A memory surfaces. Lucas’s arm around me, telling everyone about our “anniversary.” Me, playing along, one-upping him with increasingly elaborate stories.
“I think we might have,” I admit, “but how did Dylan get involved?” Another memory clicks into place. A photographer from the NAB Show. “The woman. With the camera. Was she working with Dylan?”
“I don’t remember.”
As we stare at each other, the gravity of the situation sinks in.
Lucas drops onto the couch, his head in his hands.
I bend to grab his button-down from the floor, and the hem of my robe flutters open. The cool morning air hits my skin, and when I glance down, I catch a glimpse of lace peeking through the gap.
When I straighten, I realize that Lucas isn’t hiding in his hands anymore.
He’s watching me.
His eyes trail from the gap in my robe down the length of my legs, pausing at my toes before climbing slowly back up to meet mine. There’s a beat of silence, and his eyes flash with a glimpse of desire.
My stomach flips.
“Lucas,” I say slowly, with dawning horror, “did we…you know…” I gesture at us and the bedroom.
“I don’t think so? I mean, I was naked, but you were in the tub, and?—”
“I think I would remember.” I pull the robe tighter around myself. “I mean, I remember some things. The kissing. Your hands.” I stop. Heat that has nothing to do with my hangover rises to my face. I know I would remember, and I see no evidence that indicates we did.
“Right.” He clears his throat. “So, no sex. Just marriage. To each other.”
“And a documentary we agreed to be in.”
“I’ll call my attorney when we get back to LA,” he says. “Get this sorted out.”
“Me, too.”
An uncomfortable silence falls between us, broken only by the persistent buzzing of our phones. I look at him, really look at him: his messy hair, the stubble on his jaw, that familiar crease between his eyebrows that appears when he’s stressed. For eight years, I’ve seen him as the opposition, the slick PR guy spinning stories to protect his clients from people like me. Now he’s my husband.
“Lucas?”
“Yeah?”
“I’m going to need you to put on some pants before we figure out our next move.”
For the first time since waking up, a hint of a smile crosses his face. “That’s probably a good idea.”
six
. . .
Lucas
The Wonderland Studioslot is buzzing with its usual Monday morning energy: PAs rushing coffee orders, talent slipping into trailers, executives power-walking between meetings. No one gives me a second glance as I make my way to Grant’s office. I feel like I should have a scarlet “V” for Vegas emblazoned on my chest or at least be trailing wedding confetti.
But no. Same nods from colleagues. Same life, except for the gold band burning a hole in my pocket. I couldn’t bring myself to wear it, but throwing it away felt strangely wrong.
My phone vibrates with a text. Austin Lexington, Jess’s younger brother. My former teammate and friend.
AUSTIN
Dude. DUDE. When were you going to tell me you were hooking up with my sister?
