Chapter 18
eighteen
. . .
Lucas
I laugh out loud. Of course Jake had a banner made. Of course it’s in all caps.
The house itself is ridiculous—in the best way.
Four stories of Southern California style luxury carved into the cliffs of La Jolla, overlooking the Pacific.
Ocean views from every window, a rooftop hot tub, and enough space to host a minor awards show.
Jake really outdid himself this year. Then again, extravagance is basically the Manmorial brand.
Apparently, this whole thing began when Jake and Wyatt pulled together a guys’ weekend in law school.
When Jake got engaged, the trip doubled as his bachelor party, and from there, it evolved.
Now it’s attached-men-only. No drama. No bachelor antics.
Just a curated, bro-approved bonding weekend for the committed elite.
The group’s smaller. The tequila’s more expensive. And the jokes? Appear to be dad-worthy.
Jake, the host and human exclamation point behind this entire production, is an entertainment lawyer I’ve worked with for years.
He reps a ton of talent we negotiate with at Wonderland, so we’ve crossed paths plenty of times at premieres, galas, and contract signings.
We’re not exactly friends, but we’re not strangers, either.
He knows how to throw a party and how to work a deal.
He’s waiting at the door, barefoot, holding a tray of tequila shots like he’s welcoming guests to a wedding reception.
“Welcome to paradise, Carmichael,” he says. “You made it. Thought Jess was gonna chain you to the kitchen island and make you alphabetize the spice rack or something.”
He doesn’t even blink at the puzzled look on my face. Clearly, he’s had a head start on those shots.
“Look who finally showed up!” Grant calls from the kitchen. “Is it true you had to make a last-minute press statement on behalf of marriage itself?”
“Sorry,” I say, dropping my bag. “I had to convince Dylan that filming Jess brushing her teeth wasn’t essential B-roll. He’s slipping into full reality-show-producer mode.”
“Well, welcome,” Grant says. “Come on in.” He has his phone in hand, his head buried in what are likely early numbers for the opening weekend of Survivor.
“Manmorial Weekend,” I repeat as I settle onto the couch. “I still can’t believe this is a real thing.”
“It’s not,” Grant deadpans. “It’s a lifestyle.”
Jake raises his shot glass. “To tradition.”
“To delusion,” I mutter, but I clink with them anyway. “So, how are the numbers looking?”
“We’re on track to hit $120 million this weekend, maybe more,” Grant says, beaming. This is Sophia’s first film as a producer, and she’s also playing the lead role. It’s also the film that brought her and Grant together in more ways than one.
“That’s good to hear, man. Congrats.” I shake his hand and head over to take a seat on the couch. “How’s everything with you and Lauren?” I ask Jake.
He hesitates, just for a second. Then the smile returns, and it’s bright, practiced, and way too shiny.
“Good. She’s just been busy.”
Grant reappears with a beer for himself and one for Jake. “Busy filming audition reels for Real Housewives, probably.”
Jake rolls his eyes. “She’s networking.”
Lauren is a presence: beautiful, social, and allergic to subtlety.
I’ve only seen her when she’s at events with Jake.
She’s always polished, always working the room like it owes her something.
Last year, she nearly caused a press frenzy at a studio fundraiser when she loudly suggested that Grant should get back together with his ex and co-parenting partner, right in front of Sophia.
Nobody’s said it outright, but it’s common knowledge that Lauren enjoys the proximity to power more than the quiet behind closed doors.
Jake’s always defended her, always brushed it off.
But now? It looks like there might be trouble in paradise.
“She’s networking with producers by asking them to follow her on Instagram mid-brunch,” Grant mutters.
Jake waves him off. “Look, I get it. She’s a lot. But she’s trying.”
Wyatt glances over at him but says nothing. Jake picks at the label on his beer bottle, peeling it back slowly.
“It’s all fine,” he says.
Which is code for definitely not fine.
“You know,” Jake says, pointing his beer at me. “We almost didn’t invite you.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Not because of you,” he clarifies. “Because of Jess.”
My eyebrows lift. “What about her?”
“She’s scary,” Jake says immediately. “In a hot way. Like a Bond villain you root for. But if you’d told me even six months ago that you two would end up married?”
“Same,” I say.
Jake leans forward slightly. “So, how’s it going? Really.”
I think back to a few nights ago when I heard a moan come from her room after I rescued her from the killer spider on her bed.
When she screamed, I almost went into cardiac arrest from worry.
I got so caught up in getting to her that I didn’t even realize I had no clothes on.
She didn’t, either. You can’t call what she was wearing proper clothing.
It took every ounce of willpower and determination I had to walk away.
I wondered if I should go back in there, but then I heard her moan.
I’ve never strained so hard to listen beyond my bedroom walls.
I slid my hand beneath the waistband of my boxer briefs and wrapped it around my cock, stroking slowly as I imagined her doing the same.
I imagined her thinking of me while she used her hands to satisfy the same urges I felt for her.
When I finished, I heard her in the bathroom at the same time I was in mine, cleaning up my mess.
I open my mouth to deliver one of my practiced responses—we’re adjusting well; the documentary’s keeping us busy; it’s been surprisingly fun—but none of them feel quite right.
“She challenges me,” I say instead, “in a way I didn’t know I needed.”
Grant whistles low. “Funny thing about love.”
“She also stole the good towels for her bathroom and labeled the fridge shelves by food group,” I add. “So, don’t worry. We’re still locked in a cold war of petty domination.”
Jake grins. “Marriage is balance.”
“So, no Brandon?” I ask, doing my best to change the subject.
“He’s ineligible as a single dude,” Jake says, “although I would’ve voted for an exception. I finally saw the Road House remake and he was fantastic in the fight scenes. I want to know who he trained with.”
You wouldn’t know it to look at him, but Jake can put a guy on the ground in under ten seconds.
His body is built like a blueprint for a fighter, with broad shoulders, lean waist, and arms that stretch every T-shirt he owns without trying.
He’s got dark skin that always looks sun-warmed, even in winter, and hazel eyes that seem too light for how grounded he is, almost like they’re letting in more of the world than the rest of us can handle.
His hair’s always cut close, clean and simple, like everything else about him.
There’s a scar on his eyebrow from some sparring match he refuses to talk about, and a kind of stillness in him that makes people lean in when he speaks.
Most folks assume he’s just the nice guy with the good suits and the calm voice.
They have no idea he could drop a man twice his size without breaking a sweat. Hell, even I forget sometimes.
We sit in silence for a few moments, watching the waves crash just beyond the deck.
Jake leans back in his chair. “So, when did you know?”
“Know what?”
“That she was the one.”
It’s a simple question, and it should have a simple answer. I should say something charming. Something neutral. Something vague enough to keep the myth intact.
Instead, I pause.
“I think it was when I realized she never flinches,” I say. “She says what she means. Stands by it. Doesn’t care if it makes people uncomfortable.”
Wyatt nods. “That’ll do it.”
“She challenges me,” I add. “Not in a competitive way. More like she sees through all the noise. Including mine.”
Wyatt raises his glass. “To women who keep us honest.”
We all drink.
Somewhere back in L.A., the women are having their own girls’ night—at least Blair, Jess, Sophia, and Stella are. Lauren didn’t go. She never does. Too busy, too uninterested, or maybe just never really clicked with them, which, depending on who you ask, is part of the problem.
Eventually, the conversation shifts to baseball, work drama, and the playlist Wyatt insists is vibe-certified, but I stay quiet for a while, because what I said was true.
Jess sees through the noise. She calls me on my bullshit before I can even hear it myself, and for some reason, I keep letting her.
I wonder what Jess is doing right now.
If she’s laughing with Stella and Blair over wine, or already curled up in bed in that tiny shorts set.
And the noise around me fades. Just long enough for me to realize: I miss her.
Which is stupid. I’ve only been gone a few hours. But it already feels like it’s been weeks.