The Spotlight

Chapter 35

The morning California sun streams through the passenger window, warming my bare arm as Gary navigates through traffic. There's that familiar set to his shoulders—the one I've cataloged alongside his smiles (seven varieties) and the different ways he says my name (four, with the sleepy morning version being my favorite).

"You know," I start, breaking the silence that's stretched between us since we left the hotel, "You don't have to fill the week with surprises to impress me. I'm more than happy just spending time with you."

His mouth quirks into smile-variety number three: amused but trying not to show it. "Are you saying my attempts to dazzle you are unnecessary?"

"I'm saying that just having a week of being together without sneaking around feels like the best surprise of all," I reply. The sincerity in my voice surprises even me—I've become so accustomed to layers of deflection that honesty feels like wearing someone else's clothes.

He drums his fingers against the steering wheel. "Well, in that case, let's just call this a bonus surprise. A good one." His voice is casual, but beneath it is a charge that makes my pulse skip and stutter.

I settle back into my seat, trying to relax into the uncertainty. This is what our relationship is, after all—a series of surprises, stolen moments, and careful planning. A relationship built on quicksand and sustained by hope. But there's something different about his energy today, something that makes both my curiosity and anxiety perk up like meerkats spotting a predator.

Los Angeles slides past my window, a geographical gradient of wealth. Palm trees and coffee shops give way to increasingly upscale neighborhoods—buildings spreading further apart, lawns expanding, houses growing more imposing with each passing mile. My fingernails dig into my palms as I recognize the transformation. We're not just entering wealth territory; we're penetrating its inner sanctum.

"Fancy area," I comment, aiming for casual but missing by roughly the distance between London and Saturn.

Gary just hums in acknowledgment, turning onto a road lined with jacaranda trees that drip purple blossoms like nature's attempt at Swarovski crystals.

The road curves and climbs, each turn revealing more extravagant displays of affluence—fountains gurgling in front yards, sports cars gleaming in circular driveways, gates with elaborate monograms guarding private drives. This is another universe entirely, one where people don't worry about bills or career stability or whether the audience will vote for them next week. A universe where people like Gary belong and people like me get invited to visit—temporarily.

"Gary," I try again, unable to keep the edge of anxiety from my voice. "Whose house are we visiting?"

He glances at me but remains quiet, which is the conversational equivalent of a fire alarm.

My stomach drops when Gary slows and turns toward an imposing iron gate flanked by stone pillars that look like they were imported directly from a medieval castle. A guardhouse stands sentry, and a uniformed man steps out as we approach. This isn't just a wealthy neighborhood—it's a fortress, designed to keep people like me out and protect the privacy of those inside. To guard against precisely the kind of scandal we might become.

"Visiting someone, sir?" The guard asks as Gary lowers his window. His tone is professional but carries the unmistakable implication that we don't belong here—or at least, I don't. His gaze slides over the car—a rental, but luxurious enough not to raise immediate suspicion—before landing on Gary.

My instinct is to shrink down in my seat like a guilty teenager, to make myself as small and invisible as possible. My heart pounds so hard I'm certain both men can hear it—the percussion section of my anxiety orchestra in full swing. This is mad. We shouldn't be here, shouldn't be doing anything this public. Why did I say yes to come to LA?