“Okay,” I whisper to myself, rubbing my forehead. “Get a grip.”
But my body won’t listen, and my brain sure as hell won’t. I hit play again.
The chemistry is stupid. Absurd. Like the universe handed me a bottle of lighter fluid and Everest just happened to walk by holding the match.
The sex is good—God, it’s good—but that’s not the part killing me.
It’s the way he looks at me before I kiss him. Like I’m made of something rare.
The video keeps going, and every second of it crawls under my skin.
By the time it ends, my chest feels tight, achy, unfamiliar. I sit back in my chair and stare at the screen like it personally offended me.
This is dangerous. Not because of the content. Because of me.
Because this time, I didn’t walk away from the shoot feeling empty or bored or relieved.
I walked away feeling… seen.
Fuck.
I exhale hard and send the file to Lorna with a quick note—“Final cut for approval.”Maybe she won’t notice. Maybe I’m being dramatic.
Nope.
My laptop rings four seconds later.
“Cove.” Lorna’s voice through FaceTime is equal parts I-told-you-so and I’m-about-to-make-your-life-hell. She’s lounging in her ridiculous velvet chair, one eyebrow raised like a weapon. “Are we going to pretend you didn’t just send me a romance novel disguised as porn?”
I flop back on my bed. “Please don’t start.”
“Oh, I’m starting.” She points at her screen with her glitter pen, nails sharp enough to slice my dignity in half. “You caught feelings.”
“I did not catch feelings.”
“You caught feelingsfor a fan,” she emphasizes, grinning like Satan on vacation. “My favorite trope. Forbidden. Ill-advised. Exists solely to stress me out and boost view counts. Congratulations.”
I groan into my pillow. “It wasn’t like that.”
“Mm-hmm.” She takes a sip of her iced coffee. “Let’s review the evidence. Exhibit A: You kept the edited cut for longer than you ever have before. Exhibit B: You trimmed the ending so it fades out right after he kisses you instead of when you blow your infamous kiss to the camera. Subtle, but I see you. Exhibit C: You let him kiss you off-camera. I didn’t see it but I can just tell.”
“That part wasn’t—okay, it just happened?—”
“Oh, honey.” Lorna smirks. “Things don’t ‘just happen’ with you. You choreograph orgasms like Spielberg. If a kiss slipped out, it’s because it meant something.”
Heat rises up my neck so fast I want to throw my phone out the window. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Am I?” She leans closer to the camera. “Or did your eyes do that stupid soft thing when he looked at you?”
“Lorna—”
“Cove, sweet pea, you’re lying to me and yourself.” She laughs. “Be careful. Emotional attachment is terrible for business.”
“It’s not attachment.”
“Sure,” she says slowly. “And I’m a virgin.”
I throw a sock at my phone out of pure spite. “Can you just approve the video?”
