“It’s not a date if it’s with your wife,” I shoot back, grinning. “It’s cohabitation logistics.”
She groans. “That phrase is almost worse.”
I open the passenger door of my car to let her in, but before she can take a seat, I ask, “So, for real, you want to move into my place? It has two bedrooms, and it’s five minutes from the studio. It might be the easier move.”
She tilts her head. “I was kind of hoping we could fake the whole thing. You know, shoot a few clips, stage some boxes, call it a day.”
“You want to fake living together for six months? Dylan’s not that easily fooled.”
“Ugh. Fine,” she says. “But I’m not actually moving in. I’ll bring a few boxes of my things to make it appear so, and I’ll crash in the guest room on days when Dylan’s filming or the illusion needs to be maintained. But I’m not leaving my place completely. I like my coffee maker. And my bath towels.”
“Noted. But for the record,” I say with a smirk, “I have very nice towels.”
She rolls her eyes as she glides into the front seat. “I’ll believe it when I see them.”
“So, it’s settled, then?” I hold the door open, dipping my head to see her better.
She sighs like she’s agreeing to something far more dramatic than it is. “Fine. We stage the apartment, I half-move in, and we tell Dylan to bring his stupid lighting setup.”
I nod. “Perfect. Domestic bliss, here we come.”
“Which means I get to pick where we eat. Happy wife and all that.”
“Let me guess—Porto’s Bakery? You still obsessed with those potato balls?”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “How did you know that?”
I don’t tell her that I remember her bringing a box to Blair’s agency opening nearly a year ago, insisting they were “better than any fancy catering.” I’m not entirely sure why I filed away that detail.
“Lucky guess,” I say instead, rounding the car and getting into the driver’s seat.
The eye roll she gives me could register on the Richter scale, and before I drive away, I catch Alex watching us with an amused expression.
He mouths,Totally buying it, and gives me a thumbs up.
The annoying thing is, I’m not entirely sure what’s real and what’s performance anymore. But as Jess starts arguing with me about how the designated hitter rule ruined baseball before I’ve even started the car, I realize I’m not dreading the next six months nearly as much as I should be.
That might be the most worrying development yet.
nine
. . .
Jess
Lucas’s apartmentis nothing like I imagined. I’m not sure what I expected. Maybe sleek, soulless bachelor minimalism or the pretentious mid-century modern furniture favored by studio execs who want to seem cultured. Instead, I’m standing in a surprisingly warm space with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, comfortable-looking furniture, and—are those Disneyland posters?
“Is that original concept art from the Haunted Mansion?” I ask, moving closer to examine a framed piece on the wall.
Lucas shifts uncomfortably. “It’s from a limited gallery release.”
“Oh my God, you really are a Disney adult.” I laugh, remembering my fabricated story in Vegas. “I just made up that stuff about you taking me to Disneyland because I thought it would be funny to suggest the head of communications at Wonderland Studios secretly loves their biggest competitor.”
“I’m not aDisney adult,” he says, the air quotes practicallyvisible. “I appreciate the creative and engineering feats of the original park. It’s iconic Americana.”
“You obviously have an annual pass and throw up peace signs in front of the castle. That’s textbook Disney adult behavior.” I point to the collection of photos on a nearby bookshelf.
“I’ve never thrown up a peace sign,” he mutters, but there’s a hint of color in his cheeks.
