The Spotlight

Chapter 27

I stand in my kitchen, the kettle's whistle cutting through the silence with a sharp, almost accusatory cry. My hands tremble as I reach for two mugs from the cabinet, the ceramic clinking together when I set them on the counter. I've done this simple task thousands of times before, but tonight, knowing Gary is on his way, my body seems to have forgotten the most basic movements. The kettle continues its shrill cry, demanding attention I can't seem to give.

With a sharp inhale, I snap back to reality and lift the kettle from the stovetop. Steam billows upward, warming my flushed face as I pour hot water over the tea bags. The familiar scent of Earl Grey rises, somehow both comforting and wholly inadequate for what's about to happen. Tonight isn't about tea, and we both know it.

I pull at the soft fabric of my slouchy sweater, suddenly conscious of how casual I look. After the show, I'd rushed home to shower away the stage makeup and hairspray, exchanging my performance clothes for comfort shorts and this old gray sweater that slips off one shoulder.

My phone screen shows 11:42 PM. He should be here any minute. I check my reflection in the microwave door—a distorted version of myself looks back, hair still damp from the shower, cheeks flushed pink, eyes too bright with anticipation.

The knock when it comes is softer than I expected, almost hesitant. It sends my heart racing all the same, a thundering beat so loud I wonder if he'll hear it when I open the door. I take a deep breath, smoothing my hair with trembling fingers, and cross the small space from the kitchen to the entryway.

The door swings open, and there he stands, leaning against the doorframe with an arm braced above his head. Gary. The sight of him steals my prepared greeting and most of my coherent thoughts. He's changed from his show attire—gone is the sharp suit, the careful styling. Instead, he wears dark jeans that fit him perfectly, hugging his thighs and accentuating the bulge I'm trying desperately not to stare at. A simple black button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows reveals the strong lines of his forearms, dusted with dark hair that I suddenly want to feel against my skin. The top buttons are undone, exposing the hollow of his throat and a tantalizing glimpse of his chest.

His eyes meet mine, and the air between us changes instantly. Whatever hesitation might have been in his knock is gone now, replaced by something darker, hungrier.

His gaze drops to my lips, then lower to where my sweater has slipped further off my shoulder, exposing the curve where my neck meets my collarbone. Time suspends as we look at each other, neither speaking, the unspoken current between us growing stronger with each passing second.

Then he moves, stepping over the threshold with purpose. I back up instinctively, not from fear but to give him space to enter. Before I can form words—to greet him, offer tea, say anything at all—his hands are framing my face, warm and certain.

"Riley," he whispers, just my name, nothing more. It hangs in the air between us for the briefest moment before he closes the final distance.

His mouth finds mine with unerring precision, and months of restraint evaporate in an instant. This isn't the careful, tender kiss from the dressing room this morning. This is possession, claiming, devouring. His lips move against mine with urgency, the pressure firm and insistent. I taste mint and something darker, something uniquely his that makes my knees weaken and my core throb with sudden, intense need.

My hands fly up to grasp his shoulders, feeling the solid warmth of him beneath the thin fabric. He's real. This is real. Gary Barlow is kissing me in my apartment, and not with the careful restraint of a man testing waters but with the abandon of someone who's been drowning.

He makes a sound against my mouth, a low growl that vibrates through me, primitive and wanting. The rumble of it travels straight to my center, igniting a liquid heat that makes me press my thighs together. His hands slide from my face down to my waist, fingers pressing into my sides with delicious pressure. Then, in a move that surprises a gasp from me, he lifts me clean off my feet.