The Crush List

Chapter Sixteen - Spotlight & Steady Hands

The following week passed in a blur of early morning call times, script rewrites, fittings, and rehearsals. Cal was in full actor mode—focused, intense, methodical. Watching him work was like watching someone shift into a different skin. He disappeared into his role with such ease, and Emery couldn’t help but be impressed.

It also reminded her: this was his world.

Their mornings started with quick kisses over strong coffee, and their nights ended with quiet dinners when he wasn’t too exhausted to eat. Even then, he’d always find a way to wrap an arm around her, kiss her hair, or whisper that she made everything easier.

Emery spent her afternoons exploring New York with Lianne or curling up in a quiet corner of the townhouse to work on writing projects of her own. Sometimes she’d join Cal on set, sitting just off-camera while he transformed into someone else entirely. She loved those moments, watching the man she adored do what he was born to do.

But with the spotlight came its shadow.

The press had picked up on their European trip, splashing her name and photos across every entertainment blog and celebrity gossip page. Headlines speculated wildly—from engagement rumors to cruel jabs about her being a "nobody clinging to a star."

At first, the noise made her shrink. Old insecurities bubbled up—questions about whether she belonged in his world. But Cal never wavered. His publicist, Marienne, made it clear: “This isn’t a scandal, it’s a love story. And we’re going to frame it that way.”

He didn’t hide her.

If anything, he made sure everyone knew she was his. Subtle gestures during interviews. Mentions of her in passing. Photos of them holding hands, laughing, existing in their own little world amid the chaos.

And through it all, he made time for her.

“Don’t let the cameras define us,” he whispered one night, his voice hoarse from filming, his hands tangled in her hair. “They don’t see the best parts.”

And Emery realized—neither flashing lights nor harsh headlines could change the way he looked at her when the world fell quiet.

The city buzzed outside their windows, but inside the rental home, everything felt calm. Muted. Peaceful.

Cal’s suitcase lay open on the bed, half-filled with the usual uniform of tailored shirts and casual knits. Emery sat cross-legged beside it, folding his clothes with a soft kind of focus, while her own small pile of dresses and books waited in a corner.

They weren’t rushing. Just moving through the quiet together, wordless in their rhythm.

A gentle guitar melody played from the kitchen speaker. Cal hummed along under his breath as he moved between rooms, checking chargers, sunglasses, scripts.

Then her phone rang.

She glanced at the screen. Dad.

“Hey,” she said, trying to sound casual as she stepped out into the hallway for privacy.

“Hi, sweetheart. Just checking in.” His voice was warm, steady. Comforting in a way that made something tight in her chest loosen. “Saw some… photos,” he added with a light chuckle.

Emery exhaled, smiling faintly. “I figured.”

“I have to say, it’s about time.”

That made her blink. “Wait—what?”

He chuckled again, more openly this time. “Emery, I’ve known Cal for a long time. I’ve seen the way he talks about people, and I noticed the shift the moment he brought you up in conversation a while back. He respects you. Genuinely. I figured it was only a matter of time.”

She leaned against the wall, gripping the phone a little tighter. “I just… sometimes it feels too big. The world he lives in. The attention. The pressure.”

“You’ve always been stronger than you give yourself credit for,” he said softly. “Don’t shrink to make people comfortable, Em. You’re not doing anything wrong. You’re just living. That’s more than most people can say.”

There was a pause. She swallowed past the lump in her throat.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Of course. Just promise me one thing?”

“What?”

“Don’t overthink it. Just keep choosing the things that make you feel most like yourself.”

When she hung up, the hallway felt warmer. Brighter.

Cal appeared a moment later, a roll of socks in one hand. “Everything okay?”

She nodded, moving toward him with a small smile and pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Yeah. Actually… everything’s kind of perfect.”

They didn’t need headlines or approval from the world. They had a suitcase full of shared plans and a future unfolding one city at a time.

The espresso was forgotten.

So was the gentle breeze, the view from the terrace, and the unpacked suitcase sitting half-open by the bedroom door.

All that existed was Cal. And the way he looked at her.

He must have felt it too—this charged stillness between them. Because one second he was leaning against the counter with a smile, and the next, he had her pinned there, his hands on either side of her waist, lips brushing hers as if asking, Are we really doing this?

They were.

He kissed her slow at first, until she leaned into him with a soft gasp, her fingers finding the open buttons at the top of his shirt. The granite edge of the kitchen island pressed into her back. She didn’t care. She wanted him like this—unrushed, real, here.

It hit her, somewhere between the kiss that broke her open and the gasp that followed it: Lianne was right.

This wasn’t just a fantasy. It wasn’t a joke suggestion on a bucket list or a scene out of one of Cal’s movies.

This was her. This was Cal.

And they were making love in a kitchen at the edge of the world.

He lifted her up onto the counter like she weighed nothing, never breaking contact. His hands ran up her thighs, parting them slowly. His breath was warm against her neck, and she shivered as he whispered something that made her laugh—a low, breathless sound she barely recognized as her own.

When he finally slid inside her, it wasn’t about lust or even the heat of the moment. It was deeper. Like the ocean they could hear from the windows—pulling her under, swallowing her whole.

She wrapped her arms around him and held on, whispering his name against his shoulder. He kissed her again and again, whispering how good she felt, how beautiful she was, how he couldn’t believe this was real.

And when they were finished—when her legs trembled and his breath was ragged—they didn’t move right away.

He stayed close. Holding her. Pressing kisses to her temple and letting silence fall again, warm and golden.

Emery’s body hummed with everything they were becoming. And as she lay against him, half-laughing, half-dazed, she knew the truth:

No matter what the press said, no matter what Vivienne did—this was real.

And she wouldn’t trade it for anything.