The Spotlight

Chapter 17

The rain falls against the windows like the soundtrack of an old movie-melodramatic and wild, tapping out rhythms that match the havoc in my head. The droplets trace jagged paths down the glass, distorting the view of the manicured garden beyond. My fingers curl around a mug of tea gone cold, the porcelain no longer offering comfort as it chills against my skin. I've been sitting here for nearly an hour, replaying the same scene in my mind: Gary's hand at the small of my back, his breath warming my ear, the words that have kept me awake for two nights straight.

All I can think about is how much I want to pull you closer. And that terrifies me, Riley.

The kitchen is quiet this Monday morning. The pristine marble countertops gleam under the recessed lighting, and the polished stainless steel appliances reflect my troubled expression. Most of the other contestants are still sleeping. David had suggested a movie marathon yesterday, but I'd claimed a headache and retreated to my room. In truth, I couldn't bear to sit next to him on the couch, not with Gary's confession still ringing in my ears, not with the knowledge that whatever this thing is between us, it's mutual.

I trace the rim of my mug, watching raindrops race down the windowpane. My reflection stares back-blonde hair pulled into a messy bun, dark circles under my eyes that resemble bruised shadows no amount of concealer could hide today. I look exactly like what I am: a woman who hasn't slept properly in days.

The silver star bracelet catches the kitchen light as I lift my mug, the delicate chain clinking softly against the ceramic.

"You're being ridiculous," I mutter to myself, my voice sounding hollow in the empty kitchen.

Yet logic does nothing to halt the replay in my mind: his fingers interlaced with mine while we danced, his touch warm, the deliberate space he kept despite his eyes conveying a different message; the text messages that followed, skirting the boundary between friendly and something beyond.

You're not making this easy.

I can still picture his face when I first emerged in that emerald gown-the unguarded appreciation in his eyes before he schooled his features back to professional composure, the slight parting of his lips as if words had momentarily failed him. For that brief moment, he hadn't been Gary Barlow the judge, the superstar, the mentor. He'd just been a man looking at a woman.

I shake my head, trying to dislodge these thoughts. Whatever happened at the premiere, whatever is happening between us, it can't go anywhere. The show's rules are clear about relationships between judges and contestants. Gary's career would be affected. Mine would certainly be over before it began.

Beyond the kitchen windows, the house's garden looks forlorn in the rain. The topiary bushes that normally stand at perfect attention now droop under the weight of water. A forgotten champagne glass from someone sits collecting rainwater on the patio table, the liquid inside turning a pale amber as it dilutes. Everything feels slightly off-kilter, as though the world shifted two degrees while I wasn't looking.

I take a sip of my tea and grimace at its coldness, the tannins now bitter on my tongue. My phone sits face-down on the table-I'd placed it that way deliberately, trying not to check it for messages that aren't coming. Gary hasn't texted since that brief exchange after the premiere. The screen remains stubbornly dark, no notification light blinking. What did I expect? That he'd throw caution to the wind and pursue something that could ruin both our careers?

The rational part of me knows we need to take a step back. The irrational part keeps remembering how it felt when he caught my hand as I stumbled on the steps outside the premiere-the strength in his grip, the concern in his eyes, the way his thumb brushed unconsciously across my knuckles.