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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."
"All the more reason that I be there."
"But—"
"No buts. You stay where you are and—"
"No, you listen to me. I’m the PR professional here—"
"And you’re my—"
"My—?" She narrows her gaze. There’s something like a dare in her voice.
"You’re my everything, Zara. Whatever we have to do, we’ll face it together."
Her face crumples. A tear slides down her cheek.
My heart stutters. "No, don’t cry, baby. I promise, we’ll come out of this."
She sniffs. "I know. I’m the PR professional here, remember?"
"It’s okay to lean on me, baby."
She brushes away her tears. "Are you coming here, or are you going to waste time talking to me on the phone?"
I chuckle. "I’m on my way."
* * *
"Are you and Zara Chopra together, Minister?"
"What impact will this have on your candidacy?"
"Are you and Ms. Chopra getting married?"
"Minister, how long have you been seeing each other?"
