on stage."
She grabbed my elbow and propelled me toward the stage entrance.
I stumbled in my heels as the robe tangled around my legs, and my heart hammered against my rib cage.
The lights beyond the curtain were blinding.
I could hear the crowd murmuring, the rustle of programs, the distant cry of a child—but the clicking of camera shutters was the loudest.
Dr. Bradley appeared beside me, now wearing a long crimson robe trimmed in white.
He looked absurd and regal all at once.
Someone handed him a large brass key—the Key of Light, I assumed—and he studied it for a second while nodding with pride.
"Ready?" the coordinator asked.
I wanted to scream that no, I was not ready, that I'd never be ready.
But the music swelled, and the coordinator shoved us forward onto the stage.
The crowd erupted in applause.
I froze at the edge of the platform, my vision tunneling.
There were so many people.
