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"Okay, here's one—I dream of a day when I can walk down the street, and no one knows my name. When I can make mistakes without them ending up on the front page." She laughs, but there's a wistfulness to it that tugs at my heartstrings.
I nod as I rub circles on her palms with my thumbs.
"It's freedom, Ben. To be anonymous again, to discover who I am without the scripts and the cameras. It's terrifying, but it's my dream."
"Then we'll chase that dream together," I tell her, meaning every word. "We'll find that quiet street where you can trip over your own feet, and the only headline it'll make is in my journal."
Her laughter rings out, genuine and carefree, and it's music to my ears. We're two kindred spirits, navigating the turbulence of our lives, finding comfort in the storm.
"Ben, do you ever wonder if—" she starts, but the rest of the restaurant has fallen away. All I hear is her voice, all I see is her face, and nothing else matters. The candlelight flickers between us, casting dancing shadows that echo the fluttering in my chest.
"Every damn day," I reply, knowing exactly what she's asking. "I wonder about the what-ifs, the might-have-beens. But today? Right now? I'm wondering how I got so lucky to be sitting across from someone as extraordinary as you."
"Flatterer," she accuses, but the blush creeping up her cheeks tells me she loves it.
"Truth-teller," I counter with a grin, giving her hand another reassuring squeeze.
"Ben Caldwell, are you always this intense?" she teases, but her grip on my hand says she's not looking for an out.
"Only when it comes to things—or people—I care about," I admit, and it feels like I'm standing on the edge of a precipice, ready to fall into something life-changing.
"Scary," she whispers, her gaze never leaving mine.
"Terrifying," I agree, "but worth it."
And as the last vestiges of the restaurant's ambiance fade, leaving us in a bubble of our private universe, I realize that this—this moment, this connection—is everything I never knew I needed.
Then, the world blurs, and it's just snapshots of us. Us laughing over shared desserts, our forks dueling for the last bite of chocolate decadence. Us walking through moonlit streets, her head resting on my shoulder as if it's her favorite pillow. Us, tangled in high thread-count sheets that still aren't as soft as her skin, whispering secrets and dreams until the dawn light peeks through the curtains.
With every touch, every look, every word, we weave ourselves closer, threads in a tapestry of trust and raw desire. It's the kind of connection that doesn't need grand gestures. A brush of fingers speaks volumes, and a kiss... Well, let's just say fireworks have nothing on us.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Kate
I jolt into wakefulness, my phone buzzing like it's possessed. Groggy and disoriented, I squint against the harsh light of morning streaming through the blinds. It's too damn early for this. Rubbing at my eyes, I fumble for the phone, only to freeze as the screen floods with notifications—text messages, missed calls, and a barrage of social media alerts.
"Shit." The word slips out as I swipe to unlock my phone, and there it is.
My heart clenches, breath caught in my throat, as I stare at the images that seem to be everywhere. It's Ben and me, tangled in each other's arms, kissing like we're the only two people in the world—in that cozy back corner of the restaurant where we thought we'd found a sliver of privacy.
"God, no..." My voice is barely a whisper, a plea to an empty room. How did this happen? We were so careful. Weren't we?
The photos are splashed across news sites, each with its own sensational headline. "Kate Woodbridge's Steamy Night Out!" "Hollywood's Sweetheart Caught in Lip-Lock with Mystery Man!" My pulse races, my stomach doing somersaults as if it can't decide whether to digest last night's dinner or hurl it back up.
It's then that I remember—a flicker of an image from that night—blonde hair, a glint of mischief in familiar eyes. Vanessa Williams. She was there, lurking in the shadows like some paparazzi ninja, her lens aimed squarely at us. At me.
"Damn you, Vanessa," I mutter under my breath.
The memory hits me now, sharp and clear. I had seen her, a quick glance over Ben's shoulder. Those calculating blue eyes trained on us, her lips curved in a knowing smirk as she pretended to sip her drink. I thought I was being paranoid, that the high of Ben's touch was making me see things. But I wasn't wrong. She saw us. She saw an opportunity and snatched it right out of the air.
"Ben," I whisper his name, a mix of desire and dread knotting in my chest. He's going to see these pictures, if he hasn't already. We're both thrust into the spotlight, bared for the world to see and judge.
Vanessa captured our intimacy, our private moment, and turned it into a public spectacle. She knew exactly what she was doing. And now, because of one stolen kiss, everything feels like it's spiraling out of control.
The world's gone utterly mad. Every flash outside my window is a threat. There's no escaping it. Paparazzi swarm like bees to honey, desperate for that next shot—the one that'll show the cracks in our perfect façade. I dodge them with sunglasses and hoodies, but it's like hiding a bonfire under a blanket.
