Chapter 9
nine
. . .
Jess
Lucas’s apartment is nothing like I imagined.
I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe sleek, soulless bachelor minimalism or the pretentious mid-century modern furniture favored by studio execs who want to seem cultured.
Instead, I’m standing in a surprisingly warm space with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, comfortable-looking furniture, and—are those Disneyland posters?
“Is that original concept art from the Haunted Mansion?” I ask, moving closer to examine a framed piece on the wall.
Lucas shifts uncomfortably. “It’s from a limited gallery release.”
“Oh my God, you really are a Disney adult.” I laugh, remembering my fabricated story in Vegas. “I just made up that stuff about you taking me to Disneyland because I thought it would be funny to suggest the head of communications at Wonderland Studios secretly loves their biggest competitor.”
“I’m not a Disney adult,” he says, the air quotes practically visible. “I appreciate the creative and engineering feats of the original park. It’s iconic Americana.”
“You obviously have an annual pass and throw up peace signs in front of the castle. That’s textbook Disney adult behavior.” I point to the collection of photos on a nearby bookshelf.
“I’ve never thrown up a peace sign,” he mutters, but there’s a hint of color in his cheeks.
I set down one of the boxes I’ve brought over and continue exploring. The kitchen is unexpectedly well equipped, with professional-grade cookware and an impressive knife collection.
“You actually cook?” I ask, running my finger along the edge of a granite countertop.
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“I figured you survived on restaurant meals and whatever your PR minions bring you during crisis mode.”
“My PR minions, as you call them, know better than to interrupt me, even for food,” he jokes. His voice softens slightly. “It helps me decompress.”
I file that information away, oddly fascinated by this glimpse into his real life. A Lucas who cooks to unwind is not something I was prepared for.
We move down the hall and into the bedroom, and I try not to look too closely at the king-sized bed with its simple navy duvet or the surprisingly well-used books on the nightstand. He has actual paperbacks, not just status-symbol coffee table decor.
I glance at the bed, and a flicker of awareness zips through me before I shut it down. Hard.
“Uh, where’s the guest room?” I ask.
Lucas gestures to a door just off the hall. “Down there. It’s small, but it’s yours for as long as you’re playing wife.”
I nod. “Perfect. That’s all I need. I just have the essentials, and I’ll be here when Dylan needs the footage.”
He raises an eyebrow. “So, no late-night newlywed cuddling?”
“Not unless you want me to murder you on camera,” I reply sweetly.
He grins. “So, only off camera?
“Ground rules,” I say, needing to refocus. “For the sake of appearing authentic.”
Lucas nods, suddenly all business. “Right. I assume hand-holding is fine. Arms around shoulders or waist if the situation calls for it.”
“Kissing only if absolutely necessary,” I add. “And only closed mouth, like we did in Vegas before things escalated.”
The memory of our kiss in the casino hangs between us for a beat too long.
“What’s in the rest of these boxes?” he says, bringing us both back to the present.
“Just stuff to make it look convincing. Clothes, some books, a few framed photos.”
He peers into the box on top and pulls out a faded black T-shirt with Pearl Jam’s logo across the front. “No way. Ten was one of the best albums of the nineties.”
I reach for the shirt reflexively. “It was my mom’s.”
Something in my voice must give me away, because his expression shifts.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine.” I fold the shirt carefully and smooth a nonexistent wrinkle from the fabric. “She loved them. Used to play their records while she worked on stories at the kitchen table.”
“You mentioned she was a journalist, too?”
“Yeah. Investigative. Loved to break stories.” I hesitate. “She died when I was fourteen. Breast cancer.”
He goes quiet for a beat.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and this time, his voice holds something warmer, gentler, than I’ve heard before.
“It was a long time ago.”
“Still,” he says softly. “My dad gives me hell about my career choices, but at least he’s around to do it. I can’t imagine losing a parent that young.”
It catches me off guard, this version of Lucas. Not cocky. Not defensive. More caring.
We’re having a moment, an actual human moment, when a sharp knock at the door jolts us both back to reality.
“Showtime,” Lucas mutters.
Dylan Reeves bursts in with the energy of someone who’s had way too many espressos and hasn’t slept since Sundance.
He’s wearing black skinny jeans, scuffed boots, and a graphic tee under a worn Army surplus jacket, also known as filmmaker camouflage.
A pair of round tortoiseshell glasses has slid down the bridge of his nose, and his dark curls are pulled into a messy half-bun that somehow looks intentional.
He’s got a vintage camera bag slung crossbody like a satchel of genius.
He’s trailed by a surprisingly large crew for what’s supposed to be an “intimate” documentary. There are camera operators, sound people, a lighting tech, and what appears to be a stylist in all black, carrying a garment bag and three different shades of setting powder.
“There they are! America’s new favorite power couple!” Dylan beams, clasping his hands together. “We’re just going to capture some natural moments of you two unpacking and settling in together. Just be yourselves!”
Be ourselves. Right. Myself would be back at my apartment, scrolling through tips from sources, not pretending to move in with Hollywood’s most infuriating spin doctor.
Lucas and I awkwardly begin unpacking boxes. I arrange a few books on a shelf while he makes space in his closet for clothes I’ll never actually wear here. Dylan hovers nearby, his smile fading as he watches.
“Ok, let’s try something else,” he says finally. “Lucas, why don’t you show Jess where to put her toiletries in the bathroom?”
We comply, moving to the master bathroom, where I place my toothbrush into the holder next to his, careful not to let them touch.
“You two are standing like there’s an invisible force field between you,” Dylan says. “I need you to be closer. You just got married! You should be in the honeymoon phase!”
Before I can protest, he physically guides Lucas to stand behind me at the mirror, repositioning us like we’re mannequins in a store window. Lucas’s hands land on my waist, and I stiffen at the contact, instinctively pulling my shoulders back before I remember I’m supposed to like him.
His touch is warm through the thin fabric of my shirt, and for a second, I forget we’re being watched. I forget the cameras. I forget the crew. Then I shake the thoughts from my head. This is just acting. A job. Six months.
“Perfect!” Dylan calls, backing toward the door. “Just stay like that for a moment.”
In the mirror, I catch Lucas’s gaze. It’s uncertain, guarded, but there’s a flicker of vulnerability that presses against the edges of my resolve, tight and sudden in my chest.
We’re the definition of contrast: his dark hair and tailored frame towering behind me, my lighter, softer silhouette against his. Somehow, though, we fit, with my back to his chest and the sculpted ridges of his pecks pressing gently into my shoulder blades each time he inhales.
I feel his breath where it hits the loose hair at the nape of my neck, warm and maddening. His thumbs flex slightly on my waist, just enough to send awareness rippling across my skin.
His gaze drops from mine, trailing down my reflection. I watch the way his throat bobs with a swallow, the way his lashes lower like he’s trying not to look but is failing miserably.
Every nerve in my body is on high alert. I can feel the moment wrapping around us like a warm, tight blanket.
“Sorry about this,” he murmurs, his voice low, the breath of it grazing my ear.
“Just part of the deal,” I whisper back, trying—and failing—to ignore the flutter blooming in my stomach.
“Great chemistry!” Dylan calls from the doorway. “Now let’s move to the living room for some questions, ok?”
The sound of a chair scraping snaps us both out of it. We step apart like we’ve been burned, and the absence of his hands is somehow louder than the moment itself.
We separate quickly, like teenagers caught doing something they weren’t supposed to, and follow Dylan out into the living room.
The crew has arranged the living room into an interview setup.
Lucas and I sit on the couch, a careful space between us, until Dylan gestures emphatically for us to move closer.
Lucas drapes his arm along the back of the couch behind me, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from him.
“So, tell me about when you two first met,” Dylan says, settling into a chair across from us.
“College baseball game,” Lucas answers smoothly. “Jess was there covering a celebrity player for some gossip publication.”
“I was also there to see my brother play,” I interject, unable to help myself. “And then Lucas insulted me.”
Lucas shifts beside me. “And you fired back with your own insults.”
“It wasn’t you I insulted,” I mutter.
Dylan laughs. “So, it wasn’t love at first sight?”
Lucas’s gaze lands on me a beat before he answers. “Not exactly, but she did make an impression.”
His tone is soft, but there’s a flicker in his expression that makes my stomach do a little twist. Ok, fine. Gooey is the word.
“And Lucas certainly made an impression, too,” I counter sweetly, batting my lashes just enough to make him suspicious.
“When did you realize there was something more between you?”
Lucas and I glance at each other. Nope. We did not plan for this.
“I think it was when Grant and Sophia went public with their relationship last fall,” Lucas says smoothly.
“Jess was professional in keeping it exclusive until he was ready to share, and she asked such insightful questions that went beyond the usual PR fluff. I remember thinking how refreshing her approach was, even if it made my job harder.”
A little too polished, but points for effort.
“Probably at an industry panel on media ethics last fall,” I say.
“He was the only communications exec who admitted that studios sometimes cross lines. Of course, he immediately spun it into how Wonderland was different, which was complete BS.” I flash him a grin.
“But for a brief moment, there was actual honesty there.”
“So, you were drawn to each other’s professional integrity?” Dylan prompts.
“I was drawn to how passionate she is,” Lucas says, his arm drifting lower to brush my shoulder. “Even when she’s stubbornly wrong about something.”
I smile sweetly and lean into him just a little harder. “And I appreciated how he could articulate his position, even when it’s carefully calculated spin designed to protect the studio machine.”
Without breaking eye contact, Lucas slides his hand down to cover mine and pats it like I’m a toddler who’s just spelled her name right.
I retaliate by pinching the inside of his thigh. Hard. He jerks slightly and lets out a muffled yelp.
“Everything ok?” Dylan asks.
“Perfect,” we answer in unison.
Lucas, not to be outdone, subtly jabs his elbow into my side. I grit my teeth and dig the point of my nail into his knuckle. His smile never wavers, and neither does mine. We’re both on the verge of either cracking up or starting an actual physical fight. Possibly both.
“But what made you decide to get married in Vegas?” Dylan asks.
“Temporary insanity,” I say.
“The culmination of years of chemistry,” Lucas says at the exact same time.
We stare at each other, still locked in that too-sweet, too-sharp smile.
And even though we’re surrounded by lights, lenses, and a full production crew, somehow, it feels like we’re the only two people in the room.
“What my wife means,” Lucas says as he wraps his arm around me, his fingers digging slightly into my shoulder, “is that we’d been dancing around our feelings for so long that when we finally admitted them, we didn’t want to wait.”
“And what my husband means,” I say, my hand digging into his thigh with a smile that doesn’t quite reach my eyes, “is that after years of pretending we didn’t care, we finally stopped lying to ourselves and maybe skipped a few steps along the way.”
By the time Dylan finally calls it a day two hours later, any warm feelings from our earlier moment have completely evaporated. The second the door closes behind the crew, I move to the opposite end of the room.
“Well, that was a disaster,” I say.
“You couldn’t resist taking shots at my career, could you?”
“Me? You practically called me stubborn and wrong on camera!”
We glare at each other from across the living room that’s supposed to be our shared home for the next six months. Right now, six hours feels impossible.
“This is never going to work,” I mutter.
“It has to,” Lucas says, running a hand through his hair in frustration. “For both our sakes.”
The worst part is, he’s right. And the fact that I can acknowledge that might be the only hope we have of surviving this charade.
That and separate bathrooms.