Chapter 14
fourteen
. . .
Lucas
Thursday evening traffic is a special kind of hell, especially after a day of putting out PR fires.
Some rising star from our newest drama series decided to trash-talk the show’s writing on a podcast, and damage control consumed my entire afternoon.
But that was better than obsessing about the kiss that has distracted me all week.
By the time I unlock the door to the apartment, my shoulders are tight with tension, and my patience is threadbare. All I want is silence, a drink, and maybe a mindless baseball game on TV.
What I get is Jess, curled up on my couch in my old USC baseball hoodie. The worn gray fabric swims on her smaller frame. She’s focused intently on her laptop, with her blonde hair piled messily on top of her head and her legs tucked beneath her. The sight stops me in my tracks.
She glances up, and her expression shifts from concentration to something almost like guilt.
“Hey,” she says, tugging at the bottom of the sweatshirt. “I was cold, and this was in the laundry room. Hope it’s ok that I borrowed it.”
I should be annoyed. That hoodie is practically a sacred relic of my college days.
It’s faded in all the right places, softened by countless washes, with a small tear in the cuff where I caught it on a fence while jumping over to see a late-night concert.
But instead of irritation, something warm unfurls in my chest at the sight of her wearing it.
“It’s fine,” I manage, setting down my briefcase. “Looks better on you anyway.”
Her eyebrows shoot up at the compliment, but she doesn’t comment on it. “Rough day? Your right eye is doing that twitchy thing.”
I press my fingers against my temple. “How do you even know about that?”
“I’ve been watching you handle press for years, Senator. The eye twitch is the only tell that you’re about five minutes from losing your cool.” She closes her laptop. “What happened?”
“Liam Chen from Afterlight decided to publicly roast his own show’s writing. Called it ‘derivative’ and ‘pandering to the lowest common denominator.’”
“Ouch.” She winces. “Though he’s not entirely wrong.”
I shoot her a look.
“What? The dialogue is clunky in places.” She holds up her hands defensively. “But I would never say that on the record.”
“And that’s why you’re a better professional than Liam,” I mutter, loosening my tie and heading for the kitchen. “Want a drink?”
“Sure. Dylan’s crew is coming by at eight, by the way.”
I freeze, with the bottle of whiskey halfway to the counter. “What? Why?”
“Individual testimonials,” she says, making air quotes. “Solo confessionals to ‘deepen the narrative of our relationship.’”
“Great. Just what I need after today.”
“If it helps, they’ll film us separately. I go first, then you.” She unfolds herself from the couch and pads into the kitchen. The hoodie hangs to mid-thigh over her leggings. “They said we should be honest about our feelings. Apparently, the footage from the dinner party was ‘too perfect.’”
“Too perfect?”
“Dylan thinks we’re holding back. Says the audience needs to see our vulnerabilities.” She rolls her eyes. “His words, not mine.”
I pour two fingers of whiskey into glasses and slide one toward her. “What are you planning to say?”
“No idea.” She takes a sip and then immediately winces. “God, I don’t know how you drink this stuff straight.”
“It’s an acquired taste.”
“It’s masochistic.”
We share a small smile, and for a moment, the tension of the day eases.
This has been happening more often lately, these flickers of something real cutting through the performance.
We haven’t talked about the kiss. By mutual, unspoken agreement, it’s filed under “practice,” even though I think about it more than I should.
Like now, watching her lips press against the glass.
Her mouth. The shape of it. The way her tongue darts out to swipe a drop from the rim.
She pushes the tumbler back toward me. “Take it. I’m done pretending that stuff is drinkable.”
I should pick up my own glass. I don’t. Instead, I take hers, and I drink from the exact spot her lips just touched, slow and deliberate.
Her gaze snags on mine and stays. The whiskey burns going down, but the heat that settles between us is something else entirely.
Her expression shifts—just barely, but I catch it, her awareness, the weight of the moment, how still everything suddenly feels.
For a beat, neither of us says anything.
“Hey,” she says finally, her voice just a little unsteady, “can I ask about the fundraiser?”
I take another swallow, this time grateful for the shift.
“Sure.”
“The documentary crew wanted to—”
“They’re not invited,” I cut in firmly. “My father would turn it into a campaign opportunity, and I’m not giving him that platform.”
She studies me closely. “You really don’t like your father, do you?”
It’s a deceptively simple question with a complicated answer. I lean against the counter, choosing my words carefully.
“My father has spent his entire life calculating what will benefit Logan Carmichael. Every decision, every relationship, every public stance is filtered through that lens. Including his family.” I stare into my glass.
“He wanted me to follow him into politics. Cultivate the right connections, marry the right woman, build the perfect dynasty. When I chose USC over Stanford and baseball and PR over political science, it was the first major disappointment I delivered. And I’ve been adding to the list ever since. ”
She’s quiet for a moment. “What about your mom?”
The mention of my mother softens something in me automatically. “She’s amazing. Brilliant, compassionate, genuinely dedicated to education reform. She was a teacher before my father’s political career took off.”
“I remember reading about her foundation,” Jess says.
I nod, unsurprised that she knows this. “That’s her passion project. She’s helped hundreds of kids get to college.” Pride warms my voice. “She’s the real deal, Jess. Not a typical political wife at all.”
“She sounds wonderful,” Jess says, and there’s a wistfulness in her tone that makes me curious.
“What about your dad?” I ask. “Besides the baseball team, I don’t know much about him.”
She shifts to lean on the counter beside me. “Dad took over the Devils when I was ten. He’s baseball-obsessed, but in a good way. After Mom died, he threw himself into the team and into making sure Garrett, Austin, and I were ok. He’s uncomplicated. What you see is what you get.”
“Tell me more about your mom?” I ask gently, remembering her reaction to the Pearl Jam shirt.
Something shifts in her expression, and there’s a soft vulnerability I rarely see. “She was a force. A brilliant journalist with an unshakable moral compass. She always said that the truth isn’t just what happens. It’s what matters.”
“Sounds like someone I know,” I say quietly.
She smiles, but it’s tinged with sadness. “Everyone says I’m just like her. Same stubbornness, same drive. She would have been a star if she hadn’t gotten sick.”
“Is that why you’re so committed to journalism? Carrying on her legacy?”
Jess looks startled by the question, as if no one has ever asked her this directly. “Partly. But also because I believe in it. In getting the story right, in holding people accountable.” She pauses. “Maybe it’s na?ve, but I still think the truth matters.”
“It’s not na?ve,” I say. “It’s admirable.”
She looks genuinely surprised by the compliment. “Even when I’m making your job harder?”
“Especially then.” I offer her a small smile. “You keep me honest.”
We fall into a comfortable silence, something that would have seemed impossible weeks ago. I find myself wanting to know more about what makes Jessica Lexington tick, why someone as beautiful and brilliant as she is remains single, and what she might want beyond her career.
“Can I ask you something personal?” I venture.
She looks wary but nods.
“Why haven’t you…” I hesitate, not sure how to phrase this delicately. “I mean, you’ve never mentioned relationships. Before this.” I gesture vaguely between us.
“It’s complicated.”
“We’ve got time.”
With a sigh, Jess crosses her arms in front of her.
“I learned early on that most guys like me because of my connection to baseball. Or I’m a pretty face they think they can control and who will look good on their arm.
” She stares at some point over my shoulder.
“But I also learned quickly that most men don’t like strong women. ”
“Dumb men,” I acknowledge.
“Plus, my career has always come first. I’ve worked so hard to be taken seriously, to not be seen as just ‘the baseball owner’s daughter.’ Relationships seemed like a distraction at best, a liability at worst.” She shrugs.
The honesty in her answer catches me off guard. “I get that,” I say eventually. “More than you might think.”
“Yeah? What’s your excuse?”
It’s my turn to be put on the spot. “Besides my father’s relentless attempts to pair me with politically advantageous partners?”
“Besides that,” she says with a small smile.
I take a breath. “I watched too many political marriages growing up. People who started with genuine feelings but ended up as business partners at best, adversaries at worst. Public smiles, private resentments.”
“Your parents?”
I shake my head. “Not exactly. My father is complex. He does love my mother, in his self-centered way. He’s always tried to be a good family man, at least in his own mind.”
“But?”
I choose my next words carefully. “But his definition of good has always been flexible, especially when it comes to his campaigns.”
Jess’s expression shifts slightly. There’s a flicker of something unreadable. Understanding, maybe, or something closer to disappointment?
“Ah,” she says quietly.
I don’t ask what she means by that, but I wonder what’s playing across her mind right now. Stories she’s told about other politicians? The scandals she’s uncovered? Is she slotting my family into one of her mental files, wondering if there’s more to dig into?
“Yeah.” I drain my glass. “So, between that example and growing up in the public eye, relationships always felt like performances rather than real connections.” I gesture around the apartment. “Kind of like our current situation.”
She laughs softly. “Can’t argue with that.”
The doorbell rings, jolting us from the moment. Jess glances at her watch.
“That’s Dylan. Right on time.”
I nod, oddly disappointed that our conversation is being cut short. “I’ll make myself scarce while you do your confessional.”
She stands, smoothing down the hoodie. “Thanks for the drink. And the talk.”
“Anytime.”
As she heads for the door, I call after her, “Jess?”
She turns, her eyebrows raised in question.
“One more thing about the fundraiser. My father will probably say something insulting. Just ignore him. He’s not worth getting upset over.”
She offers a small smile. “Don’t worry, Carmichael. I can handle difficult men.”
“I know you can.” I hold her gaze a moment longer than necessary. “But you shouldn’t have to.”
She gives a knowing nod before she turns to let Dylan in. I retreat to my bedroom, but not before hearing her greet the crew with genuine warmth.
I change out of my work clothes, trying not to think about how right Jess looked in my hoodie or how much of myself I just revealed to a woman who, until recently, I considered a professional adversary. And who, with every passing moment, feels more and more like my wife.