Chapter 8
eight
. . .
Lucas
The crack of a bat connecting with a ball.
The smell of grass baking in the afternoon sun.
The familiar weight of a well-worn glove.
Saturday afternoons at Cheviot Hills Park are sacred and the one time each week when I’m not Lucas Carmichael, Head of Communications, or Lucas Carmichael, the Senator’s Son, or even, as of this past weekend, Lucas Carmichael, Accidental Husband.
I’m just number seventeen for the Spin Doctors, our beer league team made up mostly of my old USC teammates.
“So, you’re fucking married?” Alex Chen drops onto the bench in our dugout, even though he’s not technically on the team. He hands me a bottle of cold beer, already dripping with condensation, from the cooler.
“Yeah, but only you and Grant know the backstory.” I take a long swig. “The fewer people who know, the better this is for everyone.”
I grab a bat from the corner and walk outside the fenced area to take a few practice swings. The late afternoon sun casts long shadows across the field, and for a moment, I can almost pretend life hasn’t gotten incredibly complicated.
Alex follows, and he leans against the fence.
As head of comedy development at Wonderland, he has an eye for absurdity, which, unfortunately, means my life is currently premium entertainment for him.
We bonded five years ago over our shared obsession with Disneyland, spending more early mornings riding Space Mountain before work than either of us would care to admit.
He’s a fixture at our Sunday games, despite his complete inability to hit a curveball.
With his perfectly tailored jeans, worn even at a baseball field, designer sunglasses, and an enigmatic smile that’s charmed industry execs and bartenders of all genders alike, Alex carries himself with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly who he is.
It’s why he’s my most trusted confidant, along with the fact that he has zero tolerance for bullshit, including mine.
“Please tell me you recorded your father’s reaction,” Alex says, his eyes gleaming with mischief behind his sunglasses. “I bet his head exploded.”
Alex knows all about the the Carmichael dynasty, my father pushing me toward politics, and me sprinting in the exact opposite direction.
“Oh, it was fun,” I deadpan, taking another practice swing. The motion grounds me, the satisfying pull of muscle helping to keep my temper in check. “But he thinks we’re getting everything annulled.”
Alex arches a brow. “And you didn’t correct him?”
I shrug. “Timing matters.”
It’s not that I’m scared of my father. Not anymore.
It’s just, I know how he works. He’s a strategist. A manipulator.
If I give him this information now, he’ll start circling the wagons and calling Madeline, his donors, his PR team, anything to find an angle, a way to spin it, fix it, or control it.
But if I wait and make it clear that this marriage is real, established, and already tied to a dozen media cycles and public goodwill. Well, then he can’t touch it. Can’t spin it. He has to live with it.
“He’s smart, though, too,” I add, “so convincing him it’s real will be key. The fact that I’ve refused every conservative debutante and donor’s daughter he’s pushed on me for the last decade? He’ll be suspicious either way.”
Alex grins. “So, you’re playing the long game.”
“Exactly,” I say, lining up another swing. “This time, I want the win to be checkmate.”
“Unless Jess can be your excuse?” Alex suggests, tilting his head.
“What do you mean?”
“Maybe you’ve always rejected his pairings because you’ve been in love with Jess all this time.”
The words land harder than they should. There’s this half-second pause in my chest, like my heart missed a step and is scrambling to catch up.
In love with Jess? No. That’s not what this is.
It’s proximity. History. A shared past and a ridiculous present.
It’s chemistry, sure, but we’ve always had that. Doesn’t mean it’s anything more.
Does it?
I scoff, shaking my head. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
Alex raises a brow.
“I mean, come on,” I add. “It’s Jess. We spend half our time trying not to strangle each other.”
Alex shrugs. “Sounds like foreplay.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m already walking away because, if I stay in this conversation any longer, I might start asking myself questions I’m not ready to answer.
“Hey batter, batter, swing batter! They’re waiting for you in the box!”
The low, husky quality of her voice flows through me like a shot of whiskey mixed with warm honey. It’s familiar, soothing, yet unexpected. It heats my blood and somehow steadies me at the same time.
I turn to see Jess standing just outside the fence along the third baseline.
She’s in cut-off shorts that showcase her long, toned legs and a fitted tank that reveals the benefits of her early morning surfing habit.
Her blonde hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and oversized sunglasses hide her eyes.
Somehow, she makes baseball casual look like a magazine spread.
My mind immediately, traitorously, flashes to how it would feel to wrap that ponytail around my fist.
Alex isn’t wrong. She does have a certain magnetic effect, the kind that people can’t look away from. Like lightning strikes. Or car crashes.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, unable to keep the surprise from my voice.
“Austin’s here,” she says, gesturing to where her brother is laughing with some of the guys near the bench: Austin Lexington, the Tampa Bay Thunder’s star pitcher, currently sidelined in rehab after Tommy John surgery.
“I saw him before the game,” I say, gripping the bat a little tighter. “He congratulated me. Slapped me on the back and said, ‘Welcome to the family.’” I smirk.
The guilt’s been sitting like a stone in my gut ever since.
We made plans to grab a beer later this week and catch up. It’s a conversation I’m absolutely not looking forward to. Austin’s a good guy, one of the best, and he deserves more than half-truths and a PR-friendly version of whatever this is with his sister.
Jess leans against the fence, her smile syrupy-sweet and weaponized. “Plus, I couldn’t miss watching my husband pretend he’s still in college, trying to live out his lost dreams of making it to the MLB.”
I smirk as I step up to the plate. “Scoop, if you wanted to stare at me wielding my bat, all you had to do was ask.”
Her glare could strip paint off the fence. Worth it.
I tap my bat on either side of the plate and settle into my stance. This is just a rec league game, but something about her voice, her taunts, hits that deep, competitive nerve.
The pitcher, a former USC teammate, winds up and throws.
I swing hard.
And miss completely.
“Strike one, Senator!” Jess yells from behind the fence, using the nickname she knows I despise.
The next three pitches are low, and then I take another swing and miss. I’m either getting walked or striking out if I can’t hit this last pitch.
“Hey, batter, batter, batter! Sa-wing batter!” Jess calls out, channeling her inner Ferris Bueller. “He’s got a pocketful of kryptonite!”
I don’t know if it’s her heckling or my dysfunctional need to prove her wrong, but something shifts in my focus.
The next pitch seems to move in slow motion.
I connect with the ball perfectly, and the vibration travels up my arms as the ball soars toward the outfield and clears the fence with room to spare.
Home run.
As I round the bases, I catch Jess staring at the ball’s trajectory, her mouth slightly open. When I reach third base, I give her an exaggerated wink.
“Close your mouth, wife. You can congratulate me later.”
“Pig!” she shouts, but there’s a reluctant smile tugging at her lips.
And just like that, I’m relaxed and enjoying myself for the first time since Vegas.
“What’s that smile for?” Alex asks when I return to the dugout.
“What? I can’t be happy about a home run?”
“Sure, except you didn’t start smiling until you rounded third,” he points out, his eyebrows raised.
“Whatever. Don’t you have a script to read or something?”
“I don’t think you’re going to have any issues convincing your family this is all real,” he says, nodding toward Jess, who’s now chatting with Austin.
“Well, if everything goes well, I may not even have to introduce them to her at all. We’re only doing this for six months. I can avoid my family for that long.”
“You do realize that you’ll have to bring her to the Carmichael Foundation Gala this summer?” Alex says, checking his phone calendar. “No doubt, your mother already has your tux dry-cleaned and your name on the program.”
Fuck. He’s right. How did I forget about this? Oh yeah, I was busy getting accidentally married.
After the game, which the Spin Doctors won five to three, thank you very much, I find Jess waiting by my car, scrolling through her phone.
“Nice swing,” she admits. “Austin says I might be your good luck charm, since this is the first game of yours I’ve ever watched and you won.”
“Is that why you showed up? To provide a public service?”
“That and we should talk about tomorrow. Dylan texted again, and he wants to shoot at your place. Something about better natural light for the cameras.”
“Of course he does.” I give her a look. “And this couldn’t have been a phone call?”
She shrugs. “I was meeting Blair for lunch nearby anyway. Figured I’d stop by and see if the rumors about your baseball skills were exaggerated.” A smile plays at the corner of her mouth. “Turns out, they were only slightly exaggerated.”
I laugh. “Well, since you’re here, want to grab dinner and sort out the details?”
“Is Lucas Carmichael asking me on a date?” she teases, pressing a hand to her chest in mock shock.
“It’s not a date if it’s with your wife,” I shoot back, grinning. “It’s cohabitation logistics.”
She groans. “That phrase is almost worse.”
I open the passenger door of my car to let her in, but before she can take a seat, I ask, “So, for real, you want to move into my place? It has two bedrooms, and it’s five minutes from the studio. It might be the easier move.”
She tilts her head. “I was kind of hoping we could fake the whole thing. You know, shoot a few clips, stage some boxes, call it a day.”
“You want to fake living together for six months? Dylan’s not that easily fooled.”
“Ugh. Fine,” she says. “But I’m not actually moving in.
I’ll bring a few boxes of my things to make it appear so, and I’ll crash in the guest room on days when Dylan’s filming or the illusion needs to be maintained.
But I’m not leaving my place completely.
I like my coffee maker. And my bath towels. ”
“Noted. But for the record,” I say with a smirk, “I have very nice towels.”
She rolls her eyes as she glides into the front seat. “I’ll believe it when I see them.”
“So, it’s settled, then?” I hold the door open, dipping my head to see her better.
She sighs like she’s agreeing to something far more dramatic than it is. “Fine. We stage the apartment, I half-move in, and we tell Dylan to bring his stupid lighting setup.”
I nod. “Perfect. Domestic bliss, here we come.”
“Which means I get to pick where we eat. Happy wife and all that.”
“Let me guess—Porto’s Bakery? You still obsessed with those potato balls?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “How did you know that?”
I don’t tell her that I remember her bringing a box to Blair’s agency opening nearly a year ago, insisting they were “better than any fancy catering.” I’m not entirely sure why I filed away that detail.
“Lucky guess,” I say instead, rounding the car and getting into the driver’s seat.
The eye roll she gives me could register on the Richter scale, and before I drive away, I catch Alex watching us with an amused expression.
He mouths, Totally buying it, and gives me a thumbs up.
The annoying thing is, I’m not entirely sure what’s real and what’s performance anymore. But as Jess starts arguing with me about how the designated hitter rule ruined baseball before I’ve even started the car, I realize I’m not dreading the next six months nearly as much as I should be.
That might be the most worrying development yet.