Chapter 22
twenty-two
. . .
Lucas
She catches me once.
“What?” she says, arching an eyebrow but not looking up from her phone.
“Nothing,” I say. “You’re just…being nice.”
Her lips quirk like she’s trying not to smile, but she doesn’t look away. “You say that like it surprises you.”
I don’t answer. But maybe it does.
When we turn onto my parents’ street, the air in the car changes.
The weight of what’s waiting tightens across my shoulders like muscle memory.
The tidy colonial houses feel too symmetrical, too polished.
Jess doesn’t say anything, but I know she feels it, too.
She leans forward slightly in her seat as we pull into the driveway, her eyes scanning the neighborhood.
“Nice place,” she says in a casual but observant voice.
“My dad picked it because three former governors lived on this street.”
Jess turns toward me, her brow raised. “Of course he did.”
I kill the engine and rest my hands on the steering wheel, letting the silence stretch for another beat. “Just remember,” I say finally, “I’m not like them. Not like him.”
Jess’s expression softens, and she reaches out to touch my arm. “I know.”
The front door opens before we even make it to the porch, and my mother steps out, composed and radiant in her usual, understated way.
She hugs me tightly, long enough that I feel something inside me loosen.
Then she turns to Jess and offers the kind of warm, practiced smile that’s managed fundraisers, foundations, and decades of high-stakes dinners.
“And you must be Jessica,” she says, pulling Jess in with ease. “I’m Katherine, but please, call me Kate.”
“And you can call me Jess,” Jess replies, hugging her back. “It’s so nice to meet you. Thank you for having us.”
Once we’re inside, Mom leads us upstairs, chattering warmly about how thrilled she is that we came up early.
“I told Lance and Lucy not to bombard you right away,” she says as we reach the landing. “Figured you two might want a moment to settle in before the inquisition begins.”
She opens the door to my old bedroom, now updated to guest-room status.
The baseball posters and dorm-style desk are gone, replaced by built-in bookshelves, a queen-sized bed with a navy duvet, and clean, neutral decor.
But there’s still a photo of my USC team on the nightstand and a few worn spines of books I never took with me.
Jess steps inside and gives the room a once-over. “This is nice,” she says politely, her voice easy but curious.
“Let me know if you need anything,” my mom says, giving Jess’s hand a gentle squeeze before heading back down the hall. “We’re starting dinner in about half an hour.”
And just like that, we’re alone.
Jess eyes the bed the second the door clicks shut. I follow her gaze. One bed. Queen-sized. No sofa. There is an armchair in the corner, but I’m not sure my spine could survive one night, let alone two.
“Ok,” she says, then turns slowly to face me. “Well.”
“I can sleep on the floor,” I offer immediately, already glancing at the armchair and knowing full well it’s a death sentence.
She doesn’t even blink. “Don’t be ridiculous. The bed’s huge. We’re adults.”
My body disagrees. Loudly. But I nod. “Yeah. Ok.”
Jess crosses the room and drops her bag on the chair with dramatic finality. “Besides,” she adds, opening the zipper, “I snore, hog the covers, and talk in my sleep. I’m basically the nightmare version of a sleepover.”
“Perfect,” I say, dropping my own bag next to hers. “I grind my teeth, sleep shirtless, and have night terrors about bad press statements.”
She snorts. “You sleep shirtless, huh?”
I glance up, just in time to see her trying not to look at my chest. “Just setting expectations.”
She lifts her chin. “Great. Then I’ll set one, too. If you steal the blankets, I’ll go full ice queen. I have zero hesitation about weaponizing cold feet.”
“Noted.”
The smile she gives me is quick, sharp, and dangerous, and for a beat too long, we both stand there, pretending the bed is just furniture, pretending it doesn’t matter that we’ll be inches apart, all night, pretending that we don’t feel the shift between us every time the other one moves.
Jess finally breaks the moment, brushing past me, toward the bathroom, with a tossed, “I’m going to powder my nose.”
And just like that, we’re moving again.
The tension lingers as we head downstairs, and I lace my fingers through hers.
Lance is already there, pouring a glass of wine.
At twenty-seven, my younger brother still has the unlined face and easy smile of someone whose path has been largely uncomplicated.
He followed my father into politics without complaint and currently serves as a legislative aide while he builds connections for his inevitable run for office.
“There they are!” he exclaims, setting down the wine bottle to greet us. “The Vegas rebels.”
“Lance,” I warn, but there’s no heat in it. Despite our different choices, we’ve always maintained a solid relationship. He’s a true believer in my father’s political vision, but he’s never judged me for walking away from it.
“What? It’s not every day a Carmichael elopes without consulting the family PR team first.” With a grin, he offers Jess a glass of wine. “How are you finding married life, Jess? Has my brother alphabetized all your clothes yet?”
“Only my shoes,” she replies without missing a beat. “He’s working his way up to my sweaters.”
Lance laughs with genuine delight. “I like her already, Lucas.”
My sister, Lucy, joins us, with her husband, Robert, trailing behind.
At thirty-two, she’s the most politically savvy of us all, having married a state assemblyman and masterfully managing both his career and planning for a picture-perfect family of four, eventually.
Her smile is warm but assessing as she studies Jess.
“So, you’re the journalist who managed to capture my commitment-phobic brother,” she says, accepting a glass of wine from Lance. “I’ve followed your work. That exposé on gender pay disparities in production companies last year was excellent.”
Jess looks genuinely surprised. “You read that?”
“Of course. Just because I’m surrounded by politics, it doesn’t mean I don’t care about substantive issues.” Lucy’s smile turns mischievous. “Besides, it drives my husband’s more conservative donors crazy when I quote progressive journalists at fundraisers.”
“Lucy’s always been the secret rebel,” I explain to Jess. “She just hides it better than I do.”
“Someone has to work from the inside,” Lucy responds with a shrug. “Not all of us can escape to Hollywood.”
There’s no accusation in her tone, just the acknowledgment of our different approaches to the Carmichael legacy.
Lucy is as trapped in my father’s political machine as I once was, but she’s found ways to maintain her own identity within it.
It’s a balancing act I’ve always admired, even if I couldn’t sustain it myself.
My mother enters, carrying a steaming dish that fills the room with the rich scent of her cioppino, the San Francisco seafood stew she makes for special occasions. “Dinner’s ready, everyone. Lucas, would you open another bottle of the cabernet?”
As we take our seats, I notice how naturally Jess falls into conversation with my family.
She asks Lance about his work in the legislature, drawing him out beyond the usual talking points.
With Lucy, she discusses the challenges of building a career while navigating family expectations.
She even gets Robert, normally the quietest person at any Carmichael gathering, to enthusiastically explain a conservation bill he’s helping to draft.
“So, Jess,” Lucy says, dipping into her dish, “what’s it like working with Lucas?”
“We don’t exactly work together,” I clarify. “More like our professional paths cross occasionally.”
“And when they do, Lucas is honestly brilliant,” Jess says, her voice warming with genuine admiration. “Just last month, there was this crisis with one of Wonderland’s biggest stars, and his actions could have tanked an entire production.”
I shift in my seat, not used to being the subject of Jess’s praise.
“Everyone was panicking,” she says, leaning forward slightly, “but Lucas just handled it. No drama, no public meltdown. He crafted this strategy that protected the studio without throwing the actor under the bus. I’ve seen PR disasters play out a hundred different ways, and trust me, what Lucas did was extraordinary. ”
“She’s exaggerating,” I say as warmth spreads across my face.
“I’m not,” Jess insists, turning to face me directly. “You’re the best at what you do, Lucas. Everyone in the industry knows it.”
The way she’s looking at me with such open admiration sends heat coursing through my body. I’m used to calculated compliments in this house, praise with political purpose. This is different.
After dinner, coffee is served in the living room, and the atmosphere softens even more. My mom nudges me gently as Jess laughs at something Lucy said.
“She’s wonderful,” my mom whispers. “Genuine. Not what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“Well, your father mentioned that she was a journalist. I assumed this was strategic. But she’s real.”
Before I can answer, Jess appears beside me and slips her hand into mine like it’s second nature. The rest of the evening passes in a blur of conversations and my constant awareness of her.
When we finally return to my room, the tension that’s been building all night crackles between us. Jess slips off her heels with a sigh.
“God, these are torture devices,” she groans, flexing her feet.
I unbutton my shirt, trying not to stare as she reaches up to remove her earrings. “You were amazing tonight.”
“We were amazing,” she corrects, meeting my gaze. “Award-winning performances out there.”
“Yeah.” I swallow, watching as she unpins her hair, letting it fall in waves around her shoulders.
At this moment, I want to stop pretending, even to myself, because whatever this is between us, it hasn’t felt like a performance in days.
I should be more cautious. I should keep my distance.
But she’s standing there in the dim light, in my space, and all I can think is how much I want to touch her, how every day with her chips away my ability to stay away from her.
“Except it wasn’t all an act. Not for me.”
I close the distance between us in two steps, drawn to her like gravity. My hands find her waist, anchoring me, and draw her closer with a certainty that surprises us both.
“Not even close,” I murmur, brushing a strand of hair from her face. My fingers trail along her cheek, and as she leans into my touch, her eyes flutter closed for a heartbeat.
When they open again, there’s a heat there that matches the fire burning through my veins. She rises on her tiptoes, bringing her face closer to mine. “For the cameras?” she asks, but there are no cameras here. No audience. No documentary crew.
“No,” I tell her, my voice low, my hand curling at the small of her back. “Not for the cameras.”
Her lips part slightly, and I watch as something shifts in her expression and the last wall between us crumbles.
“Then what are we doing?” she asks softly.
I don’t hesitate. “I have no idea. But I don’t want to stop.”
“Neither do I,” she whispers as her hand slides up to the back of my neck.
The pull between us is magnetic, inevitable. I capture her lips with mine, and everything else falls away.