The Spotlight

Chapter 30

I giggle as Gary's lips trace a delicate path down my neck, his warm breath tickling my skin with each kiss. The sheet music for "The Whole of the Moon" sits neglected on the piano stand before us, a silent witness to our complete lack of progress in the last twenty minutes.

"We're supposed to be practicing," I remind him, squirming slightly on the piano stool we're sharing in his studio. My fingers hover uselessly above the keys, unable to find the right notes while his mouth continues its distracting, wonderful journey along my skin.

"I am practicing," he murmurs against my collarbone, not missing a beat as he continues leaving a trail of hot, open-mouthed kisses from just below my ear down to the sensitive curve of my shoulder.

"Gary," I say again, trying to sound firm, to inject some semblance of professionalism into my voice, despite the laughter bubbling up uncontrollably, threatening to betray how utterly undone I already am. "At this rate, I'll be eliminated on Friday because I spent my rehearsal time being ravished instead of singing."

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, his own, those captivating pools of warm green, glinting with a potent, knowing mischief. "Ravished? Is that what's happening here? I thought I was merely offering some... positive reinforcement for your excellent posture at the piano." His thumb strokes the underside of my jaw, a feather-light touch that sends a shiver dancing down my spine.

This stolen moment, this pocket of intimacy carved out of a world that demands we remain separate, feels impossibly precious. It's been days of only seeing each other during the sterile, supervised rehearsals at the contestant house. Between that brief, heart-stopping encounter Sunday morning and now, our interactions have been a masterclass in restraint, strictly, achingly professional. Gary maintains a careful, almost painful distance during group sessions, our conversations clipped, limited to technical feedback about my performance, his eyes meeting mine only for the briefest, most electrifying of seconds before deliberately sliding away to address someone else.

The constant, unrelenting strain of pretending nothing is simmering beneath the surface, nothing blazing between us, has been more utterly exhausting than I could have ever anticipated. Each seemingly casual brush of his arm when he leans over to adjust my sheet music, each time his voice drops to that low, intimate timbre to offer guidance only I can truly hear, meant only for me-all of it carries the immense, crushing weight of our shared, dangerous secret, a constant, torturous exercise in restraint. Several times, I've caught David watching us with those keen, curious eyes of his, as if sensing some subtle shift between us.

Getting here today, to his house, required a ridiculous bit of subterfuge-having a driver drop me at Westfield London under the flimsy pretense of a desperate shopping trip, then walking, heart hammering, to a quieter, tree-lined street where Gary waited, engine idling, to pick me up. We both glanced over our shoulders like characters in some B-grade spy film, me with oversized, dark sunglasses pushed ridiculously up my nose, him with a nondescript baseball cap pulled low over his forehead. The sheer, almost comical absurdity of it, two grown adults, successful in our own rights, sneaking around like illicit teenagers, would be amusing if the potential consequences weren't so catastrophically, career-endingly serious.

"I missed you," Gary says now, the playful teasing in his voice giving way to something deeper that makes my breath catch. "These past few days, Riley... seeing you at rehearsals but not being able to..." He trails off, the unfinished, loaded thought hanging heavy and potent in the air between us.

"I know," I whisper, my voice barely audible, leaning into his touch, craving it like a lifeline. "It's strange, isn't it? Being in the same room but having to pretend we're just..."