Chapter 28
twenty-eight
. . .
Lucas
I’ve memorized her morning rhythm by now. The way she burrows deeper into the pillow when the first alarm goes off. How she stretches, cat-like and languid, before padding to the shower. Her adorable grumpiness until her first sip of coffee.
It’s been three weeks since Sacramento, and Jess hasn’t spent a single night in the guest room. We never actually discussed it; we’ve just ignored any conversation of living outside of the Sacramento bubble.
I brush a strand of hair from her face, allowing myself this quiet moment of observation. This woman has invaded every corner of my carefully organized life, and I’ve never been happier.
The alarm chirps, and Jess groans, tucking her face against my neck.
“Make it stop,” she mumbles, her voice thick with sleep.
I reach over to silence it before pressing a kiss to her forehead. “Morning, sunshine.”
“Nothing sunny about mornings,” she grumbles, but then she tilts her face up for a proper kiss. “You’re always disgustingly alert.”
“Years of early baseball practice.”
She makes a face and sits up, letting the sheet pool at her waist. “Shower?”
“You go ahead. I’ll start the coffee.”
She raises an eyebrow. “That wasn’t an invitation to shower alone, Carmichael.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re both breathless and clean, with memories of shower tile against my back and Jess’s legs wrapped around my waist. Our morning routine is efficient despite the detour: first coffee, then breakfast, and then a quick discussion of the day ahead.
“Dylan’s coming by tonight for more confessional footage,” Jess reminds me, stealing a bite of my toast. “Seven o’clock.”
“Maybe we should actually have something to confess this time,” I suggest, watching her over the rim of my coffee mug.
She gives me that look, half amused, half exasperated. “Like how we’ve been breaking our own rules for three weeks?”
“Like how you snore when you’re really tired.”
She throws a grape at me, which I catch. “I do not snore.”
“Adorably,” I assure her. “Like a tiny kitten with allergies.”
She rolls her eyes but doesn’t fight the smile tugging at her lips. “I’ve got to go. Meeting with the podcast team about the end of summer lineup.”
At the door, she rises on tiptoes for a goodbye kiss that lingers just a beat too long. It’s become our habit, these moments of connection before separating for the day.
“See you tonight,” she says against my lips. “I’ll pick up Thai from that place you like.”
And just like that, we’re practically married, not just Vegas married. The routine of it should terrify me, but instead, I find myself looking forward to Thai takeout and falling asleep to the sound of her breathing.
I’m completely screwed.
“The Levi Peterson drama is finally contained,” I tell Grant as we wrap up our weekly briefing. “His rehab stint is being framed as ‘preventative wellness’ before shooting starts on season four.”
Grant nods while scrolling through the press coverage on his tablet. “Good work on this. The puff piece in Vanity Fair was inspired and made him seem responsible rather than reactive.”
“That was actually Jess’s suggestion,” I admit. “After his publicist blew up our original narrative, she suggested that a redemption narrative might play better if he was proactive about it.”
Grant sets down his tablet and studies me with that penetrating gaze that’s made studio executives squirm for decades. “Speaking of Jess, how’s married life?”
“The arrangement is working well,” I say automatically. “Dylan’s footage is great, and my father has backed off, surprisingly.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I shift in my chair, uncomfortable under his scrutiny. “It’s fine. We’re making it work.”
“Really?” He leans back. “Because Sophia says Jess has been suspiciously unavailable for their usual Sunday girl brunches, and you’ve been smiling at your phone like a teenager with his first crush.”
Heat creeps up my neck. “We’ve adjusted the parameters of the arrangement.”
“Adjusted the parameters,” he repeats, with amusement dancing in his eyes. “Is that what they’re calling it these days?”
“It’s nothing serious,” I insist, not sure who I’m trying to convince. “Just making the most of a temporary situation.”
“Ah, I see.” Grant nods sagely. “So, you’re living together, sleeping together, and apparently giving each other professional advice, but it’s nothing serious.”
When he puts it like that, it sounds very serious. But acknowledging what’s happening between Jess and me means facing what happens when our six months are up. Three months from now, there’s no more documentary, no more inheritance contingency, no more reason to stay married.
“It’s complicated,” I finally say.
“Isn’t it always?” Grant’s expression softens with understanding. “It wasn’t so long ago that I was in your shoes and you were asking what was going on between me and Sophia.”
I wince at the memory. “I was doing my job.”
“You were right,” he concedes, “and I denied it, even to myself, because admitting those feelings meant risking everything. My reputation, my career, and my carefully constructed life.”
“This is different,” I protest weakly.
“Is it?” Grant leans forward. “Lucas, in the five years I’ve known you, I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you look at Jess.”
I stare at the floor, unable to refute his observation. “We only agreed to six months.”
“Maybe you should talk.” He stands, signaling the end of our meeting. “Before your time is up and it catches you both by surprise.”
“It’s not that simple.”
“It never is.” He claps a hand on my shoulder.
I rise to leave, but he stops me at the door. “Sophia’s making my mom’s meatloaf this Saturday. You and Jess should come over.”
“I’ll check with her,” I say, though we both know we’ll be there.
Driving home, I can’t shake Grant’s suggestion that I should talk to Jess. What would I say? That I look forward to evenings on the couch, to her feet in my lap while we both work on laptops, to occasionally debating the merits of some news story or studio press release?
But he’s right. I’ve grown accustomed to her and her habits, the way she knows exactly when to push and when to let things go.
And the sex…the sex is fucking incredible. Not just physically explosive, though it absolutely is, but intimate in a way I’ve never experienced, like we’re constantly discovering new things about each other.
I park outside our building—my building, technically, though it hasn’t felt that way since she moved in. The elevator ride up feels endless as I rehearse what to say. How do you ask your fake wife if she wants to be your real girlfriend?
The door opens, and the smell of Thai food greets me. Jess, setting containers on the coffee table, has already changed into leggings and one of my old t-shirts, and her hair is piled messily on top of her head.
She looks up with a smile that hits me directly in the chest. “Hey! I got extra spring rolls for you,” she tells me in a sing-song voice. And just like that, I know I’m in love with her.
The realization should be earth-shattering, but instead, it feels like the most natural thing in the world, like I’m finally acknowledging what’s been true for weeks, maybe even years.
“You ok?” she asks, noticing my silence. “You look weird.”
I cross the room in three strides, pull her into my arms, and kiss her like I’m a drowning man and she’s oxygen.
When we break apart, she’s breathless, and her eyes are wide. “What was that for?”
“Grant invited us to dinner on Saturday,” I say because I’m a coward. “Sophia’s making meatloaf.”
She studies my face, knowing there’s more. “And that warranted a kiss that nearly set the apartment on fire because…?”
“Just happy to be home,” I say, which isn’t a lie at all.
Smiling, she rises on tiptoes to give me another quick kiss. “Me, too. Now, come eat before it gets cold. Dylan will be here in an hour.”
And so, we fall back into our routine of dinner, conversation, her feet in my lap, and my hand on her ankle, all while I try to figure out how to tell her that I don’t want this arrangement to end, that I want all of this for real. Forever.