Chapter 20
twenty
. . .
Lucas
It’s been two weeks since I gave Jess the bracelet.
Two weeks since she looked at me like I was something more than a PR partner. Like I was someone who mattered to her.
Two weeks since she hugged me without cameras, without fanfare, just soft and close, her head against my chest like she belonged there.
She’s in my space now. In my head. In that quiet corner of me that I’ve spent years keeping locked down. The part that wants things I don’t usually let myself want.
I haven’t been able to shake it.
I’m in my office at Wonderland Studios, where I’m trying to focus and pretend my inbox isn’t eating me alive. My phone pings for the fourth time in as many minutes. I don’t have to look to know it’s from legal, asking if I’ve reviewed the third draft of our Pink Slip holding statement.
I have.
I just hate it.
I scroll to the bottom of the Word doc on my laptop and rework the ending for the fifth time. I need something that doesn’t sound like a studio executive was held hostage by a publicist and forced to read cue cards with a gun to his head off-screen. It has to sound human.
Levi Peterson didn’t kill anyone. With a blood alcohol level that is protected by HIPAA laws and a damn-near heroic claim of avoiding a neighborhood cat, he swerved into a tree and was mildly concussed. The internet has already meme-ified him into some kind of pet-protecting vigilante.
Unfortunately, there’s a video now, not of the crash but of him stumbling out of the car and muttering, “It’s always fucking cats.” It’s not ideal.
But now, instead of keeping this story to myself like I did when it broke back in Vegas, I find that I’d like to work through it with Jess. She’s infiltrating my home, my thoughts, and now, it looks like, my workplace, too.
LUCAS
Any chance you can record today’s podcast episode over here? The Levi coverage is turning into a mess. Would be good to align.
JESS
You mean you want me to not torch your studio this time? I guess. Studio? 30 minutes?
LUCAS
Conference room B first. I’ll have coffee. And donuts. And moral high ground, if there’s any left.
JESS
Ooooh, bribery and self-awareness. My favorite combo.
I forward the most recent internal update to her inbox. If we’re going to thread this needle, I’d rather do it face to face. She’s the only reporter I trust to handle this with integrity—and the only one who could blow it all up if she’s not given the full picture.
My assistant catches me in the hallway. “Legal is waiting on the Levi update.”
“Tell them it’s coming by noon.”
Thirty minutes later, I walk into the conference room, and Jess is already there, perched on the edge of a chair with her laptop open and a cold brew balanced on one knee.
She’s in one of those outfits that make her look like she didn’t try at all, yet still, somehow, radiates presence: tight jeans, oversized tee, and with her hair up with a pencil stabbed through the bun.
She doesn’t look up as she types. “You’re late.”
“You’re early,” I counter, setting the coffee and pastries between us. “You always show up early when you think I’m going to lie.”
“I was nearby,” she replies still focused on her laptop. “Interview with someone from the costuming team for Survivor. Also, your intern downstairs offered to park my car.”
I pause. “We don’t have interns who valet.”
“Then I just gave my keys to a stranger in a Dazed and Confused T-shirt.”
I freeze, halfway to sitting down, and she bursts into laughter.
“Kidding. Relax, Senator.”
“I hate it when you call me that,” I mutter, opening the donut box.
She pauses for a beat longer than usual, then says, “Guess I’ll have to find a new nickname for you.”
She reaches for a cruller. “You get what you need from legal?” she asks, taking the glazed donut like it was custom made for her.
“I got something,” I say. “Whether it’s usable remains to be seen.”
Jess moves around the desk and walks straight into my space. She leans in beside me, with one hand on the back of my chair and the other resting on the desk near mine. Our fingers brush. Just briefly. Just enough.
Her perfume wraps around me, and it’s that light, subtle scent of florals.
Her hair catches the sunlight streaming through the tall office windows, causing it to glow gold at the ends like she’s lit from the inside out.
Her eyes skim the screen with laser precision, narrowed in concentration, and when she tilts her head to ask a question, her cheek is barely a breath from mine.
“You added the part about his charitable work with the pet shelter,” she says in a low voice. “That’s a good call.”
“Figured it softens the cat thing,” I manage. My voice comes out rougher than I expect. Too much awareness. Too much heat for a weekday morning. She doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe she does, and she’s just better at hiding it.
She scrolls through the draft, her fingertips moving fast, but I can’t focus on a single line of text. Not when her arm keeps brushing mine. Not when I can feel the heat of her body so close that it’s messing with my brain.
God help me, I like working with her. I like this version of us. We’re sharp but aligned, collaborative without constantly trying to one-up each other. It took a few weeks—ok, two months—but we’ve found a rhythm. And I’m not entirely convinced it’s just because of the cameras.
“It does. And you cut the part where the studio ‘remains steadfast in its commitment to employee wellness.’”
“I couldn’t say it with a straight face.”
She laughs again. “Look at you. Evolving.”
I sigh and look up at her. “I need this episode to walk a fine line. We’re not spinning. We’re clarifying. Your podcast is already on the trades’ radar, and if your narrative contradicts ours, the media will eat us alive.”
“And if it aligns,” she says, “people will believe it. Because I’m not the studio. I’m the voice they trust.”
Exactly. She’s my best shot at getting the right tone into the public space, and she knows it.
“So, what’s the problem?” she asks.
I open my phone and show her the headline that just dropped: “LEVI PETERSON’S TEAM SAYS ‘COLD MEDS & FATIGUE’ TO BLAME FOR CRASH.”
Jess reads it twice and then closes her eyes. “Oh, come on.”
“His personal publicist gave a statement without clearing it through us. Now it sounds like we’re contradicting ourselves.”
“And if I run with the studio-approved version, I look like I’m helping you cover it up.”
I nod. “That’s why I want to do this together. We co-author the tone. You call it straight. I’ll stay in my lane.”
For a moment, she studies me like she’s deciding whether to believe that. Then she opens her laptop again and starts typing.
“Alright. Let’s fix it.”
We settle into our usual back-and-forth, refining talking points and fact-checking timelines. She records an intro blurb for her podcast while I check off calls to talent management and the studio’s insurance lead.
She asks for a statement to include in the bonus content, and I give her one I already know will run longer than we agreed to.
“I’m adding context,” I say when she gives me a look.
“You’re adding caveats.”
“Same thing.”
“Not even close.”
I lean back in my chair and watch her. She’s in her zone now, pulling quotes, tagging timestamps, adjusting her voice tone between cuts. I don’t feel defensive anymore when she pokes holes in my version of the truth. I just want to make sure we’re building something accurate. Respectful. Fair.
We’ve done dozens of press moments and podcast tie-ins, but now there’s an added element that didn’t exist before.
I realize I’m not just impressed with her hustle.
I admire her clarity, her integrity, her ability to call out bullshit while still caring about people.
Somehow, we’re on the same side, and it doesn’t feel like giving up ground. It feels like alignment.
It’s almost five by the time we wrap. Jess closes her laptop with a satisfied sigh and tosses the empty donut box in the trash. “Your team’s getting better,” she says, grabbing her bag.
“You mean I’m getting better.”
She shrugs, already halfway to the door. “Or I’m rubbing off on you.”
I follow her into the hallway, matching her pace. The elevator dings and opens, but before she can step inside, I speak up. “I do have one question.”
“Shoot.”
“The fundraiser. You still good with it?” She pauses, turning to face me fully, surprise flickering across her face.
“You mean emotionally or logistically?”
“Both.” The elevator doors close without us, but neither of us moves to call it back.
“I told you I’d go,” she says simply. “I meant it.”
I nod but find myself pressing further. “It’s a lot. Press, guests, my family. And my father will be there.”
Her eyes narrow slightly at the mention of him, but her voice remains steady. “I’m not worried.”
“You’re sure? The doc crew won’t be there, so you don’t have to be on if you don’t want to deal with him.”
“Lucas.” Her voice softens, and she takes a small step closer. “Don’t worry about me. We’re on the same side now.”
“That’s exactly why I’m worried,” I say quietly. “You’re a lot more dangerous now.”
She raises an eyebrow, and a slow smirk spreads across her face. “Good thing you’re married to me, then.”
“Don’t remind me,” I mutter, but I’m fighting a smile.
She laughs as she calls another elevator, and when the doors slide shut with her inside, I’m left alone in the hallway with a thousand unspoken thoughts and a growing certainty that I am completely, irreversibly fucked.