Chapter 32
thirty-two
. . .
Lucas
“Your father is here in the Hamptons.”
Jess’s words hang in the air between us. She’s perched on the edge of the guesthouse sofa, still in her beach clothes, her hair tousled from the ocean breeze. I’ve been looking forward to seeing her all day, but the moment she walked in, I knew something was wrong.
“What?” I set down my drink. “That’s impossible. He’s in Sacramento until Tuesday.”
“I saw him at Citarella about an hour ago,” she says carefully, “with a woman named Diane Mercer. He said she’s his director of legislative affairs.”
Something cold settles in my stomach. “Blonde? Mid-forties?”
Jess nods, her expression neutral. Too neutral. I recognize her journalist face, the one she uses when she’s keeping her thoughts carefully guarded.
“What else?” I ask, my tone sharper than intended.
“Nothing else. I introduced myself, and we chatted briefly. He mentioned that they were preparing for a donor meeting tomorrow for your mother’s foundation.” She pauses. “He seemed surprised that you were in town.”
I run a hand through my hair as the familiar tension gathers at the base of my skull. Diane Mercer. I’ve met her at campaign events. She’s always hovering at the periphery of my father’s circle, always a little too attentive to be just staff.
“Are you ok?” Jess asks softly.
“Fine,” I say automatically and then catch myself. “Sorry. I’m just surprised.”
Jess watches me, her reporter’s instincts visibly battling with something else. Concern, maybe. “Lucas, I’m just telling you what I saw. That’s it.”
“But you think there’s more,” I say. It’s not a question.
“It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“It matters to me.”
She sighs, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Look, I don’t know anything for certain. But yes, something felt off.”
The confirmation stings more than it should. I’ve heard the rumors for years, whispers about my father’s indiscretions, carefully buried by his PR team. I’ve never had proof, never wanted it.
“I’m not investigating him,” Jess adds quickly. “I just thought you should know that he’s here.”
“Are you sure? Seems like a great story for your podcast.” The words are unfair, and I regret them immediately.
Hurt flashes across her face. “Is that what you think? That I’d go after your family?”
“No,” I say, closing my eyes briefly. “I’m sorry. That was out of line.”
“I told you because you’re my husband.” She stands and moves closer. “Whatever this is between us, I wouldn’t cross that line. Your family is off-limits unless you tell me otherwise.”
The sincerity in her voice cuts through my defensiveness. She’s standing before me not as Jess Lexington, relentless journalist, but as Jess Lexington-Carmichael, my wife and the woman who’s somehow become essential to my life.
“Thank you,” I say quietly, reaching for her hand. “I know this goes against your every journalistic instinct.”
“It does,” she admits with a small smile, “but some things are more important than a story.” She squeezes my fingers. “I promise, Lucas. I won’t dig into this on my own. If something real surfaces, I’ll come to you first.”
I pull her into my arms and bury my face in her hair, breathing in the scent of salt and sunscreen. “Just when I think I have you figured out, Mrs. Lexington-Carmichael.”
“I’ve got to keep you on your toes, Mr. Carmichael.” She leans back, studying my face. “We should get ready. Grant’s waiting for us.”
Grant’s annual summer gathering is, as always, a carefully orchestrated blend of intimacy and exclusivity. The sprawling oceanfront property glows with tasteful lighting. Servers glide between guests with trays of champagne, and the low hum of conversation is punctuated by occasional laughter.
Under normal circumstances, I’d be in my element here, networking, facilitating introductions, and keeping an eye on potential PR opportunities. Tonight, though, I’m going through the motions, as my thoughts continually drift to the revelation of my father’s presence nearby.
Jess appears at my side with a fresh cocktail. “You’re a million miles away,” she murmurs. She looks stunning in a simple white sundress and with her hair swept up to expose her shoulders.
“Just distracted,” I admit, accepting the drink. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize.” Her hand finds mine, and our fingers interlace with practiced ease.
Her teasing smile draws me back to the present moment. “Have I mentioned how beautiful you look tonight?”
“Twice,” she says, her eyes sparkling. “But I don’t mind hearing it again.”
Grant passes by, and he raises his glass in acknowledgment. “Thanks for putting words on paper for me again this year, Lucas.”
I nod. “Of course.”
As he moves on to mingle with other guests, Jess tugs gently at my hand. “Let’s step outside for a minute. You need to recenter.”
I raise an eyebrow at her. “Recenter?”
Her smile turns mischievous as she raises her fresh cocktail to her lips. “I think I can help with that. I know just the spot.” She drains the glass in one long swallow, her eyes never leaving mine. Then she grabs my glass and sets both on a passing server’s tray.
She leads me through the party and out onto the terrace, where she finds a secluded corner hidden by potted palms and where ambient lighting doesn’t quite reach. The moment we’re alone, Jess pushes me against the wall, and her mouth finds mine with urgent heat.
“What are you doing?” I mumble against her lips, though my hands are already spanning her waist.
“Getting you out of your head,” she whispers, nipping at my lower lip. “Is it working?”
“Getting there,” I manage as her hands slide beneath my jacket.
She laughs softly, and the sound vibrates against my throat, where her lips now explore. “Challenge accepted.”
Her fingers make quick work of my belt, and the metallic click of the buckle is unnervingly loud in the quiet corner. My breath catches as her hand slips beneath my waistband and finds me already hard.
“Someone’s eager,” she teases.
“Can you blame me?” I reply, struggling to keep my voice steady as her fingers wrap around me.
I should stop this. We’re at Grant’s party, surrounded by industry executives, some of whom I work closely with. But rational thought dissolves as Jess sinks gracefully to her knees and looks up at me with those impossibly blue eyes.
“Jess…” My protest dies as her mouth replaces her hand, warm, wet, and perfect. My head falls back against the wall, and my hands find her ponytail, finally wrapping around the silky length I've been thinking about touching for months. “Christ.”
The sight of Jess, brilliant, sharp-tongued Jess, on her knees before me, utterly focused on my pleasure—it’s almost too much. “Someone could see,” I manage, though I make no move to stop her.
She pulls back just enough to whisper, “Then you’d better be quiet, Carmichael,” before returning to her task with renewed determination.
I bite my lip to suppress a groan, gripping the stone wall with my free hand for support. She’s relentless, setting a pace that has me fighting for control within minutes. When she takes me deeper, humming softly in a way that sends vibrations through my entire body, I know I’m close.
“Jess,” I warn, tugging gently at her hair. “I’m going to—”
She doesn’t stop; instead, her eyes hold mine with a challenge I’ve never been able to resist. The tension coils tighter and tighter until it finally snaps. My release hits with an intensity that steals my breath, and my muscles tense as waves of pleasure wash through me.
Jess stays with me through every pulse, taking every last drop and only pulling away when I’m completely spent.
She rises with the same grace that she kneeled with, straightening her dress as if we’ve just been discussing the weather.
My fingers fumble with my belt, still clumsy from the aftershocks.
“Better?” she asks, looking entirely too pleased with herself.
“Much,” I admit, reaching for her. I draw her close and press my forehead against hers. “Though, now I owe you.”
Her smile is wicked as she presses a brief, hard kiss to my lips. “I’ll collect later. With interest.”
I catch her wrist before she can turn away. “Jess.” The weight of everything I want to say hangs between us.
“I know,” she says softly, as if she actually does. She brushes her thumb across my lower lip.
The sound of silverware tapping against glass drifts from inside, signaling that it’s time for Grant’s speech. We rejoin the party, slightly rumpled but significantly more relaxed, just as Grant takes his position at the front of the room.
I watch with professional pride as he delivers the words we’ve crafted together, tweaked, and perfected over the years.
“Every year, I tell myself I won’t give the same speech about how much this tradition means to me. And yet…here I am again, clearly unable to help myself.”
A wave of quiet laughter moves through the room.
“When I started this celebration twelve years ago, I thought it would be a singular event, a simple way to honor the people who’d been part of my journey, but I underestimated just how meaningful these gatherings would become.
This room contains not just extraordinary talent, but something far rarer, genuine humanity and a willingness to support each other through both triumphs and challenges.
Those qualities are precious, and your continued presence here year after year confirms I’ve found them in you. ”
His gaze sweeps the assembled guests, warm and genuine.
“Some of you are first-time attendees; others have been here from the beginning. Regardless, you matter. To me and to each other. I’ve always believed that our finest moments occur when we’re truly seen by those around us, and you’ve repeatedly shown me the power of that connection. ”
A smile spreads across his face as he raises his glass. “To connections that matter. Cheers, everyone.”
As applause fills the room, I feel Jess’s eyes on me. “What?” I ask softly.
She shakes her head slightly. “Nothing. It’s just, it’s good writing.”
“Most of it’s recycled,” I admit. “He says almost the same thing every year.”
“Some things don’t need changing,” she says, her eyes never leaving mine.
I’m about to respond when my phone vibrates in my pocket.
FATHER
Heard you’re in the Hamptons this weekend. I have meetings all day tomorrow but could move some things around for breakfast if you’re free. Let me know.
The casual tone almost makes me laugh. Classic Logan Carmichael, acting as if nothing is amiss, as if we’re just two family members coordinating schedules.
“Your father?” Jess asks quietly, noticing my expression.
I nod, showing her the message. “Apparently, he has ‘meetings’ tomorrow.”
Her fingers brush mine as she hands the phone back. “Are you going to meet him?”
I consider it for a moment. “I don’t know yet.”
I pull up a new message, this time to my mother.
LUCAS
Hey Mom, quick question. Is Dad working on a donor meeting for your foundation this weekend?
Her response comes quickly.
MOM
Not that I’m aware of, but I’m in Chicago at an education conference until Tuesday. Why do you ask?
Something cold settles in my chest. I don’t reply, just slide the phone back into my pocket.
Jess watches me. The concern is clear in her eyes, but she doesn’t push. Instead, she simply takes my hand under the table, tracing small circles on my palm with her thumb.
“Whatever you decide,” she says softly, “I’ve got your back.”
The simple declaration steadies me. For all my years in PR and managing other people’s crises, I’ve always handled my family complications alone. Having Jess in my corner is something I never realized I wanted.