Chapter 13
thirteen
. . .
Jess
“Is it weird that you two already move around each other like you’ve been married for years?” Sophia asks, watching as Lucas takes the wine glass from my hand and refills it without breaking his conversation with Grant.
I nearly choke on my sip. “Professional synchronicity,” I manage. “Years of orbiting each other in press rooms.”
“Mm-hmm.” Her knowing smile is unbearable.
The dinner party is in full swing in Lucas’s apartment—our apartment, I guess—filled with the warm buzz of conversation and laughter. The documentary cameras are discreetly positioned in corners, catching “authentic moments of the newlyweds’ first dinner party,” as Dylan put it.
Blair and Wyatt are deep in conversation with Stella.
Brandon is animatedly describing some death-defying stunt to Alex and his date, a tall gallery owner who looks both horrified and fascinated.
Then there’s Austin, my brother, watching me with that unsettling attentiveness he’s had since we were kids.
He knows me too well, which makes him dangerous to this whole charade.
“So, how did you two end up agreeing to this documentary in the first place?” Grant asks, drawing me back to the conversation circle. “Dylan mentioned you signed the release forms that same night as the wedding.”
Lucas looks at me, and a silent communication passes between us.
“Well,” I say, “we were obviously not in our most rational state.”
“But,” Lucas smoothly picks up, his hand finding the small of my back, “we’d both admired Dylan’s work for years. His documentary on the fall of print media was incredible.”
“And Real Power does have the potential to showcase genuine partnerships in the industry,” I add.
“Right.” Lucas nods. “As opposed to the manufactured couples Hollywood usually promotes.”
The irony nearly makes me laugh. We are literally the definition of a manufactured couple.
“Plus, Dylan can be very persuasive,” I continue. “He spun the ‘rivals to lovers’ thing as a metaphor—finally, a merger between spin and substance.”
Grant raises his glass. “To unlikely partnerships that work better than anyone expected.”
Everyone drinks, and Lucas’s hand slides around my waist, pulling me closer against his side.
The gesture is so natural that it frightens me.
We’ve been doing this kind of thing all night: casual touches, finishing each other’s sentences, and anticipating each other’s needs.
The scariest part is how easy it’s becoming.
“You two are nauseating,” Austin says when he corners me in the kitchen later. “I can barely recognize my sister under all that domestic bliss.”
I’m arranging dessert plates, carefully keeping my back to the nearest camera. “Don’t be dramatic.”
“You handed him your olives without a word, and he disposed of them without breaking his conversation with Wyatt.”
“That’s just good hosting.”
Austin leans against the counter and says in a lowered voice, “Look, when I talked to Lucas, I was pretty sure this was some kind of elaborate PR stunt, but tonight…”
My heart rate spikes. “Tonight, what?”
“You look happy, Jess.” His expression softens. “Like, genuinely happy. And from the way he looks at you when you’re not watching, it’s obvious he was telling me the truth when he said he’s liked you since he first saw you at USC.”
My ears ring with this confession, and I focus intently on the dessert arrangement as I casually ask, “What do you mean?”
“It’s the same look he had eight years ago when you showed up at that baseball game.”
My head snaps up. “What are you talking about?”
Austin grins. “Come on, sis. The guy was checking you out until he made that crack about reporters being vultures and you insulted his father. Then it all went downhill from there.”
“That’s—” I struggle to find words. “That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Because, from where I’m standing, you two fighting your attraction for eight years and then drunkenly getting married in Vegas seems about right.”
I throw a napkin at him. “I’m revoking your invitation to all future dinner parties.”
His laugh is warm and familiar, reminding me of surf sessions and late-night conversations on the beach after Mom died.
Our older brother Garrett was away at college, trying to hold it together from a distance, but Austin and I were the ones still at home, actually talking about her and trying to pretend we were fine.
We were just kids, but grief made us teammates in a way even baseball never could.
“By the way, when are we getting in the water? Your husband mentioned you’ve been slacking on your surf time.”
I’m not sure how to digest all of this information, so I just roll my eyes.
“She would have liked him,” Austin says quietly.
“You think?” I ask, surprised by how much I want the answer to be yes.
“Yeah. He doesn’t let you get away with your bullshit, but he clearly respects you.” Austin’s smile turns melancholy. “That’s all she ever wanted for us, to find people who could see past our sharp edges to what’s underneath.”
I swallow against the unexpected tightness in my throat. “Next Sunday,” I say. “Zuma Beach, six o’clock. Bring your A-game.”
“Always do.” He hesitates. “Mom would be proud of you, Jess. The stories you chase, the podcast, your fierce drive for the truth, all of it.”
“She’d be proud of you, too,” I manage, grateful when Blair appears in the doorway.
“Dessert emergency out here,” she announces. “Brandon’s threatening to tell the story about Stella’s first Hollywood party.”
The rest of the evening flows with surprising ease. Brandon does share the Stella story (involving a well-known director, a misunderstanding about sushi, and an unfortunate allergic reaction), but only after she tells them about his mishap on the set of a superhero movie.
Alex regales everyone with tales of Lucas’s secret Disneyland obsession, complete with photographic evidence of him wearing Mickey ears, which earns him a death glare from my “husband” that would terrify anyone who didn’t know him well.
“I think that’s going in the documentary for sure,” Dylan’s assistant announces from behind her camera, and Lucas groans.
“If they include that, I’m adding the footage of Jess singing karaoke at the Wonderland holiday party last year,” he threatens.
“You wouldn’t dare,” I gasp. “I was doing my Stevie Nicks impression. It was art.”
“It was something,” Grant deadpans, and everyone erupts in laughter.
I catch Lucas’s eye from across the room, and he gives me a wink that sends an unwelcome warmth through my chest. For a moment, I forget this is all pretend. For a moment, it feels like we’re just a couple hosting friends, sharing inside jokes, and building memories.
It’s dangerously close to perfect.
Hours later, after the last guests have left and the documentary crew has finally packed up their equipment, Lucas and I stand side by side in the kitchen, loading the dishwasher in comfortable silence.
“That went well,” he says, handing me a wine glass.
His fingers brush mine as I take it, and a little jolt shoots up my arm. I tell myself it’s nothing. Static electricity. Kitchen humidity. Definitely not the warmth of his skin or how close he’s standing.
“Surprisingly well,” I say, trying to focus on loading plates instead of the stupid flutter in my stomach. “Alex is hilarious.”
“Your friend Brandon is a menace,” Lucas replies, but there’s a smile tugging at his mouth. “I can’t believe he did that impression of me at the press conference.”
“It was spot-on.” Laughing, I grab another plate from the counter. “The hair thing and everything.”
“I do not do a hair thing.”
“You absolutely do a hair thing,” I say, mimicking the way he runs his hand through his hair when he’s stressed.
He rolls his eyes, but I don’t miss the way his lips twitch at the corners.
“At least I don’t twirl my hair when I’m thinking hard, like someone I could mention.”
“I don’t—” I stop, catching myself mid-twirl. “Ok, fine. Touché.”
We continue passing forks, stacking plates, and trading glass after glass, and every time our hands make contact, it feels like the air shifts, like we’re caught in some kind of slow-burn gravitational pull.
It’s ridiculous. We’re doing dishes. But his hands are so much bigger than mine, rough in all the right places, and unnecessarily gentle with every single glass. I reach for the silverware tray at the same time he does, and our fingers tangle. For a second, neither of us moves.
The moment stretches. My pulse kicks up. I look at his hand around mine, then up at his face and find him already watching me. The apartment is silent.
Suddenly, I can’t remember how we got from “temporary insanity” in Vegas to this quiet domestic dance that somehow feels comfortable.
“Austin believes this is real,” I blurt out.
Lucas pauses, dish towel in hand. “I think we’ve managed to convince all of our friends.”
“We’ve gotten good at this.” I lean against the counter, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing.
“Too good,” he agrees, his voice lower.
“All those touches, the inside jokes.” I should step back. I should make a joke, break this tension, retreat to my room. Instead, I find myself swaying slightly forward. “Lucas,” I whisper, not sure if it’s a question or a warning.
His gaze drops to my lips and returns to my eyes. “For the documentary,” he says, his voice rough. “We should probably practice. To make it look natural.”
“Right,” I agree too quickly. “Practice. For authenticity.”
He cups my face with one hand, and I can feel the slight tremor in his fingers. Or maybe that’s me, trembling at his touch. His thumb brushes my cheek, and my eyes flutter closed.
“Just for the cameras,” I whisper.
“Just for the cameras,” he echoes, and then his lips are on mine.
Unlike our frantic kiss in Vegas or our performative pecks for the documentary, this is slow, deliberate.
His lips are soft but insistent, and I find myself responding with an intensity that should alarm me.
My hands slide up his chest to his shoulders, and his arm wraps around my waist, pulling me closer.
He tastes like the chocolate dessert we served, the expensive bourbon Grant brought, and something else entirely that’s just…Lucas. My mind goes blissfully blank, with all the complications and consequences fading into background noise, as he deepens the kiss.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing heavily. His pupils are dilated, and his hair is wrecked from where my fingers have been. I must look equally affected because something like satisfaction flickers in his eyes.
Reality crashes back, cold and sobering. I step back, breaking his hold.
“That should look convincing enough,” I say, my voice only slightly unsteady. “Good practice.”
A series of emotions crosses his face, too quickly to interpret, before he settles on a neutral expression. “Definitely convincing.”
“I should…” I gesture vaguely toward my bedroom.
He nods. “Me, too.”
“Right,” I echo. “Goodnight, Lucas.”
“Goodnight, Jess.”
I make it to my room before I allow myself to touch my lips, which still tingle from his kiss. “Just practice,” I remind myself firmly. “Nothing more.”
But as I crawl into bed, I can’t help replaying the kiss in my mind, analyzing every moment, every sensation.
Practice has never felt so explosive.