Chapter 3
three
. . .
Jess
I twist on the bar stool, scanning the crowded hotel bar for Lucas so that I can murder him when he arrives. The champagne in my hand is nearly empty, matching my patience level after waiting forty minutes for a response that never came.
Instead of a call or text, he’d sent me the same cookie-cutter press release that every other entertainment reporter received. Me, the one who’s known him since college. He’s friends with my brother! The dismissal stings more than it should.
“He swerved to avoid hitting a cat? Seriously?” I mutter, taking another sip of bubbly.
The press release landed in my inbox an hour ago, and it’s the most transparent PR spin I’ve ever seen.
Levi Peterson, the Hollywood golden boy and star of Pink Slip, risking his life for a stray kitten is exactly the kind of saccharine story that makes the public swoon and reporters like me roll their eyes.
I spot Marcus Delgado entering the bar, his expensive suit and slicked-back hair making him stand out even in a sea of polished egos. The second our eyes meet, he flashes that signature smile that is too confident, too practiced.
My stomach flips, and not in a good way.
“Shit,” I mutter, sliding off the barstool and ducking down the hallway toward the bathrooms.
It’s not that I’m afraid of him. Marcus hasn’t done anything wrong, not exactly.
He hasn’t crossed a line, but he’s been dancing on the edge of it for months.
And I’ve let him, smiling when I didn’t want to, dodging when I should have said no.
I told him to meet me here. Technically, I invited this, and now I feel trapped in a dance I never agreed to choreograph.
You’d think, after everything I’ve written, after helping expose some of the worst predators in this business, I’d know exactly how to handle a man like Marcus.
But I don’t. Because it’s different when you’re the one in it.
With those women, I was a champion. An advocate. I had perspective, power, and the distance to do something. But with Marcus? I’m too close. Too visible. Too aware of what one wrong word or accusation could cost me.
He’s not dangerous, but he is powerful. And in this town, sometimes, that’s just as terrifying.
I lean against the cool hallway wall and close my eyes, forcing myself to breathe. In. Out. In again.
I hate that I’m hiding. I hate that I’m playing the game, but I also know what happens to women who don’t. I’ve reported on them, too.
“Please tell me you aren’t trying to follow me into the bathrooms now.”
My eyes fly open to find Lucas leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed over his infuriatingly broad chest, looking entirely too calm for someone who’s been ducking me the past hour.
His navy blazer is still perfectly tailored, and his hair is infuriatingly intact.
Of course he looks good. He probably doesn’t even sweat.
I roll my eyes, ready with a comeback, but then he tilts his head and really looks at me.
“You ok?” His tone shifts lower, less sarcastic. The question lands heavier than it should.
I blink, caught off guard. He’s studying me, like he can see straight through the sarcasm I usually weaponize.
“I’m fine.”
“You don’t look fine.” His brow furrows, and it’s not that smooth PR concern, either; it’s real. “Did something happen? Did someone upset you?”
Just for a second, I hesitate. My gaze flicks down the hallway, toward the bar where Marcus is probably already holding court with someone else, flashing that same smarmy grin.
For a beat, I think about telling Lucas the truth.
But that would be giving him something, and I’m not in the mood to give him anything.
Taking the opening, I step forward and jab a finger at his chest. “A press release, Lucas? Really? And you want me to believe he wrecked his car trying to avoid hitting a cat?”
He glances down at my finger, still pressed against him, but instead of backing away, he lifts his hand and gently curls his fingers around mine, just enough to stop the jab, not enough to hurt, but just enough for me to notice how warm his skin is.
Just enough for me to forget how to breathe for half a second.
“He’s a sucker for kittens,” he says, his voice maddeningly calm.
We both look down at the same time at his fingers still wrapped around mine.
Then, as if realizing the moment has lasted a beat too long, he drops my hand like it burned him.
I take a quick step back, my jaw tight. He’s still watching me, but his expression is unreadable.
“Enjoy your night, Senator,” I bite out, retreating before the flutter in my stomach can make its case.
He turns on his heel and heads toward the bar, his back stiffening at the nickname. I can’t help the twitch of glee on my lips from knowing it torments him.
When I found out Lucas was a Carmichael, I thought he would be to be a carbon copy of his father, a senator with presidential aspirations who’s built his career on “family values” while quietly steamrolling anyone who threatens his image.
As a journalism major, I’d heard how Senator Carmichael systematically buried exposés about shady campaign financing, blackballed reporters, and used power as a shield.
He’s the kind of man who makes you question why you ever thought the system could be fixed from the inside.
And yeah, I guess, lately, I’ve been feeling that way about a lot of men in power.
Lucas’s mother, on the other hand, is accomplished and elegant, running education charities with genuine heart. Still, I’ve never understood how she’s stayed married to that man. Then again, political wives learn how to look the other way. It’s practically a job requirement.
Lucas? He doesn’t seem to think his father is corrupt, which is probably why we got off on the wrong foot eight years ago and never recovered.
“Have a good night, Jess,” he calls over his shoulder, not even turning around.
I sigh and straighten my shoulders, forcing my game face back on. Time to fulfill my own dumb decision and meet Marcus for that drink.
As I make my way to the other side of the bar, I pass Lucas, who’s now leaning casually against a corner wall with one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around a glass of something amber.
His navy blazer is draped over a nearby chair, and his shirt sleeves are rolled up just enough to show the kind of forearms that should be illegal on a Saturday night.
I studiously ignore him, but I feel his eyes on me. Watching. Tracking.
My practiced smile slides into place as I reach Marcus, who’s holding court with a half-circle of ad execs and low-level producers. The moment he spots me, his face lights up like he’s just won a prize.
“Jess! Come meet my people!”
He’s already reaching for me before I can brace myself. I shift just enough that his hand lands on the side of my hip instead of wrapping around my waist, masking the dodge with a breezy laugh.
My jaw aches from smiling, and my fingers curl around the strap of my bag like it’s a grounding stone.
I shake hands and make polite small talk, all while subtly dodging Marcus’s orbit. Every time I step back, he steps forward. By the end of the introductions, the two of us have somehow migrated to the far side of the group, away from witnesses.
“You trying to avoid me?” he whispers, his breath too close to my ear.
I grin like we’re sharing a secret. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Inside, I’m vibrating. Every inch of me is tense.
My shoulders are drawn, my back is tight, and my thighs burn from the constant repositioning.
It’s a dance I know well, one most women in this business do without thinking.
Don’t offend. Don’t make waves. Don’t let them think you’re rude. Don’t let them think you’re available.
Marcus leans in again, and his arm brushes mine.
I pretend to spot someone across the room. I pivot to speak to someone else. I inch backward again. Then it happens. His hand lands on my ass. Not a graze. Not a misstep. A full-on palm disguised as an accidental touch.
I barely have time to react before another arm wraps around my waist and pulls me back, out of Marcus’s reach.
“There you are,” Lucas says, his voice low and calm. Too calm. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
His arm wraps lightly around my back, anchoring me to his side.
One hand rests just above my hip, and his thumb absently strokes my waistline, right over my bare stomach.
His body is close—too close—and I can feel his heat all around me.
I can smell his cologne, something clean and warm, with a trace of cedar and leather.
It’s disorienting how fast my body forgets how much I claim to dislike him.
I pretend not to notice how his forearms flex with every movement. His fingers are splayed, firm but gentle. When I glance up, he’s looking right at me. Thankfully, his expression is not smug, and he’s not smirking. Just checking, concerned. His eyes ask the question he doesn’t speak.
Is this ok?
I give the smallest nod.
Lucas exhales softly. That’s how I know he was holding his breath.
Marcus’s expression shutters. “I didn’t know you two were together?”
“It’s new,” Lucas says, his gaze still locked on mine.
“We’ve been keeping it quiet,” I add smoothly, turning slightly into Lucas’s body and resting a casual hand on his chest, right over where I can feel his heart beating a little too fast. “You know how complicated things can get when work and personal lines blur.”
I tear my eyes away from Lucas.
“But Marcus,” I say, bright and breezy, “you were telling me about that yoga instructor? Her pitch sounded amazing.”
To his credit, Marcus blinks, adjusts, and slides right back into the story. Narcissists never stay bruised for long.
Lucas stays close the entire time. His arm doesn’t budge, but his thumb makes lazy, rhythmic strokes against my side. It’s more than a fake boyfriend move. It’s more than a performance. And it’s working.
But when Marcus leans in to kiss my cheek goodbye, Lucas’s hand tightens so fast it borders on possessive. His fingers dig in just enough to make me feel the moment. And my traitorous body? It hums.
Once Marcus wanders off, Lucas guides me out of the bar, his hand still warm at the base of my spine.
“You didn’t have to do that,” I murmur.
“I know.”
“You were watching me.”
“I was.”
The honesty makes my stomach flip.
“It’s frightening how good your acting is,” Lucas says as we step out of the crowd and into one of the quieter hotel corridors.
“Thank you,” I reply, coolly professional again. “Now, what’s the latest on Levi?”
“No change.”
“Then why are we leaving?”
“I need a favor. Hoping I can cash in since I just saved your ass.”
I stop so abruptly that he nearly collides with me, his hand still resting on my lower back.
I turn slowly. “Excuse me?” My voice is sharp enough to cut glass.
He holds up a hand in mock surrender. “Relax. I’m not saying you couldn’t handle it. But I could see you fidgeting from across the room, Jess. I gave you an out.”
“I don’t need an out.”
“Maybe not.” His tone softens. “But Marcus was crossing a line. You shouldn’t have to pretend to be fine just to keep your career intact.”
That lands harder than I expect.
The casino noise buzzes behind us, but I barely hear it over the blood rushing in my ears. He’s not wrong. And the fact that he noticed? That he cared enough to step in without making a scene? It messes with my balance more than Marcus ever could.
Still, I can’t give Lucas the win.
“What do you need from me?” I ask, crossing my arms.
“I need you to be my fake girlfriend for the next fifteen minutes.”
I laugh. “Absolutely not.”
“Jess—”
“Lucas—”
His eyes suddenly dart past my shoulder, and something flickers there. Panic? Anticipation?
“She’s coming this way,” he says, his voice pitched low. “I need an answer. Now.”
I arch a brow. “So, let me get this straight. You want me to break some poor woman’s heart just because you’re too much of a coward to tell her you’re not interested?”
Lucas doesn’t flinch, doesn’t blink. His poker face is infuriating. But then he leans in slightly, and his gaze locks onto mine with something real behind it. Something I didn’t expect.
“Please,” he says. Just that one word. Quiet. Honest. Vulnerable.
And just like that, I’m toast.
“Fine.” I sigh dramatically, rolling my eyes for effect. “Tell me what my role is.”
His eyes reflect relief, but before I can press for details, he’s already moving.
As his hand slips behind my neck and his fingers thread through my hair in a firm but gentle grip, his other arm curls around my waist, pulling me against his solid chest, toned stomach, and broad shoulders. Every point of contact is heat, tension, and danger.
And then he kisses me.
Not a soft, chaste brush. Not a staged peck.
No, Lucas Carmichael devours me.
His mouth is hot, demanding, insistent. His lips part mine like he’s been waiting to do it for years, and to my utter dismay, my body doesn’t hesitate. I kiss him back like he’s oxygen. My hands fly to his shoulders, gripping him like I might float away.
It’s not what I imagined. It’s better. More precise. More chaotic.
And for one breathless moment, I forget this is pretend. I forget about Marcus. I forget about the girl he’s trying to avoid by kissing me. I forget about the casino, the story, and the bitterness I’ve carried since that day at USC.
All I know is the press of his mouth and body, and the maddening realization that I don’t want him to stop.