The Spotlight

Chapter 34

I wake to the feeling of warm sunlight painting patterns across my closed eyelids, the kind of golden California light that doesn't exist in London's perpetual grey. My body registers the unfamiliar before my mind catches up—sheets that feel like they've been woven from clouds, a mattress that cradles without surrendering, and most importantly, Gary's arm draped heavily across my waist, his palm splayed possessively against my ribs.

The night comes back in fragments—rose petals crushed beneath eager feet, candlelight reflecting off marble surfaces, the way he'd looked at me like I was something precious he couldn't quite believe was real. We'd made it approximately three minutes in that ridiculous bathtub before deciding the bed offered better possibilities, and the memory of what followed makes heat bloom across my chest.

His breathing changes behind me, shifting from the deep rhythm of sleep to  more aware. His lips brush against my temple, feather-light, barely there.

"Morning," he whispers, his voice still rough with sleep, accent thicker than usual in these unguarded moments.

I turn toward him, blinking away dreams to find his face inches from mine. His hair sticks up at odd angles, and there's a crease from the pillow across his cheek. away unnoticed. Outside"Morning," I manage, my own voice scratchy.

His thumb traces lazy circles against my hip, and I'm acutely aware that neither of us bothered with clothes after last night's activities. The sheet barely covers us, and the morning light streaming through those floor-to-ceiling windows leaves little to imagination. Not that imagination is necessary anymore.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, and there's concern there, checking in after our first night properly together.

"Like I'm in a dream I don't want to wake from," I admit, surprising myself with the honesty.

Something soft passes through his eyes. "Good. Because I've arranged something for us today." He props himself up on one elbow, the sheet sliding down to reveal the lean muscles of his chest, scattered with just enough hair to be interesting. His eyes dance with that mischievous glint I've come to adore. "A proper California day."

"What does that mean?" I ask, immediately curious. One thing I've learned about Gary—he doesn't do anything halfway. If he's planned something, it'll be memorable.

He grins, running his thumb across my bottom lip. "It's a surprise. But you'll need to get up soon if we want to make the most of it."

"How soon is soon?" I ask, already mourning the loss of this perfect cocoon we've created.

"We have time," he assures me, reading my reluctance. "Enough for coffee, definitely. Maybe even breakfast if you're quick about it."

"Quick about what?"

His grin turns wicked. "Getting ready. Wear something comfortable. And bring your swimsuit."

"My swimsuit?" I prop myself up now, sheet clutched to my chest out of habit more than modesty. "Gary Barlow, what have you planned?"

"Wouldn't be much of a surprise if I told you, would it?" He leans in to kiss me properly now, morning breath be damned, and I melt into it because this is what I want—not the glamour or the adventure, just this simple intimacy of waking up together.

When we finally part, he swings his legs out of bed with surprising energy for someone who kept me up until the small hours. "I'm going to take a shower," he calls over his shoulder as he pads naked toward the bathroom, completely unselfconscious. "Are you coming?"

The mystery of it all creates a fizzing anticipation in my chest that follows me through our shower (where we definitely don't save time), through the room service breakfast on our private balcony (fresh fruit and pastries), and down to the lobby where I try not to look like someone who's just had the best night of her life.