Chapter 12
twelve
. . .
Lucas
“Three minutes until showtime,” I murmur, leaning so close to Jess that my lips brush her ear. The cameras mounted in the town car are capturing every moment, and I need her to remember that we’re being watched. “Smile like you love me, Scoop.”
I catch the slight shiver that runs through her body as my breath hits her skin. Interesting.
“I am smiling,” she whispers back, her lips barely moving. “And if you call me Scoop one more time, I will stab you with my stiletto when we get home.”
The threat is delivered with such honeyed sweetness that our documentary crew probably thinks she’s whispering sweet nothings. I pull back just enough to see her professional smile, perfect makeup, and hair swept up to expose the elegant line of her neck. She’s stunning.
And she smells amazing. She reminds me of ocean breezes and summer nights. It’s distracting in ways I can’t afford right now.
I reach for her hand and lace our fingers together with practiced ease. “Ready for tonight?”
“Born ready,” she says, giving my hand a squeeze that’s just shy of painful. “The sound bites I get tonight will be a perfect companion to the interview we have with Edie and Sophia.”
“I know.” I resist the urge to rub my thumb across her knuckles. “Grant’s thrilled you got the exclusive. Survivor is tracking to be Wonderland’s biggest opening this year.”
“And Sophia’s going to crush it,” Jess adds, with genuine enthusiasm breaking through her professional mask. “She deserves this moment.”
“She does.” I pause, noticing how the documentary cameraman is zooming in on our joined hands resting on the seat between us. “Speaking of moments, how are the invites for the dinner party going?”
“Good. Blair’s bringing the wine. Stella’s handling dessert.” She tilts her head, studying me. “You nervous to have all those people invade your space?”
It’s a fair question. My apartment, now technically our apartment, has never hosted that many people at once. Having both our friend groups collide feels strangely intimate, more real than this charade deserves to be.
“Just wondering if Brandon and Alex will manage to be in the same room without competing over who can do the most dangerous stunt.”
Jess laughs, and it sounds almost genuine. “My money’s on Brandon.”
“Traitor.”
The car slows as we approach the theater, and Jess’s grip on my hand tightens.
She hasn’t said much since we started our drive.
Not because she’s nervous, exactly, but likely because she’s preparing: for the spotlight, for the questions, for the fact that tonight, she’s not just a journalist; she’s also the story.
We’re the story. Tonight, the cameras are aimed at her from both sides.
“Hey,” I say quietly, leaning in. “You’ve got this.”
She turns to me, and for a second, vulnerability flickers in her eyes, and maybe a little gratitude. I reach up and gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. My fingers skim her cheek, lingering there for a heartbeat too long as my thumb sweeps softly across her skin.
Jess nods once, lips parting like she wants to say something, but then the car door opens, and the moment dissolves into a wall of flashing lights and high-pitched shouts.
She steps out first, and for a second, I forget to follow.
Slipping the coat from her shoulders, she hands it to an assistant at the curb, and then she’s completely, devastatingly revealed.
Her dress is the color of midnight, a deep navy that hugs every curve like it was sewn onto her body.
The neckline dips just enough to make my mouth dry, and the fabric glides over her hips like liquid.
With her hair swept back and her bold red lips, she is the perfect mix of cool and confident.
She’s not just stunning. She’s undeniable.
I swallow hard and step out after her, adjusting my suit like it might somehow make me worthy to stand next to her.
Every touch between us now is calculated. A hand at her waist. A brush of fingers along her back. Close enough to look intimate. Careful enough to maintain the line. It’s exhausting.
“Lucas! Jess! Over here!” The paparazzi shout from all directions, desperate for shots of Hollywood’s surprising new power couple.
Further ahead, I spot Grant and Sophia. He’s effortlessly perfect in his suit, and she looks like a damn Oscar statuette in gold. Grant gives me a subtle nod of approval, maybe even pride. Sophia catches Jess’s eye and mouths, You two look amazing.
Jess beams, and something catches in my chest.
We’re halfway down the carpet when I see Marcus circling like a shark that’s scented blood. His eyes lock on Jess with that same smarmy, predatory gleam I remember from Vegas, and something hot and possessive flashes through me.
“Incoming at two o’clock,” I murmur. “Marcus alert.”
She goes still for half a second. “Great.”
Marcus intercepts us with practiced smoothness. Wearing expensive cologne and a slick smile, he exudes the kind of charm that’s too practiced to be real. “Jess! Absolutely radiant tonight.” His eyes drag down and back up her body, and my jaw ticks. “Marriage clearly agrees with you.”
“Marcus,” she says evenly. “Hope you enjoy the movie tonight.”
“Lucas.” He nods, but his smile never reaches his eyes. “Mind if I steal your wife for a moment? Wanted to discuss some upcoming opportunities.”
Before I can respond, he’s already reaching for her elbow.
Nope.
I slide my arm around her waist and tug her subtly closer.
“Actually,” I say, pressing a kiss to her temple and letting it linger just long enough to send a message, “we’re on a pretty tight schedule tonight.
But I’m sure she’d be happy to set something up later this week. Just reach out to her office.”
Jess leans into me like we rehearsed it. “Absolutely. My assistant can find time in my calendar.”
Marcus’s smile tightens. “Of course. Wouldn’t want to separate the newlyweds.”
As he walks away, Jess tilts her face up to mine.
“My hero,” she murmurs sarcastically, but there’s something soft in her expression, something unspoken that lands like a punch to the chest. Something that tells me I just might be.
“Just doing my husbandly duties,” I reply, letting my hand fall from her waist as I reach for hers and intertwine our fingers.
Except, it’s not just about being her fake husband. I’d keep her safe from the likes of Marcus whether we were married or not, on camera or off. No woman should have to deal with that shit. Especially not her.
The rest of the evening flows with surprising ease.
Jess conducts her interview with Edie Lang brilliantly, asking thoughtful questions that have the Oscar winner visibly impressed.
I handle a minor scheduling crisis for Grant, ensure the key critics get their face time, and even manage to enjoy the film.
All night, Jess and I orbit each other with practiced awareness. A touch here, a smile there, knowing glances across the room that anyone watching would read as authentic connection.
The town car is silent on the drive home, with both of us conscious of the cameras still rolling. The tension that dissipated during the event builds again in the enclosed space.
“You were amazing tonight,” I say because it’s true and because it’s what a supportive husband would say.
“So were you.” Her smile is picture-perfect. “Especially with Marcus.”
“Just protecting what’s mine.”
“Now I’m yours?” The edge in her voice is subtle but unmistakable.
I raise an eyebrow. “Would you have preferred I let him paw at you all evening?”
“I can handle Marcus.”
“I know you can.” I keep my voice even, aware of the cameras. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
She doesn’t answer, but I feel her lean against my shoulder. She’s pretending to be affectionate for the cameras, but beneath the facade, she’s distant.
The moment we’re inside the apartment, with the door closed behind us and the cameras finally gone, Jess kicks off her heels with a fury that suggests she might like to aim them at my head.
“What the hell was that with Marcus?” she demands, unpinning her hair with sharp, angry movements.
“What was what?” I loosen my tie, trying to maintain my composure.
“That caveman routine. The territorial marking.” She gestures wildly. “The temple kiss!”
“I was playing the part,” I counter, though, even to my own ears, the excuse sounds hollow. “Marcus was crossing lines. Again.”
“I told you, I can handle Marcus.”
I step forward, and my voice is low and tight as I say, “You shouldn’t have to.”
She opens her mouth to argue again, but then she freezes.
I’m standing right in front of her now. Close. Closer than I should be.
And we both feel it. The space between us is practically electric. The only thing louder than our argument is the pounding of my heart in my ears. Her eyes flick down, just once, to my mouth. My fists clench at my sides to stop myself from reaching for her.
“I would’ve stepped in for any woman being harassed like that,” I say, my voice rough. “But for you?” I shake my head. “There’s no version of me that stands there and lets that happen.”
Her breath hitches, and her eyes lock on mine. For a second, I swear we’re both about to cross a line we can’t uncross.
“This isn’t real, Lucas,” she says finally, her voice quieter. “You don’t actually have to protect me.”
“I know that,” I snap, running a hand through my hair in frustration. “But nobody else does. And if were going to convince others, including my father, who can smell bullshit from miles away, that this marriage is legitimate, it needs to look and feel real.”
Jess sinks onto the couch, suddenly looking exhausted. “You think we can’t pull it off?”
“I think tonight proved we can be good at this,” I admit, and the truth surprises even me.
She looks up at me, and for once, there’s no mask, no performance, just Jess looking as confused as I feel.
“What are we doing, Lucas?” she asks softly.
I wish I had an answer. Instead, I loosen my tie further and head to my bedroom.
“Getting really good at lying,” I call back, not turning to see her reaction. “Better get some sleep. We’ve got a dinner party to plan.”
As I close my bathroom door, I catch my reflection in the mirror, where I see my flushed cheeks, bright eyes, and slightly disheveled hair. I look like a man coming undone.
Five months and two weeks to go. God help us both.