“Maybe. Maybe not.” He leans back in his chair. “But consider the benefits for her, too.”
I think about how our marriage immediately protects her from relentless industry players like our friend Marcus—and the documentary exposure could boost her podcast significantly.
My mind races, attempting to process the surreal turn this meeting has taken. “You’re suggesting I pitch this to her as a business arrangement?”
“I’m suggesting you consider all options before rushing to undo something that might actually solve several problems at once.” Grant stands, signaling the end of our meeting. “Talk to Jess. See where her head is at.”
I rise, feeling unsettled. “And if she says no?”
Grant clasps my shoulder. “Then you annul the marriage, weather the storm from your father and the press, and we all move on.
As I leave his office, my phone buzzes with a text from Jess.
JESS
My lawyer says we need to meet. Today. How’s 4pm? I’ll send address shortly.
I stare at the message as Grant’s proposal echoes in myhead. Six months of pretending to be married to the most infuriating woman I know. Six months of domestic proximity to someone who’s made a career of challenging people like me. Six months of fighting this unwelcome attraction that’s apparently visible enough for even Grant to notice.
It’s ridiculous. Impossible. A disaster waiting to happen.
So, why am I already drafting a pros and cons list in my head?
LUCAS
I’ll be there.
seven
. . .
Jess
“No comment means no comment,Harvey. I don’t care what TMZ is offering.”
I end the call and toss my phone onto my desk, where it lands with a clatter among the organized chaos of notes, empty energy drink cans, and recording equipment. The glass-walled studio ofOn the Red Carpetnormally feels like my sanctuary, the place where I’m in control, where I’m the one to ask the questions and shape the narrative.
Not today.
Today, I’m the story. And I hate it.
The door swings open without a knock, and Blair marches in, her designer bag swinging from her arm, her expression a mix of concern and barely contained excitement.
“Two days,” she announces, dropping into the chair across from my desk. “Two days of unanswered texts and calls. I had to find out about your wedding from Instagram, Jessica Lexington. Instagram.”
I cringe. “I’m sorry. It’s been a bit chaotic.”
“Oh, I bet it has.” Blair leans forward, her eyes gleaming. “Now, spill it. What the hell is going on?”
“There’s not much to tell,” I say, fidgeting with my pen. “It was a mistake. A drunken Vegas mistake that’s being handled.”
“A mistake?” Blair arches a perfect eyebrow. “The photos Dylan posted look pretty convincing for a mistake.”
Heat creeps into my cheeks. “That’s the professional lighting in the chapel. And probably the eight glasses of champagne.”
“Honey, that wasn’t champagne lighting. That was lust lighting. I’ve known you since our Boston U days, and I’ve never seen you look at anyone the way you were looking at Lucas in those photos.”
I groan, dropping my head into my hands, but not before a flicker of those images flashes behind my eyelids. His hand curled around my waist. The way he looked at me like I was the only person in the room. The way my smile—God, I was smiling—wasn’t forced.
