The Spotlight

Chapter 20

Sunlight cuts across the kitchen counter in neat golden rectangles as I stand barefoot on the cool tile, spreading butter on toast with the focus of someone diffusing a bomb. My hair's a mess, my oversized t-shirt has a coffee stain near the hem, and I've been working on this single piece of toast for approximately three minutes. Not because toast-buttering demands such precision, but because my mind refuses to stay in this kitchen when it could be replaying last night's kiss with Gary instead.

The knife hovers above the bread. I've buttered the same corner twice now.

I close my eyes and it returns-his hand cupping my face, the slight scratch of his beard against my skin, the gentle pressure of his lips finding mine in his dressing room. How he pulled away just enough to look at me, eyes asking a question before I answered by pulling him back. The way his cologne mixed with the faint scent of his aftershave. How his thumbs traced circles on my cheeks while he kissed me like he'd been thinking about it for weeks.

Maybe he had. I certainly had.

The toast remains forgotten as I remember how his breath caught when I ran my fingers through his hair. How firm his shoulders felt beneath my palms. The low sound he made when I pressed closer.

I drag myself back to the present and force the knife to move across the bread. It's just toast. Normal, everyday toast on a normal, everyday morning after your X Factor mentor kissed you senseless against a dressing room door.

Nothing unusual there.

I laugh at myself, the sound too sharp in the quiet kitchen. Most people in the house are still asleep-a blessing considering my inability to form coherent sentences or focus on simple tasks. My mind feels like it's been rewired overnight, electrodes rerouted to play nothing but highlight reels of Gary Barlow's hands, Gary Barlow's mouth, Gary Barlow whispering my name against my ear like it's a prayer he's been saving.

I take a bite of the over-buttered toast and make a face. Cold now. I consider making another piece but can't summon the concentration required to operate the toaster. Instead, I lean against the counter and stare out the window, watching a squirrel dart across the lawn of the contestant's house.

What happens now? We kissed. We kissed for a while. We agreed we needed to talk about what it meant. Then we went our separate ways because it was late and we both had early mornings.

Now what? Do we pretend it never happened? Do we find another moment alone and pick up where we left off? Is this just a fleeting attraction that will fade once the intensity of the competition eases?

These questions circle my mind like sharks, each one taking a bite of my composure. Whatever I expected to happen after the kiss, it wasn't this suspended animation-this inability to process anything beyond the memory of his lips on mine.

The sound of feet hammering down the stairs interrupts my spiral. I straighten up, attempting to look like someone engaged in a normal breakfast rather than a woman mentally cataloging every second of an illicit makeout session with her celebrity mentor.

David bounds into the kitchen with the energy of someone who's already been awake for hours. His hair is damp at the temples, and he's wearing running shorts and a technical shirt that wicks away sweat. He flashes me a smile as he heads straight for the refrigerator.

"Morning, Riley," he says, pulling out two water bottles.

"Morning." I gesture vaguely at his outfit. "You're up early."

"Going for a run." He presses one of the bottles against his forehead, checking its temperature. "Perfect weather for it."

I notice the second water bottle in his hand. "You must be very thirsty."