Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
COVE
I shouldn’t watch the raw video more than once. It’s a rule I set for myself ages ago—one clean run-through to confirm angles and audio, maybe two if the lighting’s being a bitch. Anything beyond that becomes personal.
But tonight, I’m at four. Four full replays, and my finger still hovers over the spacebar like I’m starving.
The footage fills my screen again, washed in neon light from the carnival below. The gondola sways, Everest’s breath catching at the same second mine does, and there I am—CottonCandyKisses, the persona, the fantasy, the polished seductress—except I don’t recognize her the way I normally do.
And him? Jesus.
Everest is… something else on camera. Not performative or eager to impress. Just real.
There’s awe in his face. Actual awe. Like he doesn’t know how this is happening to him, like he’s scared to blink in case I vanish.
I pause the frame. His eyes are fixed on me, mouth slightly parted, cheeks pink with nerves. If anyone else saw this, they would say he looks lovesick. And if they said it out loud, I might fucking combust.
“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 feelings for 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?”
“Already did,” she says, still smirking. “It’s gorgeous. It’s hot. It’s intimate without being bare. It’s everything I wanted. But also…” She tilts her head. “You good?”
The question hits me harder than all the teasing.
I swallow. “Yeah. I’m fine.”
“Good. Call me if you start spiraling over Mr. Ferris Wheel.”
“I’m not spiraling.”
She raises her brows like she’s already planning the group chat announcement for my funeral.
“Goodnight, Covie.”
She hangs up before I can argue.
Silence floods the room.
I sit up slowly, hugging my knees to my chest, staring at the paused frame of Everest’s face still glowing on my laptop. He looks so open, so earnest, so… not part of my world.
And yet he stepped into it like he belonged there.
I close the laptop, but his expression stays burned behind my eyelids.
For the next hour, I pace. I clean my makeup brushes. I open my phone, stare at Everest’s message, close it again. I make tea. I forget about it. I reheat it. I spill half of it on myself.
Every time I try to breathe, the same thought drags across my mind like a nail:
What if I tell Lorna I can’t post it? That I’m backing out of the calendar?
The idea should horrify me, feel like career suicide. Instead, it feels… right.
I picture the video going live—thousands of subscribers watching Everest touch me, kiss me, whisper my name like it belongs to him. I imagine comments dissecting his body, his face, the way he moans. I imagine fans thirsting over him.
And something inside me snaps tight.
I don’t want them seeing him like that. I don't want them claiming pieces of what happened in that gondola.
Something about it feels too raw, too private, too ours.
God. Ours.
I sink onto my bed, bury my face in my hands, and force myself to breathe.
“It’s not about him,” I tell the empty room. “It’s about privacy, safety, and professional boundaries.”
That’s a lie.
I want to protect him, yes. But mostly? I want to keep that version of Everest for myself.
The one who looked at me like a real person. Not a fantasy, or a screen.
Tonight, watching the footage, I wasn’t CottonCandyKisses. I was Cove and Cove is the one he kissed.
I flop backward on the bed, staring at the ceiling, my stomach flipping like I’m still in that Ferris wheel gondola.
I reach for my phone slowly. My fingers hover over the keyboard. I write something sweet. Delete it. Try for something sexy. Delete that too. Finally, I type:
Cove: The boss lady approved it. So it will go live by the end of the month.
I hit send before I can panic. Then I bury my face in my pillow and groan like a feral animal.