He blinks.
Then he slowly closes the notebook.
“Everything okay?” I ask lightly, already sitting up straighter.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat, not looking at me. “Just remembered I—uh—need to rinse off.
He sets the notebook gently on the arm of the lounger, slides his guitar off his lap, and stands. Too smooth. Too fast.
I frown. “Wait, now?”
“Yeah. Just need to check something real quick.” He nods toward the house, sunglasses hiding his eyes now. “Back in a bit.”
I watch him disappear through the sliding door, the guitar still in one hand, his whole body tense in a way it definitelywasn’tfive minutes ago.
I reach for the notebook.
Open the cover.
And my stomach drops through the deck.
It’s not the grocery-list notebook.
It’s theotherone.
The one with my blog notes. And daydreams. And—
I flip to the page I know he saw.
There it is.
The scene I wrote last night. The fantasy. The one where he doesn’t walk away after the photo shoot. The one where he kisses me for real. Undresses me slowly. Pushes me down onto the cold studio floor and makes me forget we’re pretending.
Oh.
Oh no.
My entire body goes hot. Then cold. Then both at once.
He read it.
He readthat.
And now he’s… what? Processing? Laughing? Regretting every life choice that led him to this pool?
I stare at the notebook in my lap like it just betrayed me.
Which, to be fair, it absolutely did.
Except it’s not the notebook’s fault. It’s mine.Ihanded it to him.Ilet him flip through it.
I groan and drop my face into my hands.
He read it. Hereadit.
Oh my god. What must he be thinking?
Does he feel violated? Flattered? Disgusted?
