Page 310 of The Christmas Wife

"Because…" I shake my head. "Because I can’t."

"If you mean Olly?—"

"Don’t mention Olly." I rise to my feet so quickly, my head spins. I must stumble, because the next second, he’s gripping my arms and steadying me.

"You okay, Zara?"

I shake my head. "I’d like to go home now."

"Look at me." He takes me by my shoulders. "I’m sorry if I distressed you. That wasn’t my intention at all."

I glance away.

"You don’t give me much to go on. You don’t share anything with me. It’s why I keep trying to push you, even though I know it’s wrong."

When I refuse to meet his eyes, he blows out his breath. "Zara, please, I really didn’t mean to hurt you."

"And yet, you did." I turn and narrow my gaze on him. "Can we go back now, please?"

47

Hunter

"Are you sure she’s okay?" I barked down the phone.

"Are you questioning my professional judgment?" Weston growls back.

I drag my fingers through my hair, then squeeze the bridge of my nose. "No, of course not. I’m sorry I woke you up so late."

There’s a pause. "It comes with the territory," Weston finally says. "I can assure you that there’s nothing wrong with Zara’s health. As for the rest, it’s up to her when she chooses to confide in you." He cuts the call.

I stare at my screen, then place my phone down on the table. So, she’s all right. There’s nothing wrong with her. Yet, she definitely seemed to pale when she rose to her feet too quickly earlier at our impromptu picnic. And then, she got upset when I mentioned Olly. Which was a tactical mistake. But she had to have known I’d have found out about her youngest sibling’s death due to an accident when he was three years old.

She was only nineteen when he died, and she left home shortly after. I didn’t mean to bring it up, but I wanted to reassure her that whatever’s in her background that might be stopping her from considering a future with me, it doesn’t matter. I didn’t expect her to get so upset when I mentioned Olly. Which, I now realize, is understandable. Losing a sibling, especially one that young, would have been devastating for her. And I brought it up without any consideration for her feelings. After that faux pas on my part, we packed up the remnants of our picnic dinner. I dropped her off at home, made sure she locked her door behind her, and returned to my office, knowing there’d be no sleep for me tonight.

I lean back in my chair and stare at my blank computer screen. Something doesn’t compute. Why is she so resistant to a relationship with me? Sure, she’s my PR manager and part of my campaign team, but I want to be open about our relationship. Yes, it would bring a whole new level of scrutiny of us. It would mean changing the scope of her role from being only responsible for PR to weighing in on the bigger decisions, by my side. A warmth fills my chest at the thought. She would be perfect. She was made for that role. No, fact is, she was made for bigger things than being campaign manager. By my side, she could impact larger decisions. She could carve out a role for herself, one that complements my political career and which, no doubt, would be much more fulfilling than being a fixer. So, what’s stopping her?

I squeeze the bridge of my nose, when my phone buzzes. At the same time, my computer screen springs to life with the ding of an email, then another, and another. My phone buzzes again, then rings. I pick it up, spot Zara’s name and answer it at once.

"Everything okay?"

"They found us out, Hunter." Her face fills the screen. "We’re all over social media," she cries.

"What?"

"Yes. There’s a picture of us?—"

"What picture?"

"I’ll send you a link." She looks down into the screen, then my phone vibrates. I click through the link she sends me to the news in a tabloid. There’s a picture of her and me, shot through a window. It’s grainy, but clear enough. There’s no mistaking the two faces in profile. Zara is reaching up to wipe something from the corner of my mouth. We’re both laughing and looking at each other in a way that leaves no room for doubt. It’s a picture of two people who have feelings for each other.

"It’s from the breakfast at the diner," I murmur.

She nods grimly. "What are we going to do?"

I rise to my feet. "I’m coming to you."

"No—" she cries out. "I mean, there are already paparazzi pulling up outside my door."

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