I set down one of the boxes I’ve brought over and continue exploring. The kitchen is unexpectedly well equipped, with professional-grade cookware and an impressive knife collection.
“You actually cook?” I ask, running my finger along the edge of a granite countertop.
“Is that so hard to believe?”
“I figured you survived on restaurant meals and whatever your PR minions bring you during crisis mode.”
“My PR minions, as you call them, know better than to interrupt me, even for food,” he jokes. His voice softens slightly. “It helps me decompress.”
I file that information away, oddly fascinated by this glimpse into his real life. A Lucas who cooks to unwind is not something I was prepared for.
We move down the hall and into the bedroom, and I try not to look too closely at the king-sized bed with its simple navy duvet or the surprisingly well-used books on the nightstand. He has actual paperbacks, not just status-symbol coffee table decor.
I glance at the bed, and a flicker of awareness zips through me before I shut it down.Hard.
“Uh, where’s the guest room?” I ask.
Lucas gestures to a door just off the hall. “Down there. It’s small, but it’s yours for as long as you’re playing wife.”
I nod. “Perfect. That’s all I need. I just have the essentials, and I’ll be here when Dylan needs the footage.”
He raises an eyebrow. “So, no late-night newlywed cuddling?”
“Not unless you want me to murder you on camera,” I reply sweetly.
He grins. “So, only off camera?
“Ground rules,” I say, needing to refocus. “For the sake of appearing authentic.”
Lucas nods, suddenly all business. “Right. I assume hand-holding is fine. Arms around shoulders or waist if the situation calls for it.”
“Kissing only if absolutely necessary,” I add. “And only closed mouth, like we did in Vegas before things escalated.”
The memory of our kiss in the casino hangs between us for a beat too long.
“What’s in the rest of these boxes?” he says, bringing us both back to the present.
“Just stuff to make it look convincing. Clothes, some books, a few framed photos.”
He peers into the box on top and pulls out a faded black T-shirt with Pearl Jam’s logo across the front. “No way. Ten was one of the best albums of the nineties.”
I reach for the shirt reflexively. “It was my mom’s.”
Something in my voice must give me away, because his expression shifts.
“Sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to?—”
“It’s fine.” I fold the shirt carefully and smooth a nonexistent wrinkle from the fabric. “She loved them. Used to play their records while she worked on stories at the kitchen table.”
“You mentioned she was a journalist, too?”
“Yeah. Investigative. Loved to break stories.” I hesitate. “She died when I was fourteen. Breast cancer.”
He goes quiet for a beat.
“I’m sorry,” he says, and this time, his voice holds something warmer, gentler, than I’ve heard before.
“It was a long time ago.”
