Page 21 of The Bodyguard Affair
“Who are we talking about?” I ask, trying again.
Ann just eyes me up and down from behind her wire-framed glasses, lips pressed together as though she’s trying to hold in a laugh. I place my hand over my mouth, auto-assuming there’s something on my face, or food in my teeth.
Clearly, I was too abrupt and accidentally interrupted a private conversation. I’ve never been great at reading people, especially when they’re in groups. Inevitably I always feel like the odd one out. The one who gets the least amount of eye contact. The one who awkwardly stands there, nodding, like a bystander to the conversation. I’ve always preferred one-on-one friendships because of that.
“Glad you’re both having a good day.” Before I can embarrass myself more, I scurry to the bathroom to do a mirror check before going to Gretchen’s office, only to find nothing on my face or in my teeth.
I’m trembling by the time I arrive at her office. Gretchen glares at me in the hallway before my direct view to her is disrupted by Eric, who’s just leaving. He inches past me in the doorway without so much as a passing glance. Odd, especially after our heart-to-heart last night. He’s a busy man, but he usually at least sayshito me. Maybe he’s embarrassed about crying in front of me?
When I enter, Gretchen gives me an icy look that could freeze a large nation. She’s not an overly warm and fuzzy person, but she’s never been this cold to me. Not even after I accidentallyspilled coffee on one of her favorite cashmere sweaters in my first month.
As I round her oak desk, it’s clear we’re not alone. In the chair on the far right is Bethany, director of media relations, with the box-dyed red hair that always looks a shade of purple.
“We have a serious situation.” Gretchen’s abrupt, clipped tone isn’t lost on me. What the hell is going on?
“A situation?”
“A PR nightmare,” Bethany says, enunciating with precision. She shifts her whole body toward me, the toes of her blue matte heels dragging against the carpet.
“What can I do?” I ask instinctually. As a PA, remedying the situation is always my first priority, even before understanding what the situation actually is.
“Maybe you can tell us,” Bethany says cryptically.
I rack my brain, trying to figure out what the hell I did wrong, but come up with nothing. Maybe Nolan told someone we knew each other? Not that it should be a big deal, since nothing happened between us. Besides, everyone on the Hill knows one another (and sleeps together, occasionally). “What’s going on?”
Gretchen turns her desktop monitor to me. The screen is opened to multiple internet tabs, all of which appear to be media articles.
I suck in a shaky breath, mentally prepping myself to read headlines about Eric and Gretchen splitting up, or maybe even divorcing. Did things go that south since last night’s failed anniversary dinner? Maybe that’s why Eric was in such a mood.
But the articles aren’t about Gretchen and Eric. They’re about Eric and…me.
Chapter 8
Andi
Scandal at the Table: PM and Assistant Getting Cozy at Intimate Dinner
Restaurant Photos Fuel Speculation About Eric Nichols and Wife’s Assistant
Eric Nichols’ Rumored Steamy Affair With Wife’s Personal Assistant
Whispers of Infidelity: Pm’s Dinner Date Raises Eyebrows
And then there are the photos.
They’re of last night. And admittedly, they look bad.
It’s a direct shot of Eric and me at the table—the harpist and Nolan cropped out. Beside the candles and flowers, Eric is leaning in close. It looks like we’re staring dreamily into each other’s eyes.
If that’s not bad enough, there’s a couple shots where it looks like he’s touching my elbow, when really, it’s when he accidentally knocked over the saltshaker. And then there’s the last few photos, where it appears we’re holding hands, even though it was merely a one-second squeeze. Nothing remotely intimate or romantic. In fact, I’ve always considered Eric a remarkably cooler, older brother figure.
With each new headline and accompanying photo, I lose a year of my life. I think I’m having an out-of-body experience. It’s like I’m watching myself, pale like Casper the Friendly Ghost, death-clutching Gretchen’s chair with my sweaty hands so hard, I’m shocked the leather doesn’t puncture. My heart thrashes, desperate to burst free and run out of this house. Out of this city. I’m certain both Gretchen and Bethany can hear it. And probably everyone in the whole house, for that matter.
My eyes latch on to Gretchen’s, bypassing her hard stare. “Gretchen, I swear to you, there’s absolutely nothing like that going on. We were just talking. I was giving him advice about how to fix things with you,” I assure her, clumsily explaining the saltshaker incident and the quick hand squeeze. “I don’t—I don’t think that way about Eric. Ever. You guys are like family to me.” Those words sound ludicrous coming out of my mouth. But how does one eloquently convince their boss they’renotsleeping with their husband?
“Actually, there’s more. It’s not just the photos,” Bethany warns.
My brows shoot up. “More?” What more could there possibly be?
