“Six months,” he confirms. “Then we go our separate ways. And we can discuss where we’ll live.”
“Agreed. And no actual…relationship stuff.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Scoop. I know it’ll be hard for you to keep your hands to yourself when we live together, but try to show some restraint.”
My mouth drops open. “I’d rather go back to Vegas and let that seventy-year-old Elvis impersonator kiss me on the mouth.”
Unbothered, Lucas shrugs. “Your loss. But while we’re on the topic, maybe we also agree there are no outside parties.”
I squint. “Meaning?”
“We don’t date other people. Can’t risk a cheating scandal getting attached to our fairytale romance.”
It’s logical, smart, totally reasonable, yet the thought of Lucas Carmichael dating someone else during these six months sparks a pain in my chest that I don’t have the time, or emotional bandwidth, to unpack.
“Fine,” I say with a huff. “No dating.”
I push off the table and walk to his end, where I lean my hip against the edge with my arms crossed. He shifts in hisseat to face me more fully, his knee bumping mine lightly as he moves. Neither of us apologizes.
Then Lucas stands, slowly, purposefully, and just like that, we’re facing each other head on, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him.
I extend my hand between us. “Deal.”
He steps in, just enough that our shoes nearly touch, and slides his much larger hand into mine. His palm is warm and solid, and the roughness of his calloused fingertips surprises me. He doesn’t shake, just holds. Steady. Strong.
Then his thumb starts to move in slow, rhythmic strokes across the back of my hand, like he’s trying to hypnotize me into forgetting how much I claim to hate him.
My brain forgets a lot of things in that moment.
Lucas’s smirk is infuriating. “Let’s make some magic, Mrs. Carmichael.”
I pull my hand back, hoping to break whatever spell he just cast, but my fingers still tingle, like his touch left a signature I can’t quite scrub off.
Six months. That’s all.
Then this whole thing will be behind us.
eight
. . .
Lucas
The crackof a bat connecting with a ball. The smell of grass baking in the afternoon sun. The familiar weight of a well-worn glove. Saturday afternoons at Cheviot Hills Park are sacred and the one time each week when I’m not Lucas Carmichael, Head of Communications, or Lucas Carmichael, the Senator’s Son, or even, as of this past weekend, Lucas Carmichael, Accidental Husband. I’m just number seventeen for the Spin Doctors, our beer league team made up mostly of my old USC teammates.
“So, you’re fucking married?” Alex Chen drops onto the bench in our dugout, even though he’s not technically on the team. He hands me a bottle of cold beer, already dripping with condensation, from the cooler.
“Yeah, but only you and Grant know the backstory.” I take a long swig. “The fewer people who know, the better this is for everyone.”
I grab a bat from the corner and walk outside the fenced area to take a few practice swings. The late afternoon suncasts long shadows across the field, and for a moment, I can almost pretend life hasn’t gotten incredibly complicated.
Alex follows, and he leans against the fence. As head of comedy development at Wonderland, he has an eye for absurdity, which, unfortunately, means my life is currently premium entertainment for him. We bonded five years ago over our shared obsession with Disneyland, spending more early mornings riding Space Mountain before work than either of us would care to admit. He’s a fixture at our Sunday games, despite his complete inability to hit a curveball.
With his perfectly tailored jeans, worn even at a baseball field, designer sunglasses, and an enigmatic smile that’s charmed industry execs and bartenders of all genders alike, Alex carries himself with the easy confidence of someone who knows exactly who he is. It’s why he’s my most trusted confidant, along with the fact that he has zero tolerance for bullshit, including mine.
“Please tell me you recorded your father’s reaction,” Alex says, his eyes gleaming with mischief behind his sunglasses. “I bet his head exploded.”
Alex knows all about the the Carmichael dynasty, my father pushing me toward politics, and me sprinting in the exact opposite direction.
